life with more cowbell

No need to call the police. Nor alert the Children’s Aid for that matter. The boy has been dead and buried for about seventy years.

               I met him, in a manner of speaking, about a year ago. It was a cold, damp November Sunday. Horrible moving weather, but my friends and I had managed to get myself and my belongings into the house I’d inherited from my grandmother safe and sound.

               After about two weeks, I’d pretty much settled in, all my crap mostly where I wanted it to be. I’d decided that the attic would make a perfect writer’s garret. Thing was, it was so jammed with my grandparents’ old stuff, it was going to be a huge project just to clear it out, let alone scrub down and paint.

               So there I was that Sunday afternoon, heading up the creaky, narrow staircase that led to the attic, fashionably attired in a pair of second-hand overalls and an X-Files baseball cap turned backwards, loaded up with printer paper boxes I’d snatched from work. The door groaned ominously as I opened it. Stepping into a single beam of sunshine, cutting diagonally through the small four-panelled window, I squinted, focusing my eyes on the more diffuse light of the room. My entrance had created a cloud of dust, swirling up from the floor to dance in the light. The hardwood croaked beneath me as I walked across the room, leaving footprints in the dust. Cobwebs floated sail-like in the breeze left in my wake.

               I took in the assortment of stuff: an old oval-shaped mirror with a dark wood frame, a scratched roll top desk, a circa 1960 turntable (Grama had reluctantly gone digital when we got her a CD player five years ago – and that’s as digital as she wanted to get), an old sewing machine table, a coat rack laden with old coats and a worn travel trunk, hauled across the ocean from Ireland during Grama’s parents’ migration to Canada. Various and sundry boxes, labelled with fat black marker: POTS AND PANS, BOOKS, OLD CLOTHES, TOYS.

               I was drawn immediately to the trunk, hoping to find some treasures of a more sentimental variety: photo albums, war medals my grandfather had earned in WWII or letters sent home, maybe a favourite childhood doll or bear. It struck me that, in all the years I’d visited my grandparents in this house, I’d never been up here before. The door had always been locked and I’d never had the compulsion to trespass. Luckily, the trunk wasn’t locked. But the hinges were aged with rust, protesting in long slow creaks as I laboured to lift the lid. Sneezing into the swirl of dust that flew off the top, I rubbed my nose and waved at the particles rising in the air in front of me. The air clear, I looked inside to find a stack of old photo albums, a small flat wooden box and a faded terry cloth bear with a torn ear. I removed the box and opened it. There were Papa’s war medals. I exhaled a “Humph”, wondering at my own clairvoyance, and replaced the box inside the trunk.

               I left the trunk open and began to work on the nearest stack of boxes. Grama sure read a lot of magazines and paperbacks. I could tell they were mostly hers because of the titles: Chatelaine, Redbook, McCall’s – the Life and Reader’s Digest could have been Papa’s, I suppose. A lot of the books were romance novels, Harlequins and historical family chronicles. There was a copy of Gone with The Wind, though. Not all schmaltz. I even came across a partial set of Encyclopedia Britannica – the I’s through the P’s.

               After spending a couple of hours sifting through some dozen boxes, I took a much needed break, heading down to the kitchen to get some tea and cookies.

               Marching back upstairs into the attic, I thought I’d look through the old pictures while I had my snack. The lid of the trunk was closed. I figured the vibrations from my movements must have caused it to shut and I just hadn’t noticed. I opened it again.

               Sitting on the floor beside the trunk, not caring about getting any grimier, I removed the stack of photo albums. Setting them beside me, I took the one on top and set it on my lap. It had pictures of my mum, from infancy to her marriage to my dad in 1962. Sipping Earl Grey and munching lemon cookies, I leafed through the years, going from black and white to colour. Suddenly, the lid of the trunk slammed shut with an echoing thud, snapping me back into the present. Catching my breath, I pondered – I was sitting a couple of feet away, there was no way I’d bumped it. And the noise. I couldn’t have missed that earlier. Which could only mean that it had closed while I was downstairs. I slid around on my butt, rose to my knees, and lifted the lid. Glancing about me, I noticed a cane leaning against an antique coat rack. I retrieved it and used it to prop the lid of the trunk open. Satisfied, I returned to my tea-time trip down memory lane.

               Half-way through the second album, photos of my aunt, the lid slammed down again, sending my heart into my mouth and causing me to spill the last of my tea onto the bib of my overalls. Staring at the trunk in disbelief, I tried to sort out the physics required to allow the lid to close while propped open. The cane could have tipped over, but I’d made sure it was steady. As I puzzled over this, I became aware of a scratching sound on the floor beside me. Turning to see what it was, expecting to catch a mouse making off with a cookie, I saw the plate slowly sliding away from me. On its own.

               I leapt up and ran down the stairs, slamming and locking the door to the attic behind me.

               After a couple of shots of scotch from “Papa’s booze” cabinet – thank God Grama had kept Glenlivet in stock even after he’d died – I called my parents.

               “Hello?” Dad answered.

               “Hi, it’s me. Is Mum around?” my voice was tight.

               “Yeah.” He must’ve known something was up, getting no small talk from me. “Hold on.”

               “Hi!” Mum came on the phone, always cheerful.

               “Hi. I need to ask you something about the house.”

               Pause. “Okay.”

               “Did Grama or Papa ever mention anything… odd… about the house?”

               “What do you mean by odd?”

               “Anything out of the ordinary.”

               “Like faulty pipes?”

               “No, Ma. Not faulty pipes.” Was she being evasive or obtuse? “More in the realm of the paranormal.”

               Silence.

               “Mum?”

               “You’d better come over.”

               I drove to my parents’ house that night. I was starving when I got there and happy to see an extra place at the dining table.

               “Let’s eat first,” Mum said gravely.

               Making nominal chit chat about current events and movies we’d seen recently, we ate roast beef with potatoes and carrots, then retired to the living room for coffee and apple pie.

               Dad sat quietly by, letting Mum finally get to the point. Producing an unmarked, yellowed envelope from her sweater pocket, she handed it to me. “Your Grama wanted you to open this when you moved in. But I didn’t think…,” she trailed off.

               Didn’t think what? That I’d be moving into a haunted house? I opened the envelope and slid the letter out. Exhaling deeply, I unfolded the letter and began to read:

My dear Alexandra: (She always called me by my full name.)

               If you are reading this letter, it means that I have passed on and you are now living in the house that your grandfather and I spent most of our married lives in. You may already know, or at least suspect, its secret.

I looked up at my mother, who was regarding me calmly, then continued reading…

               You are not alone in the house. There’s no need to be afraid. Your housemate – “roommate” I suppose the kids today would call him – is very sweet and not at all dangerous. His name is Simon Joseph Clemens and he is seven years old. Was seven years old, I should say, for he died of a fall from that big maple out front…

I paused. Swallowed.

… This happened sometime in 1930, but neither your grandfather nor I ever checked the archives for the exact date.

               As you know, we moved there in 1952, when your mother and Aunt Ruthie were children. To be honest, I don’t think your grandfather ever believed in Simon and, while I told the girls about him once they’d moved out, they apparently never noticed him. I suppose they believed that all the strange noises we heard when we first moved in were simply the sounds of the old house settling on its foundation and such. And so, now that I’m gone, Simon will need a friend. I imagine he’s been pretty lonesome during the months the house was empty before you moved in. So, please be kind to him.

               A word about Simon before I close. While he seems to be aware that he is a ghost, he appears unwilling to leave this existence. He has intimated to me that his father was mean to him and that he’s afraid of seeing him again on the other side. Not having been raised a Catholic, for it sounds as though his father was an atheist and his mother died in childbirth, he does not believe in Heaven and Hell, but prefers to be in a place he knows and in which he feels comfortable. He seems to like the attic best, for the old toys I suppose.

               You may have better luck than I in convincing him to get on with his afterlife, but don’t press him too hard. Although he’s been around for some time, he’s still very much a little boy.

Yeah, one who likes to scare the new tenant to death.

               I hope this letter finds you well. Don’t work too hard. I will miss your stories. My favourite was the one about the violinist in the Italian restaurant.

               Love, Grama

By the following Saturday, I’d found the courage to go back up to the attic.

                Various retro toys were scattered all over the room: a faded red, white and blue rubber ball; the Operation board game; a Playskool phone… I paused, took a deep breath and swallowed my fear.

               “Okay,” I said aloud, to myself, “We’re gonna have to have a chat about cleaning up after yourself.” I looked around, searching for signs of movement. “Hi, Simon,” I said. “My name is Alexandra. But my friends call me Alex.”

               No response.

               “Catherine was my grandmother. We called her Grama. I’m sorry, but she’s dead. I guess you know that already.”

               Nothing.

               “She left a letter, telling me about you. She said she thought you could use a friend. I – I’m sorry I ran out of here before – but I didn’t know. I didn’t know it was you, so…” I looked around, hoping for a sign. I started to wonder if Grama had been imagining things. “So… I could be your friend. If you want.” I stood and waited.

               From over by the trunk, the red, white and blue ball rolled slowly toward my feet. It bounced off my running shoe and came to a stop a few feet away. I retrieved it and rolled it back toward the trunk. It stopped on its own, then rolled back to me. I picked it up and bounced it gently back. Unseen hands caught it and bounced it back to me.

               After we finished playing, I suggested he help me put the toys away. There was a giggle and a whoosh of movement that brushed past me and out the door.

               Whoa! I could hear him.

               I left the toys on the floor.

The next day, the toys were back in the box marked TOYS.

               “Thanks, Simon.”

               Determined to finish the clean-up, I went to work sorting boxes: yard sale, which would have to wait till Spring, clothes to donate and stuff to keep. The box with the toys went in the keeper pile. Then, I starting sweeping. Just as I was considering how quiet Simon was being, I felt the ball bounce off my butt.

               “Very funny, wise guy,” I smirked.

               Simon giggled. “Play with me.”

               I paused, shocked that he’d actually said something. “Sorry, buddy. I gotta finish cleaning up first. Tell you what. I’ll clean for a while, then we can play after. Okay?”

               “Why won’t you play with me?” He sounded like he was going to cry.

               “Sweetie, I’ll play with you.” I wanted to hug him, but I couldn’t see him. “But I need to clean this room and fix it up so I can write stories up here.”

               “Will you play with me later?”

               “Sure I will.”

               “Alright.”

               So I continued sweeping the dust and cobwebs, collecting the debris into small piles throughout the room. When I reached for the dustpan, I discovered it was already tilted up and ready to go beside a pile of dust and cobwebs, ready to take it away.

               “Thanks, Simon.”

               We went around the room, Simon holding the dustpan and me wielding the broom. When I mopped, Simon was the bucket boy. I couldn’t tell if he was being nice or if he just wanted to get done faster so we could play.

               We took a break and played ball. I considered getting Simon a Nerf basketball hoop, then reminded myself that if he was going to have a chance to move on, new toys were only going to be an incentive to stay put.

               Back to work, I decided where to place the furniture. The boxes were already shoved into a corner, but I wanted the desk by the window. The desk was neither large nor particularly heavy, but it was awkward to pull it across the room alone. Suddenly, it got easier. I noticed two small handprints at the other end of the desk. We pushed it into place, then moved the trunk beside it.

               Then, I got four rags and tied two to the soles of my shoes. Simon followed suit. I waxed up the bottoms of our feet and off we went, polishing the hardwood. As we skated about the room, I could almost see him. His feet, at least. Finishing, we doubled over with laughter, collapsing onto the floor, tired and breathless.

               “I think we missed a few spots,” I said, still snorting. “But, other than that, looks great.”

               We repeated with fresh rags, buffing the dark wood floor into a glossy finish.

               “All done?” Simon asked.

               “Yep.” I surveyed the wood slat walls and rafters, thinking I could always cover the floor and paint the walls another day.

               “You going to write stories up here?”

               “That’s right.”

               “What kind of stories?”

               “About people, mostly. And how they get along together.”

               “Like us?”

               I smiled. “Yeah. Like us.”

               “Will you write a story about me?”

               “That’s a great idea, Simon.”

So here I sit, writing this tale. Think I’ll do a children’s story next.

Image by Myriams-Fotos on Pixabay