Emptiness©
Copyright by Author 2004
The dim light filters through the curtains, creating a yellowish cast through the room. The smell is musty. There is dust but no disorder. It could be a museum or a shrine. It looks the way it looked twelve years ago. The chair is worn, but the couch has hardly been touched. The sheet is neatly folded and tucked under the cushion, almost like someone could use it tonight. It hasn't been used for twelve years.
The old black car, out front, is a classic, dirty, but still serviceable. There have been several offers made for it that far exceed the original purchase price. The eccentric old owner won't sell. If you look closely at the hood, you might imagine that you could see cat paw prints there. That's probably just the way the dust has collected. Or your imagination.
The neighborhood kids avoid that yard. No one can remember him ever hurting anyone, or even chasing them away, but he is sort of freaky looking, and no kid in his right mind would want to take that chance. One did once, in the back yard. He was a tough kid and he was going to prove there was nothing to the stories that were whispered. He'd crept through the bushes that had grown up out back and there was silence. Ten minutes later he came back to his friends, pale and shaking.
"Are you ok," they'd asked?
"I'm fine," he said. "Let's go."
No matter how much they asked or pleaded, he just wouldn't talk about it. The stories got even more bizarre.
Originally, the neighbors claim, an older woman and her niece lived there and for several years, the man who lived there now would visit them. There was speculation that he was the Aunt's brother. They both had white hair and were short, like the niece. The man spent a lot of time with the niece and that caused talk and speculation, but nothing improper was ever seen. Besides, that was a long time ago and most of the people who had lived here, then, had moved on. Neighborhoods change. Only that one house seemed to remain the same. The house stayed the same, but the stories got stranger.
Inside the house, the main bed room is obviously unused. The bed is large, almost too large, for one person, and there are mounds of decorative pillows on it. The motif is vaguely masculine, but the decorative style is clearly feminine. It's a pleasant room and you might wonder why it's unused.
There is a second bed room that could belong to a teen age girl. There is a yellowing poster of a skater on the entrance door and there are dolls lined along the wall and there are clothes in the closet that would be worn by a young lady. It's not a definite look, but you almost get the feeling that you are entering a shrine when you come into this room.
There is an office. The first thing you notice is an old computer and a dark screen. It hardly looks used. Clearly an antique, you'd wonder, if you turned it on, would it work? What data would be on that hard drive? What hopes, fears, aspirations, what pictures of past joys and sadness might you find there? Would you find pictures of people smiling with their arms around each other, stories of hopes, trials and tribulations or would there just be a grinding sound and an electrical hiss as years of disuse take their toll?
No one will probably ever know. Who would have the interest to try to get such and ancient device functioning again? It would just be a waste of time. Time is too valuable to waste on the past. There could be important things to do today.
To the rear of the room, there is a desk. The desk is neatly organized and you can see a brochure from Harvard lying on top. It looks like someone just stood up and walked out, but the thin coating of dust makes it clear that it has been untouched for some time. Maybe twelve years, that the date on it would seem to indicate. The wall is covered with ribbons and framed items. If you look, you can see a life is outlined there. You'd wonder where that life is today, but don't bother.
Going across to the kitchen, you'll notice an old but serviceable refrigerator and stove. There's a mirror on a magnet stuck on the refrigerator door and a school schedule for a local school that is dated twelve years ago. Some dates are circled. If you were the curious type, you might wonder what those days meant to the people who lived here then. Everywhere you look, it seems as if life was frozen more than ten years ago and hasn't moved since then.
There's a pot on the stove and an empty box of spaghetti next to it - angel hair. Before the bushes grew up out back, they said that you could see the strange, long-haired man cooking there. Sometimes it looked as if tears were running down his cheeks. It didn't make sense. Why would cooking spaghetti make anyone cry? Well, all did agree that he was rather strange in a really creepy way. He'd stand at the front door, at times, and looked up the street, like he was waiting for someone or something. Creepy! Nobody ever came to that house. Nobody.
If you can get them started, the old couple across the street likes to tell about the day things changed. The say the young girl had been looking sicker and sicker. She was pale and losing weight. They wondered if she had some sort of disease, but since she was still going to school, they thought it was unlikely to be anything that was communicable, but it was clear her health was "frail."
It was a Wednesday, they remember the day because, at the time, they'd thought it was the middle of the week, that the ambulance came. They took the young girl away. The next day, the man was there. He and the older lady were solemn. The young girl's funeral was that Saturday. Monday, the man was gone. By the end of the week it was clear that the house was unoccupied. The older woman and her car were nowhere to be seen.
A month later, the black car was parked out front, but the car of the older woman was never seen again. Neither was she. The man was almost never seen. The car seemed to never move. The neighbors across the street will say that it does move, but only after midnight and it is always parked in the same place by morning. It just looks like it never moves. Of course, it is strange that the man is almost never seen, except when he stands at the door waiting, but that's not a crime. A quiet neighbor is a good neighbor.
The man sits in the reclining chair, holding a streaming cup of black coffee. His hair is long but neatly pulled back and banded. His clean-shaven face is gaunt, eyes hollow and an over all appearance of having known pain.
He takes a sip of coffee and looks toward the door. Looking at the door, he says, "I love you daughter. You have a good day." He takes another sip of coffee and stares sightlessly at the door. Time passes. The coffee gets cold. The man does not move. Day after day, this cycle is repeated. Every day he tells his daughter that he loves her and wishes her a good day. Every day, he is the only one in the room. He and his memories. He and his pain.
The sun is low on the morning horizon. Fog shrouds the area. Schools are opening late and traffic advisories are rife. It's dim, dreary and dangerous out. It's a morning that echos the man's soul, a morning he can relate to.
The man walks into the living room, carrying his cup of coffee. Before he can sit, there is a knock at the door. He turns quickly, almost spilling his coffee. Puzzlement crosses his face. "Hold on," he calls, putting the coffee cup on the coffee table. He slowly walks to the door and opens it. It still sticks a little.
"Daddy," a small voice says.
Years later, the neighbors across the street still talk about it. They say the man opened the door and stood a moment staring at the girl at the door. He picked her up and hugged her, tears running down his cheeks. He then closed the door and they walked together, hand in hand, into fog.
He was never seen again.