Lost and Found - Chapters 1 through 3
Lost and Found - Chapters 1 through 3
by: Aleta Gay Grimball O'Brien
Chapter 1
The Hawthorne Apartments sat on a quiet street in Ashcroft. Its brick facade was darkened by decades of rain and neglect. The inside matched the exterior with dark wood wainscoting lining the hallways, scuffed from decades of moving furniture. Door handles were tarnished and layers of paint coated the walls. The floorboards emitted predictable groans.
It was a rainy afternoon when she arrived. The air inside smelled strongly of wet wool coats and the unmistakable mustiness of old hemp rugs and water-logged basement timbers leaking upwards.
The landlord explained, “We don’t have elevators in this old building, Missy. You’ll have to walk three flights to your apartment. 3C.”
“Missy,” she thought. It made her smile, a name her grandfather used to call the “youngster granddaughters” when he forgot their names. She didn’t take offense. He looked the age of her grandfather, moved slowly like him too.
The wooden banister was silky-smooth from thousands of hands, but the stairs themselves dipped dangerously in the center of each step. They continued down the long corridor, dimly lit by yellowing globe lights that flickered.
The key turned at 3C and the heavy oak door took a firm shove to open. “The frame warps when it rains, that and the humidity,” he said.
The apartment smelled faintly of dust, old paper and rain-soaked wood. She stepped inside and paused when the landlord wrestled her small suitcase through the doorway. The room was small, but not unpleasant. A narrow iron bed stood against one wall beneath a faded quilt the color of dried lavender. A single lamp cast a warm amber glow across deep mauve walls that had darkened with age. The color might once have been cheerful, but years of shadows had softened it into something quieter.
A tall window overlooked the street below. Its glass rippled slightly, bending the afternoon light into wavering patterns that drifted across the floorboards. The wood creaked beneath her feet.
Aside from a few necessities, the apartment contained little else. A small refrigerator hummed in one corner. A tall dressing mirror framed in dark, aged metal stood against one wall, though its glass remained surprisingly clear. A narrow wardrobe closet leaned slightly to one side as if tired of standing. And the desk.
The desk dominated the room. It sat near the window where the light should have reached it easily, yet it seemed oddly untouched by the sun. Dark wood panels, nearly black with age, stretched across its broad surface. The brass handles were tarnished green in places. Its clawed feet gripped the floorboards like talons. Fine cracks ran through the wood grain, twisting in strange patterns that reminded her of dried riverbeds on old maps.
Something about it felt older than the apartment itself. Older than the building. The landlord followed her gaze. “The desk stays,” he said. The words came too quickly. She noticed his hand tightened on the key. For a moment, he seemed about to say something else. Then he simply adjusted his coat.
She laughed softly, “I wasn’t planning on stealing it.” The old man didn’t smile.
For a moment his eyes lingered on the desk. Then he handed her the key, “Don’t lose the key, Missy. It’s the only one you’ll get.” It was an oxidized skeleton key. “How long are you planning on staying?” He asked.
“No more than a month.” He shook his head in approval. She had come to the apartment for a pause in her life, a quiet place to sort through the wreckage and begin again. This weather-beaten apartment looked like the perfect companion to her weather-beaten emotions.
She traveled light with the small suitcase and from her green duffle bag, she pulled out a notebook.
The landlord asked her, “You write?”
“Sometimes,” was her soft response.
“Careful, the walls listen.” He left abruptly. That’s when she first noticed it. Out of the corner of her eye, the shadow moved before she did. It stretched long and thin across the mauve wall, reaching beyond the windowpane, no longer matching her shape. It was a trick of the lighting, she convinced herself, but the hairs on her arms remained up.
She bent to unzip her suitcase. When she looked over, her shadow bent first. Only by a fraction of a second, but she saw it. It was just enough for her stomach to tighten. She continued to watch her shadow, but it snapped back in line, following her movements. “It’s just this old building and a creative mind.” She muttered to herself.
She walked to the window and tried to open it. The air in the room was too still, stale. The window barely budged, just two fingers high. A breeze slipped in and she sighed with relief.
She rested against the window, looking at her shadow, “Just me and my shadow. Isn’t that a song?” She was prone to talking out loud to herself and started humming the song. She looked at the mirror across the room and noticed her hair had not taken a liking to the humidity. That’s when she saw it. Her shadow, in the reflection, was facing her. Watching her. She snapped her head to the shadow in front of her and it snapped back in place. Laughing, “I’m just tired.”
She heard a fluttering sound. She followed the sound to the center drawer of the desk. “Lord, if there’s a mouse in here, I’m out!” She backed away from the desk, leaned forward and quickly opened the center drawer. The scent of old ink and mildew drifted up. The brass handle of the drawer was cold to the touch. But nothing was there. She closed the drawer, then opened it again, to search for a pencil.
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught it again. Her shadow was not as far away from the desk as she was. In fact, her shadow was leaning over the desk, as if to inspect the paper! “What the...!” The shadow shifted back. Her hands trembled as she picked up the sheet of paper, certain it hadn’t been there a moment ago.
Words were already written, but not in her handwriting, “I am more than paper. The story is unfinished.” She shoved the paper back into the desk drawer, slammed it shut and quickly walked back to the window. She breathed in the air.
That night she opened her notebook and drafted, “It prowls like a cat through an abandoned house. It is waiting for me.” She tossed and turned until the first light of dawn.
Chapter 2
She found that her most vivid dreams happened right before she woke up. She reached for her notebook and pencil; she had long ago created the habit of writing down her dreams first thing in the morning, before getting up, before getting out of bed, before she forgot them.
“The shadow grew larger and fluttered. I felt my heartbeat keep time with the pace of the flutters. I turned to find the shadow’s culprit. A black butterfly was against one of the bedroom sconces. In my dream I wondered how it got into the room and remembered the open window. I watched the wings. They slowed down and so did my heartbeat, keeping in time. The wings were almost solid black, except for two pale yellow patches, one on each side, shaped like eyes. Then I was in a garden, where black flowers bloomed. When their petals opened, they sounded like the muted chimes of a clock. The stems of the flowers were metal, clicking softly in a wind I could not feel.” The pencil scratched against the paper, the only sound in her room.
She tore out the page that she wrote last night, about the prowling cat. She was feeling awake and ready to explore her new home, but first, she’d give a little note to the desk. Her creative mind was already looking at the desk as if it was a new character or acquaintance. Her sister would have laughed at her. She tried to open the middle drawer, but it wouldn’t budge. She pulled again, but to no avail. “Is it locked or just the humidity, like the door problem? It opened easily enough last night.”
A knock from the door dragged her away from the desk. The landlord was there and took a few steps in, looking around. He held out a small key, “If you need it, this is for the desk.” She took the key. She wanted to tell him it was unlocked yesterday, but he continued.
“Rent’s due on the first.”
“Don’t smoke in the apartment.”
“We don’t have internet.”
“If the plumbing rattles, just let it finish.”
“If it continues rattling, call me.”
“And don’t leave paper in the center drawer overnight.”
“If you hear writing after midnight, don’t answer it.”
She laughed, what an odd thing to say.
“Answer it?”
“People always do.”
He continued as if what he said was nothing unusual, “There’s a courtyard with a garden, where you can write and there’s a community laundry room. We also have a small library near the front entrance. You’re welcome to the books, but they remain on the premises. And if you see black butterflies, leave the window open.”
Her head nodded until the last sentence, then she stuttered, “Wh... what?” He was already gone. “He must have been pulling my leg... or he’s superstitious. Did he see my notebook and read about my dream?”
She closed the door and walked back to the desk. The key turned easily. As she slipped her “cat” note into the drawer, she saw yellowed pages tucked to the side. She must have missed those yesterday, with it being so late, her being tired and worried about a mouse.
On the back of one yellowed page, the words read:
June 14
Today I played the piano without crying
She paused and thought, “A previous tenant must have had a piano, though she couldn’t fathom where it would fit in this apartment.”
The second page, worn at the edges, stained with water drops, read:
The desk asked for one memory.
I gave it the recital.
“Is this the story you are asking me to finish?” She mumbled aloud.
The third yellow page was torn halfway through, but she was able to put it together to read:
I can still play.
I just don’t remember why I loved it.
“Oh, my goodness, what did this pianist go through?” She was picturing it in her mind, wrapping a story around the pages. Picking up her notebook, she drafted an outline about a young girl who dedicated time and effort in preparation for a recital. Middle section - something miserable happened. That’s as far as she wrote.
When story ideas pop up, she knew better than to think, “I’ll write it down later.” She tucked the three pages into her notebook for future inspiration and closed the center drawer.
After she locked her door, she walked the corridor wishing she had her tracker on. She was certain to reach her steps goal at this apartment. Across the hallway, she saw an open door. Curiosity got the best of her; it always did. She peered in.
The apartment was empty. Dust covered the few pieces of furniture. Time had left no finger prints in the layers. Then she saw it, another desk, just like the one in her apartment. “Did they batch buy these desks? Maybe it was an estate sale, they are so old.” She thought.
She tried to open the desk, even tried using the key for her desk, but it didn’t work. She ran her hand along the side of the desk, leaning on it and felt the grooves in the wood. Her fingers led her eyes to the words carved in, “Eleanor Hart 1993.”
Eventually she made enough turns and found the courtyard. The overrun courtyard felt less like a ruin (what she was expecting) and more like a secret sanctuary, where nature had gently reclaimed control. The English ivy and wild clematis escaped their planters and scaled the brick walls. Cracked flagstones peeked out beneath a soft carpet of bright green moss. Wild dandelions pushed through the fissures.
She picked one and said, “Wishing flowers. This is for you, Anna.” then took a deep breath, made a wish and blew the gentle petals into the breeze.
It’s obvious that a stone fountain used to be the center of attraction, but it was no longer running. Rainwater pooled in its basin. She almost sat down next to it until she saw the tangled, thorny brambles of untamed petals. The stems were sagging under their own weight. It was the roses that stopped her mid-step.
A deep, velvety crimson, so dark that they appeared completely black. They carried a heavy, intoxicating fragrance, like a musky perfume that held a sharp undertone of damp earth. As she reached out, the landlord said, “Careful!” She jumped, he had arrived suddenly and quietly. Too quietly for an older man. “Is it okay for me to take one of these blooms to my apartment?” He handed her a pair of sheers, “Follow me to get a glass container.”
With the bloom in hand, mindful of the sharp thorns, she was amused to see how many glass bottles of different sizes and shapes he had tucked away in a cabinet near the entrance to the library. She picked one out, making it easier to hold the black rose. “Did I see this when we first arrived and that’s why I dreamed about it? My subconscious sharing what my memory didn’t register?” She shook off the thought.
Chapter 3
At dusk, she crossed the courtyard, ready to return to her apartment. Out of habit, she glanced upward. In a third-floor window, she saw the shadow of an old man in a rocking chair.
Back and forth
Back and forth
Rocking in slow motion
The silhouette stops rocking and raises a hand.
“My sister would tell me to wave back, that it’s the polite thing to do.” She shoved down her own tendency to ignore the gesture and instead, waved.
Back at her apartment she added water to the bottle for the rose. She slept soundly that night for the most part, other than when she woke up to the scratching sound. She looked at the clock 3am. “If you’re a mouse, just stay in the desk and away from me.”
The morning brought no memories of dreams. Some nights were like that. Today she was determined to peruse the library. It didn’t amount to much. Dusty books that made her sneeze, but the touch and feel of them, to her would always be special. As she picked up one random book, a picture fell out.
It was an old photograph, in sepia-toned print. The surface was matte and slightly textured. The edges of the image faded softly into a hazy, dark vignette, but she could make out the subject. She was wearing a dress with a high, stiff lace collar, long sleeves and corseted bodice. The veil was a floor-length cathedral flow of gossamer-thin tulle. Because of the exposure time, the flowers looked like modern art in her hands, but it only added to the solemn expression of the bride.
She turned the picture over. There were three handwritten lines on the back of the photograph.
“I came here after Michael left me.”
“I gave it our wedding day.”
“I can finally sleep without crying. It helps to not remember his face.”
She placed the photograph back inside the book, feeling as though she had glanced into a private moment that she had no business looking at.
The courtyard was empty and a good place to write. She thought about her sister and scribbled in her notebook, “My sister loved French fries. She stole them from everyone, not because she was hungry, but because she thought it was funny. It happened every time fries were a part of the meal. Every time. She would say, “I only took one.” Yet she had three in her mouth.”
The notebook closed, soft nostalgia left a smile. “It’s good to write about the sweet moments. Even if they are small.”
That afternoon, she saw him again. Same window, same rocking chair. Same slow rocking. She smiled and said, “Evening.” Then she thought, “My sister would be so proud!” The silhouette raised its hand again. “I wonder if he is a shut in, can’t get out.” She felt sorry for the isolated old man. If waving to him as she walked by made him feel less alone, then she was happy to do so.
She glanced back up and was surprised to see the man’s shadow standing up, no longer in the rocking chair and he was pointing towards a window.
The landlord saw her in the forum. He raised his eyebrows as he saw her frown. “Can you tell me anything about a tenant, the old man in the rocking chair on the third floor? I don’t know if you can share his name, but I thought it might be nice to bring him a meal or a snack or something.”
“What man?”
She laughed. “The one by the window. Is he a shut-in? It’s probably none of my business, but I wanted to help, maybe play a game of chess or checkers if he likes that.”
The landlord became very quiet. Then said, “Holloway always sat by the window in a wheelchair.”
Her breath caught. He used the past tense. Sat, not sits.
“Does he still live there?”
The landlord stared at the floor, a little too long. Then, “No.”
“Oh, When did he move?” She was thinking his family must have picked him up this afternoon.
“He didn’t.”
“What do you mean?”
The landlord reluctantly explained, “Heart attack. Twenty-three years ago. Found him in that chair. In apartment 4B.” He saw the shock in her face and quickly said, “I have plumbing work to do.” Again he moved faster than he should.
Her mind was a complete blank, for the first time in a long time, she was speechless. “He must be thinking of the wrong person.” She went outside and there was the silhouette, standing, pointing to another room. She followed the path of the building and opened the door to the room where she expected he would be.
The door opened easily, eerily. But what she found was dust, empty furniture, no electricity, no lamps, no bulbs, not even a candle. No signs of occupancy and no rocking chair. She must have the wrong room, but forced herself to walk to the window. The curtains were drawn shut. Heavy enough that no shadow could be projected through them.
She pushed the curtain aside and looked. It was the view of the edge of the courtyard, the exact place where she would see someone waving up to them. “I’ve been waving at something that wasn’t here. No lighting for a silhouette. It shouldn’t have been visible at all. Twenty three years ago?” Shivers ran through her body.
“He was pointing... He wasn’t waving. He was trying to tell me something.”
Then she looked toward the room that he was pointing to.
It was the one she entered before, with the name carved on the desk.
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