Creak
Are there certain moments in your life that you keep returning to? Can you seemingly remember every detail of a split second of time? For me, I am five. Sitting in the sewing room of the big old house. Cool hardwood floors, the smell of lemon furniture polish, there is something about the way the sun is coming through the window — the dust particles are reflecting like a summer snowstorm. The room is quiet, and I am waiting. This is the first time I’ve ever been left home alone. I close my eyes. The light is too bright, the dust particles seem to come to life, spinning too quickly. I turn my head and, with every bit of strength I can muster, look at the window.
Last I looked, I could see my mother in her yellow dress running down the long driveway. Such a beautiful summer’s day, one of those days where the leaves are full and green and large on the trees. On days like this, the sky looks ten times bigger, and I am usually allowed to walk along the tree-line barefoot, the silky grass between my toes. The summer scene framed by the window to the sewing room is as close to paradise as I could imagine. But now it brings a pain to my chest. My mother is past the tree-line, disappearing down the end of the driveway toward the road. She’s running fast and waving her arms frantically. Then, I hear it.
A creak. Soft at first. It’s the door to the parlour. This drafty old house is taking a breath, moving the door inch by inch, as though something on the other side is pushing it open. With every pause in the creak, the silence feels louder, heavier, pressing in from all sides. I don’t want to look. I don’t want to see. My hands are numb, and I’m frozen in place. Deep down in my stomach I search for the courage to open my eyes. Count to ten then open them. Slowly, I crack open my left eye. The door is open just a sliver, and I can see a shadow of what could be, something, or someone in the parlour. I squeeze my eyes shut again, tighter this time. Don’t look. Don’t think. Just wait.
Creak.
I open my eyes and I’m no longer five. I’m back in my present home, messy and colourful, void of any lemon scent. In fact, the smell of lemons has always given me a headache, and I avoid them at all costs. But today, I can still smell the furniture polish from the old house. I get up and walk to the small kitchen to make a coffee. I need to stay awake.
While waiting for the percolator, I glance out the window. It’s raining here in the city, soft but steady, the little sky I can see is gloomy and grey. I could stay here, get some work done, maybe even go out for dinner with friends…I don’t have to go back, do I?
Stirring milk into the cup I soak up the aroma of the coffee, a brief reprise but the coffee somehow tastes stale. The silence of the apartment is thick. No wind rattling the windows, no hum of old plumbing. Nothing — except that sound. Creak. I turn around, the apartment is a new build, no drafts, no squeaky hinges, no- ghosts. My hands are turning numb, and my heart is racing, this is insane. There is no reason for this fear, there is nobody here it was nothing…but again I hear it. Creak.
Okay, time to review my choices. I could call a friend, call a doctor, call an exorcist? I call my supervisor Doris and let her know I will be out for the rest of the week.
“Hey, it’s me,” I say when she picks up, trying to keep my voice steady. “I won’t be in for the rest of the week.”
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“Is everything okay?” Doris asks, her tone shifting from casual to concerned.
“Not really. I just…I need to go up north for a few days and settle a few things.”
“Take your time, no rush, we will be okay here without you. Let me know if you need anything.”
Doris is reassuring, her genuine concern for me is a real comfort. I hang up and stare out the window, catching my reflection I pause, how long has my hair been long? I’m flustered, I barely recognise myself these days. Every time I close my eyes, I see my mother in that yellow dress running away from the house.
Can a house call to a person, is it possible for a house make a connection like that? I suppose it’s strange to think about, but I’ve always been told I’m a bit strange. I close my eyes and think about the dust falling through the sunlight, unsettled. Is it weird to think a house could have a soul? Maybe not the structure itself, but within its walls, there is a… something, a presence, a ghost? No, a memory, something I can’t quite remember.
Reluctantly I drive up the freeway and out of the city. As the concrete highways and steal glass buildings fade and give way to rolling hills with farmhouses and cows I find myself able to take a breath and decide to take the long way home, down the dusty dirt roads. I love the trees so much, especially this time of year when the leaves are so big and green. I had almost forgotten how much I love this drive, the sound of the pebbles under the wheels, windows down and music blasting. Why is forever not like this moment? I pull up cautiously to the crossroad, and my heart skips a beat. Up over the hill will be the curve in the road, then the fork which will lean to the left, then, I’ll be home.
What is home? Anytime I hear that word, I am sitting in the small sewing room. But is that what home is? A shelter in the storm? Bricks and mortar? Or is home a person, a feeling, a sense or flavour? I remember my mother, so quiet and tense. She could have been a mouse in another life, always fretting and scurrying around. And yellow, whenever I picture her, she is wearing that sunny yellow dress. I wonder what she will be wearing today.
Up over the hill I can see the big old house, my mother’s car is parked out front and I’m relieved she is there; I didn’t tell her I was coming. I cast my eyes over to the land, the long silky grass peppered with wildflowers sends a wave of warmth through my body, what was I worrying about? I’ve been homesick, that’s all, nothing spooky, nothing grim. I just needed to come home. I almost laugh at myself as I reach down to turn the music up louder — I love this song! Home. I close my eyes for just a second and look again…is that my mother? It couldn’t be.
I look down and see a woman, thirty years younger than my mother should be, wearing a yellow dress. She is running down the driveway waving her arms franticly. Suddenly the warmth is gone, and icy cold panic is coming back. She is screaming and waving, what is she trying to say? A pebble flips up on the windshield startling me as the car swerves and I see the breadth of a large tree before everything goes black.
Count to ten then open them. I open my eyes. When I blink awake, the car is smashed, but I can’t focus on that. I’m trying to reach my mother, who is still running down the driveway. I pick up my pace, passing my mother, who is too focused on the wreck to notice me. I don’t mind, it is such a beautiful summer day. So beautiful, the sky is huge, and I cross the tree-line which borders our property.
I focus on the house and come up around the back so I can sneak into the sewing room through the parlour. My mom ran out so quickly she left the door wide open, and I’m instantly hit with the scent of lemons. I reach the door that separates the parlour from the sewing room, pushing it, but it won’t budge. After a couple of tries I step back, exasperated. This is silly; I’m a grown woman, I should be able to open a door. I throw myself against it, and it cracks open, but only a sliver. The sound reverberates through me, creak. Through the crack I can see her, a child frozen in fear. I turn to go back, to catch my mother, but when I turnaround the door to the outside is gone, and I am home.
