The house was old. When I was young, my parents would joke about it being older than democracy, and it sometimes still felt that way.
When something gets that old, has taken and held a piece of everyone who lived there, it begins to take on a life of its own. I used to sit in the dark upstairs rooms, my eyes closed, listening to the ghosts of lives that were past. Sometimes I’d imagine that I could hear the house itself breathing.
My parents passed away together, and I suddenly found myself the sole owner of the house, at a time when I needed my childhood home the most.
I spent days cataloging the rooms, listing what was in each one. My grandfather had gotten it named a historical landmark, to save it from demolition, but that meant any improvements had to be approved.
The approval process meant that it was easier to just ignore the small issues that gave the house personality. Lights would flicker, windows fell open, doors wouldn’t quite latch properly.
It was my third day of cataloging that I found it. A small, leather-bound book, hidden in the back of a China cabinet that hadn’t been touched since before my mother was born.
Gently, having grown up with antiques, I opened it. The spine crackled with age, and the leather smelled old and musty. The handwriting was legible, though. It looked like a diary, dated almost two hundred years ago.
Behind me, the door creaked open and the lights flickered.
July 25, 1933
My ghost was back today. No one believed me three years ago, but now they’ll understand. I’m keeping a record this time.
I tried to find out a little more about her, but I can’t seem to find any record of a young woman dying here. Strange, considering that the house is older than the towns around here. Maybe there weren’t any records.
Her clothes are also strange. The patterns and styles she wears aren’t in the history books that I can find. I’m beginning to think that I’ll never know her story.
Something about that is immeasurably sad to me. A young woman, whose life never meant enough to be recorded. She deserves to be remembered. I will think of something.
I closed the book as the cabinet doors creaked shut. A ghost, in a house as old as this? Of course that made sense. There should be whole congregations of ghosts, if the legends were to be believed.
As I left the room, I took the ancient book with me. It intrigued me, the way a person's life can be reduced to a few words on a page, but it can still give a glimpse into their innermost thoughts. I loved diaries, even if I didn't keep one myself.
July 29, 1933
I wasn't careful today. One of the historians I was speaking to, about this young woman, asked why I was so sure she'd existed. There's no record of her anywhere.
I told him that she had lived, I was sure of it. That her existence was indisputable.
The nerve of him, to question me.
Anyway, as will sometimes happen in a small town, the fool gossiped. I fear that I shall be sent to the mental hospital again, this time for good.
Today wasn't a total loss, though. I found her again, seated in my drawing room. She was seated on her knees, her strange clothes grimy with dust and dirt. It looked as though she was reading some old book. I've decided to commission an artist, to paint her. Maybe if I can present them with a picture, my relatives won't have me shut away into the hospital.
I can't go back there. I'll die first.
I felt a connection to this stranger, this person from so many years ago. The house touched his life, just as it had mine, but now I got to have a glimpse into what he was thinking, what his life was actually like.
There's no way to describe it, unless you've felt it yourself.
July 30, 1933
The artist came today. He told me that I was crazy, but he needed the money, so he'd take the commission. I described the girl to him, and he took careful notes. He'll bring me some sketches, and if they're what I see, then he'll paint them.
I don't mind the cost of all this. To anyone else, they would be astronomical. But I have nothing, not since Elaine... I can't even write it. It's too painful to think about, and it's been three years. Just before I started seeing my ghost, actually.
She was back again today, the ghost. I watched her as she carefully went through the kitchen, picking up each item and examining it. I don't know what she's doing, but she hasn't done any damage. She's more careful with my, or her, possessions, than any of my relatives ever have been.
The historian refused to see me today, even though I told him that I would pay handsomely for his help. I understand. From his perspective, what I'm doing is futile and useless.
Elaine's portrait finally has a home. She'll hang above the mantle in the library, where I can always go to see her, but she's not watching my life spiral downhill.
My wife wouldn't understand my obsession with this ghost. She'd say that I was crazy, then laugh it off as one of my quirks. I don't want her to see how far I've fallen.
I don't even understand why I care about this girl so much.
That's all for now for this story! Check it out later and I'll have the ending. It's a good one, I promise.
