The darkness closed in, surrounding him with velvet arms.
At first, it had been strange and unfriendly; covering the house with covetous arms and distrustful eyes. Harold had been a trespasser then, unknown and unwanted. Over the weeks, things had changed until he was welcomed with each visit. He closed the door behind him, shutting out the night and the twilight-lit cobblestones that meandered through an avenue of dead plants and thriving weeds. Harold breathed in the musty air, the atmosphere of disuse and sorrow. Finally, he was home.
*
The alarm buzzed.
Harold’s eyelids slowly dragged themselves up, curling up like dying worms. It was getting harder to resist the house and its deadly call. He shifted, resting a forearm atop his head. Waves of light streamed into the room, slowly piercing his cocoon of blankets. Insistent, the alarm buzzed once more. The sound merged into the drone of flies flitting about his face, sticking to him in clumps. Cursing, he slammed an arm on the offending device, silencing it. The flies rose as one, angry shadow, disturbed from their meal. Sufficiently irritated now, he crawled out of bed. Harold shuffled silently out of his bare, plain room and into the ensuite bathroom. He shed his clothes, turned on the shower and allowed the liquid heat to drape itself over him.
It was a long process, waking up. Steam rose to twist and twirl about his deathly cold limbs, obscuring the slow burn. It hurt a little more, every time. He could feel the various layers being flayed off; the memories, the pain and lastly, the sleep. Once more among the living, he stepped out briskly and turned off the water. Whistling a ditty he’d heard on the radio, he proceeded to get dressed and have some breakfast. He quickly discovered he was out of milk and the bread, promising from afar, was busily growing mushrooms. Disgusted, he threw it out, shrugged on his coat and left the tiny apartment.
Despite the brightness of the day, it was blustery and cold. Harold clutched at his coat, shivering inside its folds. He squinted beneath the onslaught of light, blearily observing the street. The day was notable only for its lack of anything remarkable; colours were neither muted nor bright, cars didn’t rush nor were they unduly slow and the streets were filled, but not overcrowded. All in all, a strange day but Harold found it to his liking. His breath puffed in front of him as he hurried to the little café on the corner. It was quiet and still. He took his accustomed position.
A moment later, Jenna walked over to him with her casual swagger.
“Morning, love,” she said, giving him a weird look. “Al said you’d be back again, just like normal but I wasn’t so sure this time. You want the usual?”
“Sure thing,” he said, smiling. A plate of steaming eggs and a cup of coffee were provided in due order. Harold sat, enjoying the breakfast and more, the completion of a routine. He closed his eyes, to enjoy the sensation all the more. The bell above the door tinkled, admitting a middle aged lady and her small daughter. The little girl was tugging on her mother’s hand, a little bundle of excitement.
“Trick or treat,” she squealed. She giggled as her mother shushed her, apologising to the waitress and chastising her daughter at the same time. Jenna merely laughed.
“Happy Halloween, love,” she said, but her eyes were on Harold. “What are you going to dress up as?”
Harold didn’t listen to her reply, feeling oddly chilled. There was something about Halloween, something about this day that hovered about his memory, a tantalising truth that slipped away through the cracks in the pavement of his mind. Jenna settled into the seat opposite him, but he had difficulty focusing on her face. “Are you okay, hon?” she said. “I know it ain’t easy.”
“I’m…,” he stopped, shaking his head. “So soon, Jen? I hardly noticed the time pass.”
“You never do,” she said, make-up cracked with pain. “Every goddamn year.” She got up and walked away, blinking rapidly.
*
She was here, he knew. Her scent was in the air, its enticing smell wafted about, tempting him with its nearness. The lounge room was empty, furniture covered with plain white sheets. There were photo frames on the walls, the coffee table and the mantelpiece but they were empty and black. Harold smiled; they played this game all the time. The recently disturbed dust still carried the memory of her laughter, full and throaty. He ventured deeper still.
The house was old, a fact it was vocal about – groaning and moaning with each step he took, wheezing out dusty breaths and shaking, as though with palsy. He stroked the panels of wood as he walked by, into the kitchen. The room flickered with images. Louise was there, smiling at him with that breathtaking mouth. She shifted the pan atop the stove, swaying seductively. A younger, carefree Harold walked over to kiss and hold her. They laughed.
Harold couldn’t bear to despoil the moment. He moved on, swift and silent. He wasn’t here for the memories; he was burdened with too many of them as it stood. No, he was here for Louise. The darkness beckoned and ahead, a white dress swished around a corner. Harold followed.
*
He held the coffee mug tightly.
Fingers white around the knuckles, the dark liquid trembled inside as though it felt the force of his pain and was shaken by it. Harold’s momentary liveliness slowly bled away, as those layers he’d felt burned away settled once more upon him. His back bowed, as he hunched over the drink. One hand fished into his coat, twitching in its urgency and fumbling, he brought out the photograph he instinctively knew was there.
Louise.
He trailed his hand down her face, clenching his jaw. His thoughts were interrupted by a gruff, hacking cough. “That you, Harold?” A balding, old man was regarding him from the back door he’d just come in through. After a moment, a smile emerged from within the folds of wrinkled fat that made up his face. “That is you! By God, I knew it.” Harold watched him waddle over, breathing heavily. He sat opposite him, huffing and puffing. Harold was saved from embarrassment by the man’s tag.
“Hey, Al.”
He brought the cup up to his lips, sipping at the bitter brew.
“She didn’t think you’d be back, after last year’s shenanigans,” Al said, settling himself in. “I told her – didn’t I tell you, Jen? Heh – that you’d be here. Every year, regular as clockwork, I said. Jesus Christ, Harold, how are you?”
“I’m…better, thanks for asking.”
They sat in silence for a minute, Harold rapidly finishing his drink.
“And how are you?” Harold asked, belatedly.
In answer, Al began to cough. His beer belly shook with each gusty hack and his face grew flushed and bright. He brought a tissue to his mouth, spitting out a glob of phlegm more red then green. Al hastily folded it, tucking it back into his breast pocket. “I’m fine, Harold, just fine.”
Harold snorted. “You’re about as fine as I am.”
Al laughed at that, shaking his head ruefully. “Blunt as ever, eh Harry?” He brought out a cigarette, lighting it quickly. The smoke quickly became a wispy curtain between them and through it Al regarded Harold levelly. “So, where you been Harry?”
Harold looked away. “What do you mean?”
Those beady grey eyes were steadily watching him. “Every year,” Al said, slowly, “you come here on Halloween. You only live around the corner, Harry, but no one ever sees you. Except on this day, when you appear just like you’d been away for less than a day and not a word about where.”
The cigarette smoke was stinging the back of his throat.
*
“Just wait a second, just one second please,” Harold begged, but her smile continued to tease, and she flowed around another corner. The house, he was discovering, was beyond immense. It never seemed to end, containing room after room of memories and emotion. Once, he followed Louise into a long, glowing hall. Instantly, he was suffused with happiness. He could close his eyes and laugh aloud, skipping and dancing in this place for eternity. For the first time, he felt completely and wholly at ease. A peace short lived, as Louise didn’t even pause, striding through the door at the end and onward.
It was the hardest thing he’d ever had to do, but Harold made it to the end of that hall and beyond. She led him into dining rooms of rage, into cellars of despair and always, he clawed himself after her. Through the bowels of the house, with its decaying wood and shifting shadows, they chased one another in never ending circles.
*
Harold motioned to Al, who passed the cigarette over to him. He took a deep drag, letting the smoke well up and leak out from the corners of his mouth.
“You can’t remember, can you?” This from Jenna, who had joined them. “You never can.”
“No…,” he said, softly. “I mean, I can remember where I’ve been, but not what I’ve been doing.”
“And where’s that?” Al said, covering his mouth to muffle a cough.
“I’ve been dreaming.”
The two shared a glance, but his eyes saw nothing but the empty, stained insides of the cup.
“Of what?” Jen barely whispered it, she was so fearful of the answer.
“Of the house. In the country, where we used to live.” Lips compressed into a thin line, bristles lined up like little soldiers about the entrance. “And she’s there, I know she is. I just gotta catch her.”
There was a sob and Harold looked up to see Jenna rushing away, tears in her eyes. He wondered briefly why she was so affected, but dismissed the thought a moment later, unable to follow it through.
“That’s the last thing you gotta do, boy,” Al said, real anger in his voice. Harold looked up, surprised. “You do that and it’s the last we’ll see of you, mark my words. Christ Almighty, you got your whole life ahead of you and you - ” he stopped, coughs ripping themselves from his throat in wet, tearing groups. “You going to waste it…chasing… dreams and ghosts? You gotta be fucking joking.”
“I’m not chasing a ghost. She’s there, I know it.”
“She’s in a grave, six feet under. You’re wasting your goddamn time.”
His words were clipped and cold. Harold rose, throwing some money on the table. “I’ll see you later,” he said, turning away.
“Like Hell you will.”
*
It was getting harder to stop, harder to care. Each day the words seemed a little softer, the people less substantial, the sun a little less bright and all the while, the house loomed before him, more solid and real then anything he had known. Which was the dream? Did it even matter? He sat on the bus as it rattled and clanked. If there were people aboard, he didn’t notice them or they him. His skin felt stretched and dry, the stubble on his cheek itchy and dense. Over and over, he rubbed his hand over the photo in his pocket.
The bus roared to a stop, jolting him forward. Outside, over a series of hills, white crosses glared at him. A legion of men and women, boys and girls, symbolised by one generic symbol. It was crushing, to think of so many souls, so much individuality lost to the cold, uniform blocks of wood. Harold passed through the rows, his feet seeming to float across the ground, less substantial than the army of dead beneath them. He didn’t need directions; didn’t need to think on where to go, he was simply there. Around the cross was wound a red ribbon. Reaching out a trembling hand, he grasped the ribbon, fancying he could still smell her on it.
Only the smell of impending rain reached him. He held tight to it nonetheless, laying himself across her grave, uncaring of who might see and what they might say.
“Honey?” he whispered. “Louise, can you hear me?”
He knocked against the ground and it rang hollow. A slow smile spread across his face, a stain he welcomed. He got up, brushing himself off. It was empty, he knew and she was not there.
*
In the pounding rain, he walked past the café. He didn’t go in, preferring to remain an anonymous shadow, just another figure ghosting by the window. He paused for a moment, to peer in. Jenna was there, behind the counter, slowly wiping at a stain long since gone. Her eyes were pits of shadow. Chilled more by the image then the rain, he continued on.
The darkness was encroaching more and more, seeping into the world to claim the day. It made little difference to the children. They ran by, little goblins and monsters, angels and princesses that squealed and laughed and danced in the rain, eternally ahead of their captors; the stressed parents behind them. It made little difference to Harold. He was staring out from the windows of the house, no matter where he was. In the café, at the graveyard, in his home; it was with him, no matter where he was and this was a truth he had hid from himself. It was so tiring, to lead two lives; one a dream, the other a memory and the differences between the two were no longer distinct to him.
It would be better soon, he knew.
He climbed the steps to his apartment, shuffling through the door. Already, the layers were wrapping themselves around him once more. He couldn’t venture into the house, couldn’t follow her in that place, while living. It was why it had been so hard this day, on Halloween, when he awoke once more. He lay down upon his bed, already treading the pathway to the door of the house. It loomed above him, as welcoming as ever. He took a brief moment to wonder if he would wake up again; to slough away dead flesh in a shower and go through the pain of rebirth and death, light and dark, once more. He wasn’t sure, but the darkness beckoned.
Finally, he was home.
