You Can't Imagine

People always talk about the Fishers. Although I don’t believe anyone knows the truth. I’d bet all my money, even though there’s not much to bet, that there are so many rumors that no one will ever be able to find the truth.

Most people, like old Jay, say it was ghosts who scared them off. However, everyone knows that those folks are superstitious. Some people say it was the howl of the wind through the trees. Some think the Fishers had left just because of the lifestyle; maybe it was too hard for former city-folk to handle. I did agree that living on the country side wasn’t easy. But, I don’t think that was the case for the Fishers.

Now, I suppose you would like to hear what started all these rumors, and I’ll tell you.

The Fishers bought the new white house a few years back. They had never really lived in it until this spring. Before, they’d been moving back and forth from their apartment in New York City to the new house. But this winter, they had decided to stay put and had stopped renting the apartment in the beginning of spring.

When they had fully moved into the white house, they had a party to meet the neighbors. The Fishers daughter was five years of age, and there were many young people in the neighborhood. Madeleine made friends quickly.

In the early summer, neighbors said the Fishers had been complaining about the noises they heard at night, but none of the neighbors heard the noises the Fishers had described.

Over a few weeks, some of the neighborhood kids didn’t want to play with little Madeleine anymore. They told their parents that she started to play strange games, not the normal Hopscotch. After a while, most of the children in the neighborhood tried to avoid her. She began staying inside.

Her former friends called her ‘Mad Madeleine’ because it was like she was being kept in an asylum.

After a month or two, the Fishers reported more and more strange noises, but now they heard them in the day light too. They had an inspector check to see if there were any signs of rodents, but he found nothing.

Suddenly one day, early in the morning, some folks say that they saw the Fishers drive away in their dark green car. The Fishers hadn’t said anything about leaving the small town, but they still haven’t come back to their white house. No one thinks they will.

You can see how all these rumors began, can’t you? Who would just leave a town and their house and almost everything they own, without saying anything to anybody? That’s the mystery.

I have wanted to go to the white house since they’ve been gone. I love to explore, and I would very much like to write for the newspaper someday. Maybe if I write a good story about something people are interested in, then I will get a job writing for the local news paper. This house is definitely something people are interested in.

Today I decided to take a small journey over to the white house. It is a couple miles from my home, not a far walk.

While I make lunch, I’m thinking about what I could discover about the Fishers. My mind wanders to what I will find inside the white house, probably left behind furniture. Hopefully the house will not be locked.

I’ve packed a bag, containing items like a pen and paper, and a camera. I start my journey to the white house. It’s a very nice day; the smell of fall is in the air. I love that smell. It’s rather warm outside, but I still need a coat. The breeze is rustling the tree leaves, their colors are gorgeous. I take a picture.

After a while, I can see the roofs of more houses.

I come to the street and I turn. I can see the white house from where I am. There is someone in front of the house.

I walk up to an older-looking man; he has brown hair, his face is rather skinny with strong cheek bones and angry-looking eyebrows.

He is looking at a painting. The paint is still wet on the canvas. The strokes of a paintbrush have created a house. The house he is facing towards.

 “Did you paint that?” I ask him. I realize it was a silly question: no one else was around to paint it but him.

He looks at me, a sort of surprised look on his face. If I was him, I wouldn’t have expected me either.

“Er. Yes, I did.”

“It’s very nice.”

He looks at me; I can tell he’s still a bit confused.

“.. Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t introduce myself. My name is Kesli Kruzel.” I add.

“I’m Edward Hopper.” I shake his hand.

“If you don’t mind me asking, why did you paint that house?” I ask him.

“I like to paint houses and landscapes, especially when they have a story.” He explains.

Well, this house does have a story.

“Oh. . .”

“I will be heading off now, I need to be home for supper.” He bends down to grab his paint brushes and pallet. He places them in a black bag and straightens up.

“Okay. It was nice to meet you.” I smile and take one more glance at the painting. It was very well done.

“Goodbye.”

I tread through the overgrown grass to the front door of the house. The house still looked somewhat new, and the door knob was shiny brass. I look back to the man; he was now getting in his car. I twist the door knob, and push forward slightly. It’s locked. I let go and move on to the side door. Twist, push. . . The door swings open slowly, like it hasn’t been opened in a hundred years. I hear the car start and drive off. I step inside.

The floor is dark brown wood. The walls are nice neutral colors like light brown and yellow. There is delicate molding between the ceiling and the wall. I walk through the first level of the house for a while. I come to the sitting room: it has a black wood stove and a beige sofa. I sit down on it. It’s soft and comfortable. I run my fingers along the arm of the sofa as I think.

I suppose I’ll stay here for a while, and see if I hear any of those “strange noises”. I pull out my lunch and eat.

A half hour later, I find myself not really thinking, just staring at the wall. I stand up and go to the window. The sun is getting lower to the ground. I need to look around upstairs and then go home. I stand there for a while, thinking about the man and his painting.

Somehow, I keep getting distracted. I look to the doorway that leads to the stairs. I start walking towards it, when suddenly I hear a noise from upstairs. Like a deep clunk sound. I freeze. I wonder if I imagined that sound, or if it was real. It sounded quite real to me.

I shake my head. Silly me, trying to scare myself!

Somehow I convince myself to keep walking, when I reach the staircase, I breathe in deeply, and begin the climb. When I get to the landing, all three doors are closed in the hallway, which makes it rather dark. As I hold my breath, I walk to the door farthest from me, and slowly twist and push the door open.

I walk into what must have been the Mr. and Mrs. Fishers room. I sigh, relived that I found nothing but a well-sized bed against the left wall and a wooden bureau on the far wall. The bed sheets were pushed into the middle, like both sides of the covers had been quickly thrown back by the people who had been in it. I leave that room and go to the next door. Twist and push. The door opens into a small bathroom. Turning away, I look at the last door.

There’s only one room now. I go to it and open the door. Light pink walls and a shaggy white carpet. It looked like a room any young girl would want. There was only one window, so it wasn’t bright like her parents room was. The twin bed sat next to the window, it was made. Why would you bother fixing your bed if you weren’t going to ever see it again?

I look out the window, the sky was turning a bright pink and orange, the sun was beginning to set. I thought about taking a picture, but it wouldn’t come out well since the window wasn’t clean. I decided to take a picture once I got outside.

I leave the window, back to the hallway I go. I hear something, like the noise I had heard a little while before, but I ignore it. As I start down the stairs, I slip, but catch my self.

 I take one more step down; I’m not so lucky this time. I tumble down the rest of the stairs, and slam my head very hard on the floor. I feel blood leaking out of my mouth. Everything goes foggy, but before the rest of my vision blurs, I see a face. Now, I had never seen Madeleine, but the face I saw then was how I pictured her. Her ghostly face stared down at me. Maybe the reason why she made her bed was because she never had really left. But now I would never know.

Everything goes black. I can’t hear, I can’t smell, and I can’t see. You can’t imagine how dark my world is.