As I stand in the big, empty foyer, inhaling the strong scent of lemon that my mother would use on all the woodworking, I’m drawn to walk down the hallway to the left. The old grandfather clock still stands where it always has. For a reason that escapes me, I need to inspect the wall behind it.
The antique piece must weigh close to a hundred and fifty pounds. I don’t know how I ever saw behind it as a child.
The wooden panels of the entire wall are smooth and without peepholes. After wiping a few beads of sweat from my face, I muscle the clock back into place and turn away.
A stiff drink should help me settle in for the night. My dad used to keep a whole cabinet of scotch in his study. Some of it was rare and worth quite a bit of money. Mom never did like the stuff. I wonder if she got rid of it after he died.
My footfalls echo eerily through the mostly empty hallway as I proceed to the study. The double pocket doors are shut but slide back easily when I push on them. The air inside is stale; these doors might not have been opened since Dad passed. I know I haven’t been inside this room since then.
The scotch collection appears untouched. Three shelves hold probably sixty bottles or more. Being a bourbon drinker myself, I don’t know much about scotch, but I’m hardly in a picky mood. I reach in, grab a dusty bottle at random, and pour a healthy amount into a crystal glass.
It’s not as sweet as what I’m used to and has a smokey, vanilla flavor to it. In a pinch, it’ll do.
The two large wingback leather chairs that have always been in the study look ghostly under the protective sheets. I uncover one and sit down. The end table next to me still holds one of the ornate ashtrays Dad used when smoking cigars. A cigar sounds delightful right now.
I investigate the cabinet doors and find a built-in humidor with a dozen stogies inside. Because it’s plugged into an outlet, it never stopped running. I’ve only smoked a cigar twice in my life, but I remember the smell of smoke lingering on my dad. In a drawer nearby, I find a lighter and cigar cutter and return to the leather chair.
I take another sip of scotch, light the cigar, lean back, and close my eyes.
I’m transported to the body of my younger self, walking to the study, looking for my dad, knowing where he is because of the rich smell of smoke. When I reach the doorway, I’m surprised to see my mom’s face over the top of the wingback chair. She’s straddling his lap. When she hears me, she looks up and meets my eyes. They’ve permanently changed somehow from what they were before the day I found the hole in the wall. Now, they’re more sultry. More animalistic.
She gazes at me with her intoxicating, foreign eyes and slowly licks her lips. I’m turned on and horrified at the same time.
My eyes fly open, and I sit upright in the chair with the same uneasiness and lust filling my body. I have a strong sense of being watched, certain those eyes are lurking in a corner somewhere. Coming back to this house has caused my imagination to run wild.
Maybe I’m just tired and need some sleep. I put out the cigar and drain the scotch. Just a few more hours before I’m rid of this place forever.
The only bed left in the house is in my parents’ bedroom. It feels weird to sleep there, but it’s just one night.
I survey my mother’s bedroom, finding it exactly as I remember from childhood. Between the bed and the wall is the same chair she’d sat in while I watched her put the stockings on. The image comes to mind as fresh as if it had happened moments ago.
I undress down to my t-shirt and boxer shorts and slide between the sheets. The scent of my mother lingers on the linens; I inhale deeply.
“John.”
I don’t know if I dozed off or not, but my mother’s voice is unmistakable. Opening my eyes, I find the bedroom empty, the light still on.
“John.” The provocative voice begs me to respond.
I turn my head toward the sound and see a lone eye looking at me through a quarter-sized hole in the wall. The same hole that hadn’t been there earlier.
* * *
I tear my way out of the bed and fumble into my pants. When I look again, the eye is gone. I blink and rub my eyes to take another look. Had it really been there in the first place? Maybe the cigar and the scotch went to my head. Maybe it was just a weird dream. I’m not a big drinker in the first place.
There’s no way I’ll be able to sleep while wondering if someone else is in the house. Exiting the bedroom as quietly as possible, I pace through the halls, back to the one with the grandfather clock. It’s still sitting flush against the wall, and there are no holes through the panels to see into the bedroom.
I scratch my head; I must have been hallucinating.
“John.”
There’s that voice again, soft and alluring. It sounds like my mother’s voice, but how can that be when she died two days ago?
Taking a deep breath, I catch a whiff of the perfume she used to wear all the time, the one that drove my father mad with desire. It’s funny that the house still smells of it because she never wore it again after he passed. Not that I knew of.
There’s nothing left to do except return to bed. Morning will come in just a few hours. Being absolved of this place should seal away forever all the ghosts haunting me.
On my way back to the bedroom, I notice warm light spilling out of the living room, painting the drab white walls of the empty hallway. I’m certain it wasn’t on before because I would have seen it when I went into my father’s study. I can’t remember now.
“John.” The voice echoes from the living room.
Even though I don’t believe in ghosts, my feet feel like lead as I hesitantly pick one up and place it down in front of the other. I firmly believe there’s a rational explanation for everything. Well, everything except those eyes my mother acquired the day my sister and her friend played with the Ouija board in the attic. When they never went back to normal, I convinced myself they’d been that way all my life.
I turn and peer into the doorway to the living room, surveying the corners and nooks for intruders. A pair of sleek, smooth legs sticking out over the arm of a chair catches my eye.
A face appears from the other side.
My heart stops for a beat or two before setting a ragged, frantic pace as I recognize the face of my mother. Only it’s not haggard and old like it was when I saw it last. No, this is a much younger face; one I remember from my youth.
She stands. A black satin robe envelops her lean torso. As she holds her arms out toward me, the robe shimmers in the dim light.
“Oh, John, dear. Don’t you want to come kiss Mother?”
No. I absolutely do not want to kiss Mother. I want to be rid of this house permanently. I want the hallucinations and the mortification that comes with them to end.
I need to be home with my wife, spooning her while the sound of our son’s snore on the baby monitor lull me to sleep. I need her comforting presence to help wash away the guilt and shame from my childhood.
Why is this happening?
