After a photograph by Adrien Broom from the Holding Space Historic Homes Project
I
He is not supposed to be awake, he knows. It is the witching hour in this old house, and young boys like him are meant to be asleep at this time lest monsters drag them away. Yet, he remains awake. He stares at the ceiling above, a ceiling built ages upon ages ago, and wonders about his future. He knows boys like him, boys with no family, followed by terrible fortune, aren’t meant to do great things. He wants to anyway. He stares at the ceiling a while longer until he hears footsteps coming down the hallway. He shuts his eyes, for if it is an adult coming to check on him and the others, he would surely be punished for refusing to go to sleep. He doesn’t recognize the gait, but it is better safe than sorry. He needs not worry: the footsteps pass right by his room.
II
A vase has been knocked over in the dining room downstairs. He did not do it, he’s sure, but the blame is pinned on him by the other boys anyway. None of them seem guilty or triumphant, though. If it wasn’t them, who did knock the vase down? He wonders about it as he sweeps up flowers and shards of ceramic, then mops up the water. There are no animals in the house. None of the adults would have. He didn’t do it, and he’s sure that none of the other children did. He recalls that unfamiliar gait from last night, the footsteps light but determined against the carpet. Perhaps it was… whomever that was.
III
It’s again the witching hour when he hears them that night, and the next night, and the next, until he’s memorized the sound. It is always the same time when he hears them, and the path is always identical. Over time, he has figured out that the owner of those footsteps wears a dress and heeled shoes. Interesting, for no one else in the house does. He listens for days and days and then weeks and weeks, until he is nearly bursting with curiosity. He makes up his mind the next day: he must see who walks by that room night after night.
IV
He creeps out of bed, movement muffled by the carpet, and presses his face to the door. Tonight, like every night, the footsteps approach and pass by. This time, though, they are accompanied by a fascinating sight. With the sound comes a person, a somewhat elderly woman, her flowing dress blindingly white, nearly burning his eyes. When she passes, he opens the door and peeks out. She is descending the stairs, that dress trailing behind her, flaring with luminance, lighting up the whole house. He leans over the railing, as if trying to see if she’s really real. She pauses on the next staircase. He freezes. She looks up. Waves, like she’s saying hello to a kind stranger on the street. The boy blinks, and then the home is empty of all but darkness.
Photograph by Adrien Broom, taken at The Mark Twain House & Museum, 2018