Dust

There are three things I need you to know about me before we get into everything.

One: I prefer to go by Abby, not Abigail or Abby Jr, or anything like that. Why my parents decided to subvert traditions and name me after my mother is still a frustrating mystery to me.

Two: The electric blue streak scorched in my blonde fringe is not a reaction to the death of my father, but a representation of who I really am as a person.

And Three: I hate, hate, to drive.

So fact I’ve found myself trucking along through thick waves of rain in my Aunt’s borrowed RV, traversing the tangled roads of Ink Hill on my way to do some figurative grave robbing, has not left me in the best of moods.

I apologise for this…because I’m nice like that.

. . .

The rain turns to sleet as I pull up outside Number Five Visitant Way; an abandoned house that lost its right to be called my home a year ago. I hate these kinds of places, so much history it almost buckles under it. My father grew-up here before me, and his father before him, and it was his old man who built it with the help of his. Christ, and now it ends with me. So much history just makes me feel indigent.

It’s a towering structure, of dark windows and many little roofs; menacingly tall against the cloudy skyline. Bound in vines and weeds that cling to the building like dead mountaineers who never finished their journeys.

I remember all these little details as I splutter through the overrun garden in a hurry to escape the uncomfortable wetness, taking shelter on my old front porch. I know I should hurry; do what I came to do and strip the giant cadaver for saleable parts and skedaddle.

But something draws me to give it all a second look. A nostalgic incline to reflect on all the happy moments I’ve had right where I’m stood. Being taught to read on the stairs at my feet. Learning to play guitar on the bench. And my favourite, playing samurai with my Dad through the garden. But I shelve the good feelings. I know what I came here for. If it’s worth a fiver I’m taking it with me, I can’t live with her anymore. I enter.

Dry skin clings to everything left in the front room. Flesh of dirt and death formed over the twelve months since I was forced out of this tomb to live with my mother, who finally had to use some of that ‘joint custody’ she didn’t ask for. I pull my overly large army jacket tighter as I wade deeper into the ocean of dust. Using my baggy top as fumigator mask I tightens the fabric in place with my necklace; the broken car-key at its end fastening above my nose. Nothing instantly tangible survived the first exhuming; the immediate weeks after his death. Moth eaten chairs, cracked verse, unwanted photos. That’s all my Mum left of him. The bad taste of disgust conjures in me, and I dig into the wall to steady myself, breathing in the tainted space in wailing coughs.

CRACK!

I flinch and an old photo suddenly lays discarded at the foot of the staircase some paces away. A crooked nail hangs above it, but by the thicket of dust around it the photo must have fallen a long time ago. I pick it up slowly, ripping away its skin with the tips of my chipped fingers, cleaning away the dirt to reveal the picture below. Its Dad and I looking happy, a big shit eating grin shinning through his burly ginger beard, a small smirk on my lips. I hated when my hair was that long, too girly; but I miss my pretty face more, the memory inspiring me to caresses the violent scar that dominates it now.

The photo must have been taken at a exhibit opening , it was four years back now. I wonder how it had become so long ago? The sweet smell of champagne starts to tickle my nostrils and the bustle of other art critics patting Dad on the back fill my ears. The warn details spiral round me in a warm haze and I hug the photo close. Joyous figures slipping in and out of focus around me, a vague happiness bubbling in my belly. But I’m popped back to reality by the unmistakable sound of motion from upstairs. The memories gone, I let the photo drop carelessly and it smashes on the floor, sending little fragments in every direction.

I’m a thief as I ascend, remembering the little cracks and creaks to avoid in the wooding to not make a peep. But the hallway appears abandoned to my phone light, nothing but the dark and the forgotten occupying its neglected crevasse. I decide it was just the house yawning, and to start searching the corpse top to bottom. I’ll begin with the attic and work down. I move towards the rusted ladder that will transport me to the house’s peak, but I’m momentarily vexed when I kick something. A dust covered cricket ball I don’t remember owning rolls away from me. I watch it reel down the hallway ’til it stops on the edge of darkness, at which point it leaves my mind and I start climbing the ladder…Not catching the stationary ball start to roll again, slipping into the shadows towards waiting hands.

If down stairs was the morgue, then the attic was the graveyard. Even before we left this place it was not visited frequently, every millimetre drowning in dust, dirt, and death. I pull my shirt-mask tighter, diving deeper into the blackness, continuing to use my phone to cast light onto the clunky forms that fill the space. Boxes of shit and bags of junk are the main proprietors of my search, ’til I finally balls-up and turns to the oversized black creature in the room; the grand piano. I hadn’t played since Granddad stopped teaching me and died, but I’m drawn to it none the less. I wrench the lid open with a room-quaking clank! So tight was the lid that the keys had maintained their bony whiteness, a row of teeth free of dead skin and fixed in an eerie row. My shirt slips as I tentatively lower my hand to the instrument; running my finger along the surface of the music, testing the water’s warmth before diving in.

It’s a simple melody of just a few notes; but it seems to reverberate through the whole house, awakening it from the point of death. A tiny smile stretches over my face and I continue playing my sweet little ditty, a forgotten memory drifting back into lucidity. I play the feather light tune up the scale happily ’til…clank! I hit a broken key and it clatters to the ground; the magic vanishing in a snap. The air then grows cold and blue, and a small box I hadn’t noticed in the far corner lifts its lid with a whining creak. My breath becomes stark and I pull my top back over my face as I approach the phantom container, peering over its rim. Hiding in the folds of darkness I spot a small blood torn cat collar. Disgust rises in me again, along with deep distress over the discovery; my teenage brain unable to fathom how the collar had found itself here. I buried it with my father.

I lean closer, reaching for the object when a transparent creature leaps from the box’s unseen depth, clawing at my neck as it startles me to the ground. The thing lands with a silent grace and I spiral to face it. Grasping at my scratched neck I discover my precious necklace gone, now in the fangs of the spectral feline before me. Its form is translucent with a teal aura, its many broken bones and crushed organs faintly visible beneath its ragged fur that ripples like wheat in the wind. It lock’s eyes with me, and cold familiarity is reflected in both of us. I force my breath and nerves back under control, thinking of nothing but saving my necklace.

“Here, kitty, kitty.” I half whisper, trying to draw the ghost nearer. “Here, spooky, spooky.” I speak louder, crawling towards the beast on my hands and knees, staying as close to its level as I can. It feels as though ice was being injected straight into my veins as I reach for the phantom, inching for the shoelace in its grasp. But the cat hisses and jumps back from my proximity, passing through the boards to the floor below; seeming to leave the key and thread behind. I lunge for it, but miss my treasure my inches, as it hurrying away down the ladder hole, dragged from below by the cat.

I’m after it in a whirl, half jumping down the ladder to the floor below, landing with a splintering thud under my boots. The cat’s nowhere to be seen under the gaze of my phone, no glint of its green slits from the shadows. I swallow what little saliva I have, an icy gash running down my spine as I edge towards the far side of the hall, towards my old bedroom.