by Constance Malloy
I
The Haunting
I don’t know if the couple who haunted my childhood home were benign or malevolent. She, always inside. He, constantly patrolling the outside perimeter. Together, hosting their specter guests in the living room at night, while I, upstairs, pulled blankets over my head, astral projecting myself to places where sleep was less burdened.
I never saw the woman in corporeal form, but I know how she dressed. She moved through the house in an 1890’s peach dress, wearing peach gloves, resting an opened parasol on her shoulder, which she twirled nonchalantly, gayly even.
She always stood until I sat, entering the living room anytime I was on the sofa. With intention, she lowered her body next to mine. Her unobservable mass registered against my side. Then, the slow turn of her face towards my profile, until I felt the tip of her nose indent my cheek. Each time I hoped it would be the last. But hope circled my belly like a hula hoop I tried to keep spinning, especially for my parents, but so often, it lost momentum, slipping down my legs until it died at my feet.
The man, dressed in a black suit and a fedora, paced the periphery of our house. Also, not in corporeal form but unmistakably present. His pacing suggested an impatience, a waiting.
I never saw the woman in corporeal form, but I know how she dressed. She moved through the house in an 1890’s peach dress, wearing peach gloves, resting an opened parasol on her shoulder, which she twirled nonchalantly, gayly even.
She always stood until I sat, entering the living room anytime I was on the sofa. With intention, she lowered her body next to mine. Her unobservable mass registered against my side. Then, the slow turn of her face towards my profile, until I felt the tip of her nose indent my cheek. Each time I hoped it would be the last. But hope circled my belly like a hula hoop I tried to keep spinning, especially for my parents, but so often, it lost momentum, slipping down my legs until it died at my feet.
The man, dressed in a black suit and a fedora, paced the periphery of our house. Also, not in corporeal form but unmistakably present. His pacing suggested an impatience, a waiting.
II
The Abduction
Summer 1981/I’m fourteen/babysitting ten-year-old daughter of my sister’s best friend/it’s a sleepover/next morning/her mom tells her to walk home/not a big deal/she lives six blocks away/still, I walk her to the corner of Fourth and Ash/at the corner/You good the rest of the way?/Yep, walk it all the time/she crosses the street/I wave goodbye/this is the last time I see her.
Crossing the street/to her house/car stops/man puts gun in her face/orders her into the car/paralyzed, frightened/she gets in/her house/her mom/thirty feet away.
The gun/the molestation/the driving her to the outskirts of town/her memorizing every landmark she passes/her memorizing the car’s make/model/condition/the gun/her bloodied crotch/the bruises on her face/the shovel/the garbage bag/the I’m going to shoot you/bury you in this bag/in this field/no one will ever know/what I/did to you/her incompressible presence of mind/her negotiating for her life/her I’ll tell them I was riding Jenny’s bike and I wrecked/No one has to know/her beating the odds/him leaving her near her house/her family moving away.
Crossing the street/to her house/car stops/man puts gun in her face/orders her into the car/paralyzed, frightened/she gets in/her house/her mom/thirty feet away.
The gun/the molestation/the driving her to the outskirts of town/her memorizing every landmark she passes/her memorizing the car’s make/model/condition/the gun/her bloodied crotch/the bruises on her face/the shovel/the garbage bag/the I’m going to shoot you/bury you in this bag/in this field/no one will ever know/what I/did to you/her incompressible presence of mind/her negotiating for her life/her I’ll tell them I was riding Jenny’s bike and I wrecked/No one has to know/her beating the odds/him leaving her near her house/her family moving away.
III
Her Nightmares
Forty-three years later, the nightmares begin. She’s in the garbage bag in the field. She’s not dead. She gets out of the bag and sees a girl off in the distance, standing on a staircase landing, smiling. Waving at her. She feels comforted. The girl’s presence lets her know everything will be okay.
IV
The Search
Prior to her nightmares, her memory begins on the curb, with the man, with the gun. But backing up ten minutes from the curb, she remembers her day started at my house.
She begins an internet search. Without my married name, her attempts fail. Her nightmares continue. Desperation fuels her search. Hope abandons her. Then, my brother dies. His obituary leads her to me.
August 2023, I receive an email: You might not remember who I am.
I’ve never forgotten you. How could I? I’m the one who left you at the corner.
We connect by phone. We are tethered souls. I embrace her with my voice. Relief, release permeates hers.
She tells me about her dream and her months-long search.
Her: Was there a landing in your house?
Me: Yes. I stood on it while you put on your shoes.
She begins an internet search. Without my married name, her attempts fail. Her nightmares continue. Desperation fuels her search. Hope abandons her. Then, my brother dies. His obituary leads her to me.
August 2023, I receive an email: You might not remember who I am.
I’ve never forgotten you. How could I? I’m the one who left you at the corner.
We connect by phone. We are tethered souls. I embrace her with my voice. Relief, release permeates hers.
She tells me about her dream and her months-long search.
Her: Was there a landing in your house?
Me: Yes. I stood on it while you put on your shoes.
V
My Dream
We are standing in front of my childhood home.
“I’d love to see the landing,” she says.
“Maybe,” I ponder, “the new owners will let us in.”
I knock on the door.
A woman answers and graciously agrees.
The furniture, the smells, all indicate my family is no longer here. Still, I sense our energy; hear my father yelling; see fear-statues of my mother; recall Christmases.
We sit side by side on the steps. The woman snaps a shot on my phone. Developing like an old polaroid, we watch the protracted reveal.
“We have to get out of here,” I gasp. “Now!”
We run out the door and don’t stop until we reach the corner of Fourth and Ash.
Looking at my phone again, she asks, “Who are they?”
“I’ve known them my whole life,” I say. “But I have no idea who they are.”
There, behind us, the woman in peach and the man in black, fully corporeal, are smiling above us like proud parents.
“I’d love to see the landing,” she says.
“Maybe,” I ponder, “the new owners will let us in.”
I knock on the door.
A woman answers and graciously agrees.
The furniture, the smells, all indicate my family is no longer here. Still, I sense our energy; hear my father yelling; see fear-statues of my mother; recall Christmases.
We sit side by side on the steps. The woman snaps a shot on my phone. Developing like an old polaroid, we watch the protracted reveal.
“We have to get out of here,” I gasp. “Now!”
We run out the door and don’t stop until we reach the corner of Fourth and Ash.
Looking at my phone again, she asks, “Who are they?”
“I’ve known them my whole life,” I say. “But I have no idea who they are.”
There, behind us, the woman in peach and the man in black, fully corporeal, are smiling above us like proud parents.
*Our lives were forever changed the day I keft Kris Roberts at the corner of Fourth and Ash. Together, we are writing the story of Kris’s abduction and the life-altering effects of our fated relationship.
Constance Malloy is the creator of The Burning Hearth Blog and the editor of Voices of the Winter Solstice. Recently transformed, she is emerging with a new voice, however, older flash can be found at New Flash Fiction Review, Janus Literary, and Bending Genres. When not writing, she enjoys spending time with her family, walking in the woods, and sitting quietly by the river.
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