Black Curtains

The house was big. It should be noted, I think, that a lot of old houses are just that. Big. At least the ones that lasted this long, anyway. As for this particular one, I think my father said it was built sometime in the early nineteen hundreds. It’s been added onto and remodeled since then. That didn’t really matter, but I always liked to know the history of a house before we moved into it. That trait was probably inherited from my father and was something my younger sister missed out on.

She was chattering happily when we pulled up the long gravel driveway, past bare trees and rocks, and ivy vines that crawled over everything. The house itself was, as I said before, big. But beyond that, seemed relatively normal. There was no weathervane that screeched in the wind, no broken shutters, or cracked windows. It was actually a very sunny, beautiful day. Maybe that’s why I didn’t expect anything.

My dad walked through the ground floor while Isabelle and I got out of the car. She ran up the path, jumping over every crack. Then she ran up the steps, and I followed. The floor creaked under her feet as she ran around the front room, then went up the stairs. I went to the kitchen. Everything was covered in a thin layer of dust, but it wasn’t that bad. Nothing a little dusting couldn't fix.

Maybe I should explain the house. My father was obsessed with old houses, which probably led to his career as both a ‘ghost man’ and a retailer. A haunted house? We moved in, proved whatever weird or strange legend wrong, made repairs and repainted, then sold it and moved on to the next one. It was an interesting way to live, and I have to admit my mother wasn’t a very big fan of it. I once asked why she stayed married if she hated moving around so much, she just smiled and kept brushing my hair. I never got an answer before she died.

This house didn’t seem like it would be any different. There were no problems on moving day, I dumped Isabelle on the couch and went to move our suitcases inside while my father checked upstairs for any wild animals or teenagers who might be the source for the legends. That did happen sometimes, once a family of moose had moved into a house in the woods. We got them out and remodeled, and it sold for several million dollars.

My father was just lucky like that. At least, he was. Before the crash.

“This place is perfect,” he told Isabelle that night as he unloaded KFC onto the old wooden table. Isabelle immediately took the macaroni and cheese and a drumstick, singing nonsense songs to herself.

“There’s not a moose, for one.” he laughed. Isabelle and I smiled. “And once we get it all tidied up and pretty again, well, let’s just say this is better than any other sale we’ve had before,” he said enthusiastically, brushing the hair out of his eyes.

“What about the ghost?” Isabelle asked, beaming up at him.

“There isn’t one,” he said, rolling his eyes. “You know that.”

“Not yet,” Isabelle said, slurping up macaroni and cheese.

One thing I don’t have in common with my father is that I believe one hundred percent that ghosts are real. They have to be, where else would people like my mother go when they died?

“You’ll see,” he said, sitting down next to Isabelle and picking up his chicken. “Just eat. After a week, I’ll prove you wrong.”

Isabelle said nothing.

The house was quiet, in a peaceful kind of way. Isabelle quickly tired of her mess-making and got down from the table. She ran upstairs, and we could hear her footsteps all around as she explored.

“We’ll need some thicker insulation,” my father noted, glancing up. “No one wants to hear that.”

I didn’t agree. I liked old houses, not just for their potential. Again, it was the history. Changing a house too much would erase or cover up the history. Not to mention, it would anger the ghosts. My father agreed with one of those statements.

We finished dinner in silence, though Isabelle supplied enough background noise that it was bearable. She, unfortunately, discovered the bigger bedroom first and therefore claimed it as her own. So after dinner, I tucked her into the bed on an old metal frame and kissed her goodnight, then I sang mother’s lullaby. By the second verse, Isabelle was asleep. I finished the song anyway and closed the door behind me before retreating to my own bedroom down the hall, at the very end near the chimney to brush my hair.

I heard Dad tucking her in, a second time. Even though I’d already done it. Once he finished, I listened to his footsteps to the other end of the hall, then his door closing. He’d definitely oil those hinges soon, even though I think the creaking had a certain charm to it.

This house was much better than the others, I don’t know why I liked it more. I just did. For someone who had never lived somewhere longer than a year, this house felt like home.

I finished brushing my hair and put my hairbrush away, then lay back in bed to stare at the ceiling. It sloped upward with the house, there was no attic here. My Father would certainly add a crawlspace and fill it up with insulation, but until then I could see the history in the house, and that made me smile. I closed my eyes, breathing in the musty scent of old wood, furniture, and ghosts.

I should have known the peace wouldn’t last.

I should have known my father’s luck had run out.

I should have known the ghost would find us eventually.

I woke up to the sound of footsteps. This old house was big, but the creaking was loud and nearby. In this hallway, the only hallway that should have someone in it. I heard my sister’s door open and relaxed. It was just my father, checking on us. He was sure to come here next, eternally paranoid about ghosts hurting one of his children.

Instead, though, I heard the haunting melody of my mother’s lullaby come through the wall. My eyes widened slightly and I sat up, my black curtain of hair falling around me like a protective blanket. It wasn’t just the song that belonged to my mother, but her voice as well. Gentle and crinkled with age, it was sweet and forgiving and sang of a time when everything would be okay.

She was back.

My bare feet hit the floor and I rushed to the door, hand closing over the handle. It turned easily and I slid through the doorway, padding silently to my sister’s bedroom. I could still hear my mother's voice singing as I entered.

Isabelle was asleep. Mother was softly playing with her hair, braiding it into long ropes of chestnut brown like my father’s. When she heard me enter, she looked up and smiled. A white finger pressed to her lips and I nodded, returning the gesture. The song continued and then restarted as she braided Isabelle’s hair in elaborate loops and delicate chains.

After a long while, she was done. My mother stood up and crossed the door - almost floating over it - to me. She held out her arms and I rushed into them, feeling her hug me tightly.

“Where did you go?” I scolded, closing my eyes.

“I didn’t go anywhere,” she said, brushing her fingers along my black curtain of hair. “It was your father who took you and Isabelle away from me. You know that.”

“He didn’t mean it,” I said, reaching up to play with her hair in return. Hers was just like mine, a black curtain of silky hair.

“Oh, yes he did.” My mother’s hands gripped me tightly to her, hardening almost into flesh and bone. I tensed, eyes widening. And then her hands were soft again, lifting my chin so I could look her in the eyes. “But it’s alright now.”

“Yeah.” I smiled, nodding.

In unison, both our heads turned to little Isabelle, still sleeping soundly in her bed.

“Why don’t you stay here, and I’ll go wake your father?” my mother said, turning me to face the bed.

“Sure,” I said, too happy that she’d come home to wonder why she didn’t want me there. Then she drifted away toward my father’s room, and I sat on the edge of the bed to play with Isabelle’s hair.

It was addicting, I think. The way her hair shifted in the candlelight, the golden and browns that were so different than my ordinary black. It was hard to resist following what my mother did, making knots and loops and different ropes.

By the time my mother returned from his bedroom, Isabelle’s skin was pale and cold. I didn’t care.

“Time to wake up, Isabelle.” My mother said softly, scooping Isabelle up into her arms. Isabelle woke up, though her body still lay on the bed beside us. Isabelle’s new black curtain swung around as she was placed on her small white feet, and she beamed up at me. I smiled back as if she could see me.

“Now I’m like you, Jamie!” she cheered, dancing around me.

I looked back at the body -body- on the bed, feeling a twinge of uncertainty. Why did Isabelle have black curtains instead of her brown curls? It didn’t make much sense. I stepped closer to the bed, eyes searching. Underneath the chestnut ropes, I could make out small black and blue abrasions. They marked Isabelle’s pale skin in looping patterns, cold and hard. They were shadowed on the Isabelle that danced around me now. I looked at my mother more critically.

She too, had the shadows of marks on her - though I hadn’t noticed at first. Beneath her shimmering top, I could mark out a large black hole taking up part of her torso. That’s where she’d been hit in the crash, but what about Isabelle? Isabelle hadn’t been injured in the crash.

“Where’s dad?” I asked, looking toward the wall separating us.

“He’s sleeping.” Mother said, “Come to see.”

Both Isabelle and I followed her to our fathers’ room, she was holding the body -body- that had lain on the bed just moments before. We watched as she arranged Isabelle’s body -body- in a grotesque shape, and Isabelle laughed at the strange image. I just stared. What was going on?

My gaze drifted around the room to another form, not my father's, and not Isabelle’s. My eyes widened. I stared at a copy of myself, but with chestnut curls like Isabelle’s wrapped around my neck and head. My gaze whipped back to my father, who was asleep. As I watched, my mother stepped toward him and ghosted a hand through his chest. He sputtered awake and didn’t seem to see us. Not even Isabelle, who he’d always been able to see. All he saw were our bodies, -bodies-, lain across his floor in a terrifying manner.

Bodies. I wasn’t in my body anymore.

I looked over at my mother, who laughed at my father’s panicked gaze. I looked down at Isabelle, who was touching me for the first time since the accident. I looked at my father, who stumbled from his bed and fell to his knees, barely breathing. I looked at my mother as she stepped forward, hands solidifying into flesh and bone once more. I looked away when she wrapped them around his neck.

I’ve forgotten most of the things that happened after that.

But I will never forget the haunted screams that filled our home.