I OWN NOTHING OF STEPHENIE MEYERS WORKS
Playlist: Hey Lady-Thriving Ivory
Prologue
BPOV
I pulled up to the large white house, my hands clutching the steering wheel tightly, and cut the engine. I had been to this house many times in my youth and still had chills run down my spine every time I came. Memories of cries in the night and furniture moving of it's own accord were some of the more prominent of the memories, others were simply amazing and subtle in their glory.
When I was ten years old I can remember skipping down the long stairway, humming to myself, and stopping suddenly when a figure appeared in front of me. A man. He held out his hand to me, a sad smile on his face, almost as if he had been searching for me all this time. I had seen him many times after that, as the years went on and now at 23 years old I was scared and hopeful that I might see him again.
Something about this man was familiar and I was curious to know why.
I had searched through many records from the house's previous owners and have not found a name to put to this ghost's face. It was sad, really, to not know his name. The house had been in my family for generations and now that the previous owner, my grandmother, has died, I was owner. Renee and Charlie had not wanted the house, saying they were perfectly happy where they were and gave the deed to me; I accepted it willingly.
I got out of the cramped rental and walked up to the grand Victorian house and sighed, the gardens were beautiful at this time in the early summer. The cherry blossoms were in bloom and a sickly sweet scent filled my nose as I inhaled.
Suddenly a memory filled my head: a small red headed boy laughing as he caught a butterfly flying under the cherry tree, his smile was brilliant and carefree. Then, a little girl appeared, long dark hair billowed behind her as she ran to the boy and then suddenly hid behind the brush against the trunk of the tree. Her laughs were almost an echo as they continued to ring in my ears.
I stopped and furrowed my brows for a moment.
I don't remember that actually happening as a child?
"Huh," I shrugged, not really giving it a second thought and finally made my way to the door. I pushed the silver key into the lock then smiled as I heard the squeak of the ancient metal and turned the knob. As the door opened I could smell the faint dust coming from the foyer and watched as the sunlight streamed and illuminated the floating particles in the air.
A small familiar friend greeted me with a lazy grin.
"Hello Miles," I happily greeted.
Miles was my grandmothers golden retriever and my childhood friend. We had spent many summer days together while I visited as a child, it still surprises me today that he's made it this far. He's going to be 16 this year.
I patted his head and knelt down to kiss the top of his nose. I smiled, he smelt the same as he always did; a hint of spice and lavender.
"How have you been?" I asked him softly, running my fingers through his soft hair. He gave me a subtle bark and patted his paw along my bent knee. "I have missed you, too."
I got up and moved into the foyer, coming to a stop when I entered the sitting area; there was a picture of my grandmother sitting on a table filled with Tiger lilies, Orchids and mementoes. Her long silver hair blowing in the wind, a broad smile covering her face and the ocean in the back ground. This was from her vacation in Brazil, where she met Simon; her final husband. He died 2 years before she did, Renee and I believed her death came the way it did because she was lonely.
She had often looked out the garden windows and to the large 100 year old apple tree; where they had been joined in matrimony…..where Simon was buried. As I turned from the table and looked to my left I could also recall her playing the large grand piano sitting beside me and humming an old lullaby she said she heard as a child, it reminded her, quite accurately, of her feelings for her late husband. Often times though, the song morphed into a sorrowful clash of keys, almost as if her fingers weren't the ones playing, but of someone actually reaching out for help.
Now that I actually think back on the memory, I am beginning to think someone was asking for help.
So what do you think of the start to my new story…interested?
Review please.
Irene
