Tuesday 4 February 2014

Above the Vaulted Sky - Page 35

                The hallway is deserted and dark. I try to pinpoint features in the blackness but it takes a while for my sight to adjust.
                The well-trodden floor beneath my feet does not creak as I step on it, but I imagine it would if I were alive. The wall is lined with pictures of the man whose memory inhabits these walls. He enjoys life with his family, sits writing at an old roll-top desk, Robin Thacker looks content in life. A full life that emerges in his writing, in characters that feel like they can step from the page.
                I walk the hall, scared that I’ll set off an alarm. I smile, knowing that haunting a house didn’t really achieve such things. It is as though I’m not here. I can sit and read the hundred year old pages for as long as I wish, and no one will disturb me. As much as I want to, I know I can’t, I came here to complete a mission.
                As I pass what I assume used to be Thacker’s living room, converted into a small café for customers, I make a promise to come back here. Maybe in the daytime to share the experience with people. An experience shared improves it tenfold.
                It doesn’t take me long to find manuscripts. There is a whole room towards the back of the house with a series of long glass cases. I imagine it being dim during daylight to preserve the yellowing pages. Even at this hour of the night, the heating is turned up. I feel myself begin to sweat, but when I raise my hand to my brow, no moisture comes away with my hand.  I remember what Yates said about the tea. This is the memory of sweating. My mind knows I should, so I feel like I am.
                I walk through the room slowly, the carpet caressing the soles of my shoes. I wish I could spend more time here. Snippets of lines I recognize from his books leap out of the cases. I see that each page appears almost black, like it has been scribbled all over.
                For a moment I’m offended. Who would do such a thing? On closer inspection, nose pressed up against the glass without the hint of a breath, I see a spidery handwriting that can only be Thacker’s. He annotated all his books. I’m dying to read them, and explore beyond the pages on display.
                Quickly, I find what I’m looking for. The Alchemist. It has been at the back of my mind, following me through my introduction to the afterlife. As I read the lines at the top of the page opened, I know why and it seems far too obvious and more than a little unsettling.
                It is the story of a ghost.

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