There was a loud banging downstairs, like one of the children had climbed out of bed and was pounding on pots and pans. Jesse rolled over, groaning, and nudged his wife.
"Hmm..." she mumbled, rolling away from him. He rubbed his eyes and propped himself up on an elbow. The sun was streaming through the bay window of their bedroom, the smell of sea salt, ever present in their coastal Maine home, drifted past him and the banging seemed to increase.
"Honey," he murmured, leaning over and kissing her earlobe. She smiled, bumping her body into his and curling up further into the blankets. Smiling, he kissed her again and threw his legs over the edge of the bed.
His fuzzy slippers seemed to have disappeared and he swung himself, precariously, over the edge to glance under the bed. Oddly, there was no cat under the bed, her usual play place completely abandoned, and there were no slippers. Lifting himself back onto the bed, he glanced at the clock. It was only seven, the kids usually didn't wake up until nine or so. For a moment he considered flopping back onto the bed and just let the children do as they would, but the banging grew louder and there was no way he would go back to sleep now.
He yawned and stretched, scratching at himself a bit as he shuffled to the bathroom. A quick glance in the mirror showed him that he was in desperate need of a shave. Not that Abby minded his five o'clock shadow. He splashed some water on his face and thrust his fingers through the tangle of his brown hair. It was too early for the day to start like this, he thought, being careful to watch for toys on the stairs.
Everything became very quiet as he reached the second to last step. He half expected to hear little voices whispering, giggles or something, coming from the kitchen. Rounding a corner, he saw that the kitchen was empty and strangely clean. It wasn't that his wife kept a messy house, but with five children it was hard to keep things spotless. Except, the kitchen looked pristine, almost sterile. Had Abby stayed up all night cleaning?
He swung open the refrigerator door, expecting to grab a carton of milk, and gaped in shock. The fridge was not only barren, but it was not plugged in either. Cocking his head to the side, he closed the door, counted to ten and opened it again. It was still empty. He jumped when he heard the banging again. It sounded like it was coming from outside, but when he glanced out the window he didn't see anything.
He walked down the carpeted hallway toward the children's rooms, a feeling he couldn't quite explain settling in his bones, his feet no longer shuffling. He opened the door to Jack's room, expecting to bump into one of his son's elaborately laid out train tracks, but the room was bare. The walls, once painted with train cars, were white-washed and the furniture was gone. For a moment, all he could do was stare in horror, then he stumbled out and practically flew to the other children's rooms.
All five rooms stood barren, all the furniture gone and all the walls painted over. There were no children, no toys, no cat, no slippers, no food. Nothing. Reeling, Jesse slumped against the door frame, unable to process what was happening. Then, with a jolt, he ran toward the living room. The banging sound had returned, always just out of sight and, with it, he began to hear voices. Almost colliding with a built in shelf, he slid across the wooden floor and into the living room. A few pieces of furniture were covered with sheets and the door was wide open. He ran to the door and leaned out, glancing all around. At the end of the drive way he could see men, in paint splattered moving uniforms, loading furniture into a truck marked "Happy Harry's Moving and Painting."
"Hey!" he cried, waving his arms at the men. "Hey! You can't do that! Stop!"
The men seemed oblivious, continuing to move the furniture into the truck. Jesse tried to dash at them, but made it two steps off the porch before he felt something stop him. He punched at the invisible barrier, screaming at the moving men. He beat his fists against the air, ranting, tears streaming down his cheeks. Having heard the commotion, Abby came up behind him, her bathrobe wrapped about her and her face very pale.
"Jesse," she said, putting a hand on his shoulder. "What's going on? Who are those men?"
"I don't know," he shouted, not turning to look at his wife, still pounding against the barricade.
"Honey, stop, please!" she cried, hugging him from behind. Leaning against the unseen wall, he sighed.
Gently, he undid her hold on him and turned so that he could hug her. They held each other for a moment, before they walked back into the house. What furniture was left in the living room was covered in white sheets, presumably to protect them from the painting that was going on. The wallpaper had been stripped from the walls and everything had been painted a shimmering shade of white. All the pictures were gone, all the cabinets empty. They sat across from each other on the kitchen floor, facing each other, but not looking at each other.
"I don't understand what's happening." said Abby, tears streaming down her face. She had pulled her knees up to her chest, something she hadn't done since she was a teenager. She kept imagining the faces of her children as they played on the beach, their faces shining in the sunlight.
They could hear the men working, coming in and out, shuffling the furniture. The smell of paint hung in the air, fighting with the clean smell of the sea. Slowly, the house became empty, as empty as the day they bought it. The men talked as they moved the furniture, laughing or arguing, it was hard to tell which.
"Do you remember when we bought this place?" asked Jesse, looking intently at an oaken cabinet door.
"I remember." replied Abby, a small smile escaping. "You danced with me, twirling me across the wooden floor and you even dipped me."
"You were pregnant with Kait, at the time. I wanted to make you happy."
She was quiet for a moment, reveling in memories, before looking at her husband, tears shimmering on her lashes.
"I've always been happy with you." she said. He motioned for her and she scooted across the floor to him, curling up in his arms. He stroked her hair, in a soothing way, holding her closely.
"What happened here, Max?" asked a voice.
"Carbon Monoxide poisoning. Took the whole family." replied a voice.
The ghosts sat on the floor, not talking, listening to the sounds of their world collapsing.
"Hmm..." she mumbled, rolling away from him. He rubbed his eyes and propped himself up on an elbow. The sun was streaming through the bay window of their bedroom, the smell of sea salt, ever present in their coastal Maine home, drifted past him and the banging seemed to increase.
"Honey," he murmured, leaning over and kissing her earlobe. She smiled, bumping her body into his and curling up further into the blankets. Smiling, he kissed her again and threw his legs over the edge of the bed.
His fuzzy slippers seemed to have disappeared and he swung himself, precariously, over the edge to glance under the bed. Oddly, there was no cat under the bed, her usual play place completely abandoned, and there were no slippers. Lifting himself back onto the bed, he glanced at the clock. It was only seven, the kids usually didn't wake up until nine or so. For a moment he considered flopping back onto the bed and just let the children do as they would, but the banging grew louder and there was no way he would go back to sleep now.
He yawned and stretched, scratching at himself a bit as he shuffled to the bathroom. A quick glance in the mirror showed him that he was in desperate need of a shave. Not that Abby minded his five o'clock shadow. He splashed some water on his face and thrust his fingers through the tangle of his brown hair. It was too early for the day to start like this, he thought, being careful to watch for toys on the stairs.
Everything became very quiet as he reached the second to last step. He half expected to hear little voices whispering, giggles or something, coming from the kitchen. Rounding a corner, he saw that the kitchen was empty and strangely clean. It wasn't that his wife kept a messy house, but with five children it was hard to keep things spotless. Except, the kitchen looked pristine, almost sterile. Had Abby stayed up all night cleaning?
He swung open the refrigerator door, expecting to grab a carton of milk, and gaped in shock. The fridge was not only barren, but it was not plugged in either. Cocking his head to the side, he closed the door, counted to ten and opened it again. It was still empty. He jumped when he heard the banging again. It sounded like it was coming from outside, but when he glanced out the window he didn't see anything.
He walked down the carpeted hallway toward the children's rooms, a feeling he couldn't quite explain settling in his bones, his feet no longer shuffling. He opened the door to Jack's room, expecting to bump into one of his son's elaborately laid out train tracks, but the room was bare. The walls, once painted with train cars, were white-washed and the furniture was gone. For a moment, all he could do was stare in horror, then he stumbled out and practically flew to the other children's rooms.
All five rooms stood barren, all the furniture gone and all the walls painted over. There were no children, no toys, no cat, no slippers, no food. Nothing. Reeling, Jesse slumped against the door frame, unable to process what was happening. Then, with a jolt, he ran toward the living room. The banging sound had returned, always just out of sight and, with it, he began to hear voices. Almost colliding with a built in shelf, he slid across the wooden floor and into the living room. A few pieces of furniture were covered with sheets and the door was wide open. He ran to the door and leaned out, glancing all around. At the end of the drive way he could see men, in paint splattered moving uniforms, loading furniture into a truck marked "Happy Harry's Moving and Painting."
"Hey!" he cried, waving his arms at the men. "Hey! You can't do that! Stop!"
The men seemed oblivious, continuing to move the furniture into the truck. Jesse tried to dash at them, but made it two steps off the porch before he felt something stop him. He punched at the invisible barrier, screaming at the moving men. He beat his fists against the air, ranting, tears streaming down his cheeks. Having heard the commotion, Abby came up behind him, her bathrobe wrapped about her and her face very pale.
"Jesse," she said, putting a hand on his shoulder. "What's going on? Who are those men?"
"I don't know," he shouted, not turning to look at his wife, still pounding against the barricade.
"Honey, stop, please!" she cried, hugging him from behind. Leaning against the unseen wall, he sighed.
Gently, he undid her hold on him and turned so that he could hug her. They held each other for a moment, before they walked back into the house. What furniture was left in the living room was covered in white sheets, presumably to protect them from the painting that was going on. The wallpaper had been stripped from the walls and everything had been painted a shimmering shade of white. All the pictures were gone, all the cabinets empty. They sat across from each other on the kitchen floor, facing each other, but not looking at each other.
"I don't understand what's happening." said Abby, tears streaming down her face. She had pulled her knees up to her chest, something she hadn't done since she was a teenager. She kept imagining the faces of her children as they played on the beach, their faces shining in the sunlight.
They could hear the men working, coming in and out, shuffling the furniture. The smell of paint hung in the air, fighting with the clean smell of the sea. Slowly, the house became empty, as empty as the day they bought it. The men talked as they moved the furniture, laughing or arguing, it was hard to tell which.
"Do you remember when we bought this place?" asked Jesse, looking intently at an oaken cabinet door.
"I remember." replied Abby, a small smile escaping. "You danced with me, twirling me across the wooden floor and you even dipped me."
"You were pregnant with Kait, at the time. I wanted to make you happy."
She was quiet for a moment, reveling in memories, before looking at her husband, tears shimmering on her lashes.
"I've always been happy with you." she said. He motioned for her and she scooted across the floor to him, curling up in his arms. He stroked her hair, in a soothing way, holding her closely.
"What happened here, Max?" asked a voice.
"Carbon Monoxide poisoning. Took the whole family." replied a voice.
The ghosts sat on the floor, not talking, listening to the sounds of their world collapsing.
