SHORT STORY
A surge of emotion rushes through me as I stand outside the black wrought iron double gates
and look up at the house where I grew up. The faded cream Fibro paneling and the overgrown
lawn give the property a dilapidated look, and the dirty windowpanes are like mournful eyes that
gaze down at me.
As I walk up the cracked stone steps, they creak and shudder under my feet, and I hesitate in
fear of the insecure foundations. When I reach the top, I am greeted by a toddler with wispy
blonde hair that is tied up in a fountain-like ponytail on top of her head. She is just learning to
walk, and her chubby face is wreathed in smiles as she wavers on unsteady feet, while her
mother, with pride shining in her eyes, stands behind and leans over her daughter, her strong
hands firmly gripping the child’s tiny dimpled hands. They fade away and once more the landing
is empty.
A tall Jacaranda tree grows on the other side of the patio, its tubular flowers gently fall and
cover the concrete like a purple carpet. Suddenly the tree sways slightly, and a teenage girl
climbs over the waist-high black metal fence that surrounds the patio. She lets go of the sturdy
but gnarled tree trunk and alights safely onto the concrete. Her pale face is sprinkled with
freckles, and she pushes back her short tousled blonde hair to reveal mischievous blue/grey
eyes. She winks at me boldly and then dashes past me to run down the steps.
With a deep breath, I unlock the front door, and as I push it open a musty smell of dust assaults
my senses. The mantelpiece that used to display countless family photographs is empty. As I
enter the kitchen, I close my eyes and can almost smell the marmalade and mulberry jam that
used to bubble away in large saucepans on the stove, filled with fruit that was sourced directly
from our orchard and mulberry tree.
Creaking floorboards echo my footsteps as I enter my bedroom, a secret sanctum where hopes
and dreams were born and cherished. In the corner of the room, a fresh-faced child curls up
against plump pink and white pillows in a snug warm bed and she is surrounded by golden
brown teddy bears and other cuddly toys. Her face is illuminated by the soft warm glow of the
lamp on the bedside table, and her eyes shine as she reads thrilling tales of adventure, where
dashing princes rescue beautiful damsels in distress, a detective who solved crimes with
remarkable skills of detection, and stories of the macabre and mysterious. But as night slips into
day the child fades and in the far corner, a Rapunzel-haired girl sits at a dressing table; the
gilded mirror shows a girlish visage with eyes bright, but superimposed with a maturing face and
grey-blue eyes that darken with flickering shadows.
Through the window, a young girl plays in the backyard, and I watch her as she soars on a
swing higher and higher. A multitude of voices laughing taunt each other, followed by an
exuberant splashing of water from the above-ground pool as friends enjoy some relief on a long
blisteringly hot Australian summer's day. Tears prick at my eyes as a small black and white dog
races madly around the yard and then returns to frolic at a young girl’s feet. She laughs and
leans over to pat him, and his tail thumps against the ground in a frenzy.
My tryst with the past leads me back to the family room. Clothed in white a child twists and twirls
like a ballerina underneath a sparkling chandelier. Faster and faster she spins until she is dizzy
and she collapses in a gurgle of giggles on the thick red carpet.
In the corner of the living room, a Christmas tree with red, green, and silver tinsel and gold and
blue baubles reflect the twinkling fairy lights that pulse in time with classic Christmas carols. The
sweet fruity aroma of a Christmas cake floods the room as a woman enters the family room and
places a cake on a dining table that is almost invisible under a banquet of festive food.
These bright and happy images vanish, and in their place, a growing darkness spreads
throughout the house. In dismay, I stagger backward and rush in a blind panic to the front door.
My fingers tremble as I fumble at the door handle, but it refuses to respond to my touch.
As I turn my head to look back toward the living room, shadowy figures crowd the room, while
others are black. Some of the figures are small and they crowd together, and others stand
alone. They reach out for me but I shrink back.
I shake the door handle and when it springs open, I stagger outside, and fresh, fragrant air fills
my lungs. I slam the door shut, hoping I can trap the spectres within the house.
Once I am in the street, I shut and lock the gates. For the last time, I gaze up at the house and
say goodbye to those images of the past that are now safely confined within the realm of
memory.