Ribbit

The library is patient. Unlike the kitchen, thriving on attention doesn’t suit the library. Although a place of storage, it’s certainly not the garage. Secrets are whispered from pages of books, but the library isn’t a place for intimacy like the bedroom. Libraries are elusive and independent, equally beckoning those eager for adventure and those who need a reprieve. This library, in this house, in this cozy neighborhood, within the geographical boundaries of Sioux City, is extraordinarily patient. For twenty five years, as room after room is refurbished to their glory, the library waited patiently. Finally, the wait is over.

Nola shakes off the cold as she shrugs off her scarf and coat. The warm air from the house fills her frigid lungs as she discards her winter gloves and hat. This coldness is usually reserved for February, not October. A slight moment of pause accompanies every entrance into this old home. The meticulously kept home fell into Nola’s hands with the passing of her grandfather. The house had been built in the late 19th century. Lovingly cared for through the decades, the Victorian escaped the sad fate of decrepitude. Many of her ancestors’ souls passed through these ornate wooden door frames. She knows if she can make her mark, take a bit of control of her surroundings, the space will transform. Slowly, over the years, Nola has done a bit of work here, a bit of work there, and one day she looked up and realized that last room left for renovation was the library.

The foyer is a perfect square of dark, ornate wood with the intricate, enchanting carvings of woodland creatures. Flanked on one end, of course, with the front door that encases an intricately sketched glass panel. The cut crystal lamp on the circular pedestal in the middle of the foyer emits a soft glow. Nola drifts through the foyer and around the corner into the kitchen. After a quick dinner, Nola decides it’s time to start the library. At the very least, come up with a plan. Nola thoroughly enjoys the process of restoring each room of the old home to its glory but the library holds nostalgia. Many idyllic days were spent in the library with her grandfather. More often than not, her grandfather would strum gentle tunes like “The Rainbow Connection” while she solved mysteries with Nancy Drew. The nostalgia that once tugged at her heartstrings has become a wound that seems impossible to heal. Nola walks towards the wide staircase and enjoys the feeling of the plush carpet beneath her bare feet. The last glimmer of dusk creeps through the large plantation shutters on the landing between the first and second floors. Nola reminded herself to leave a light on tomorrow night. She doesn’t like ascending into darkness. Two chairs between a table with a hurricane lamp anchored the landing and she quickly turns the lamp on. The second door on the left ushers visitors into the library. Fifteen seconds since last scolding herself, Nola chides herself again for not having a light closer to the door. The pitch black room houses one lamp in the far corner. Halfway across the room, Nola stops. The hair on the back of her neck stands up. A chill sweeps from her head to her toes. She hadn’t heard anything. No bumps in the night or eerie whistling through the walls. Just a sense that someone, something, is watching her. Three more steps, quickly, and she flicks on the table lamp. The room is awash with lighting reminiscent of a carnival. Her grandfather adored stained glass and nearly every lampshade in the library is crafted with it. Nola usually loved the stained glass but tonight it looked like an eerie rainbow bouncing off the dark shutters.

She could almost hear her grandfather singing, “Rainbows are visions, but only illusions and rainbows have nothing to hide.” Startled, Nola’s eyes popped open while simultaneously scanning the room. She hears a noise, and for the briefest moment, a static mumbling, as if a radio is on but in between stations. Attempting to return her focus to the room, Nola quickly compiles an inventory of things to work on: refinish the shelving, new paint, new flooring, and claiming the number one spot on the to do list: new lighting.

With great reluctance, Nola goes to the paint store. While she loves painting, she can never decide on a color and ends up going back multiple times to find just the right shade. A project that should be fun quickly devolves into frustration. She knows she won’t be satisfied until the perfect color is picked and she resolves herself to multiple trips to the hardware store. Through the frustration of perfectionism, Nola begins to enjoy spending time in the library. She decides on ornate hardware for the lamps and fixtures. Several weeks pass as she sands and polishes the hardwood floors, installs the ornate hardware

It’s between shades of sage and eucalyptus that oddities begin to occur. It starts in the kitchen. Vanishings. A bottle of water or two here. A few missing yogurts there. But then, on a particularly chilly, morning, while in the midst of a steaming shower, Nola realizes her shampoo is gone. Gone. Quickly stepping out of the steaming shower, she grabs a new shampoo from under the sink. Her mind races. She’s been so busy with the renovation of the library, maybe she just forgot that she had used up the shampoo and thrown it out. Maybe she just forgot to include shampoo on her grocery list. Maybe. She freezes. Nola hears static, the same as before. Turning off the shower, Nola wraps herself in her towel, and quietly walks into her bedroom. Standing. Waiting. It’s a stand off between her and this imaginary “thing” that she cannot even describe, but is certain that it exists. She waits. Nola begins to feel foolish. This is absurdity. Obviously she didn’t hear anything. There is nothing, and no one, in the house. Disgusted with herself for letting her mind run wild, Nola returns to the bathroom to finish her shower.

It was around this time, when items begin to disappear, that Nola invites her friend, Savannah, over to see the progress on the library. Savannah is amazed. Simple work often goes unnoticed to the worker. Nola had poured weeks into this room. She wanted it to be flawless. Savannah gushes about the lush, emerald green walls with bronze fixtures on the lamps and the desk. The dark oak shelves are shined to perfection and the new carpeting adds a layer of luxury. The library has a sliding ladder to access the top shelves. Savannah remarks how much it reminded her of a hideaway. Truly, a magical room.

“Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Savannah is clueless as to what Nola is hearing.

“Nothing. Just an old house making noises. I never get used to it.”

Later that evening, Nola stops by the library before going to bed. She wishes that she was further along in this process. There wasn’t much more to do and yet there was everything to do. That’s when Nola heard singing, so soft, accompanied by the sounds of a harp:

“Who said that every wish would be heard and answered?”

It sounded like it was emitting from an old music box, the type with the key in the back that you turn and turn and then let go and beautiful music, usually accompanied by a spinning ballerina, begins to play. It was so faint that it was almost inaudible. Nola listened. As abruptly as the music began, it stopped.

Shaken, Nola walked downstairs to the kitchen. Preparing a cup of tea, she considers that maybe she spends too much time alone in this big house. She is so rattled that Nola fails to notice that half of her tea bags have disappeared. Nola decides that tomorrow she would get out and go into town.

Visiting the local shops seems to have cured the oddities at home. A relative period of peace ensues and Nola completes the library’s final touches. No longer hearing bumps in the night or spooky sounds, Nola relaxes. She even begins to plan her next project: landscaping. The house sits on about an acre of land. Several landscaping features have fallen into disarray and deserve a revival. The problem is the weather. It’s late October and the cold has become frigid. Nola has no desire to wander outside. The exterior of the house needs a refresh as well but there are so many windows, let alone doors, that it’s overwhelming. The fence needs paint, the shrubs need clearing, and the locks on the exterior doors to be replaced. That’s the problem with old houses: it’s easy to overlook the most obvious problems in favor of the more attractive ones. The list grows as the end of October looms.

Halloween draws the occult out of ordinary citizens. Nola is not surprised when Savannah suggests a gathering of friends for the festivities but is more than surprised when Savannah starts suggesting activities. Ouija board? Crystals? Séance? Nola is amused that Savannah even knows what these words mean as she’s never known Savannah to be a follower of the mystical. This year is different. On a whim, Savannah decided to up her literature game and began reading classics. She’s obsessed with the life and writings of Mary Shelley so a séance it is.

A week later, Nola sat in a circle with Savannah, Carolina, and Marianna. The moment arrives: Lights dimmed, candles lit, and a circle formed. It’s at this moment that a realization occurs: None of these women know how to conduct a séance. Manic laughter ensues.. A loud noise, as if something is banging on the library door, and Nola jumps. Everyone stares. No one else appears to have heard the loud knocking. Creatively excusing herself, Nola shakily walks to the library door and opens it. Nothing. It’s just old houses, nothing more.

Moving to the kitchen, the friends enjoy wine and Halloween themed treats. As Nola bids her visitors adieu, she hears it. This time is different. This time, the voice says her name, followed by an all too familiar lyric:

“Have you been half asleep? And have you heard voices?”

For the first time, Nola is not frightened of an unknown entity. She is frightened of herself.

In the next several days, events turn as rapidly as the fall leaves. A humming at night, static during the day, a lull of faint music on a weekend morning. Her brain begins to play tricks. Didn’t she have a loaf of bread? Or did she eat that last week? Around and around, her mind races and goes nowhere, like the horses on a carousel.

Nola opens up to the one person she fully trusts, her therapist. Nola expects her therapist to advise her to sell the house and move on. There’s no point in living in misery. Instead, the therapist’s recommendation recoils Nola: a visit to a psychiatrist might be wise.

As is customary on Tuesdays, Nola calls her mother. Placing her on speaker phone as she begins laundry, the usual pleasantries are exchanged. Immediately, her mother can sense that something is terribly off with Nola. She’s inattentive, forgetful, and nervous. After hearing about her mother’s water aerobics and azaleas, Nola works up the courage to tell her mother what is going on with the house. She begins by emphasizing her love and pride in the house and her work, but the conversation devolves into the noises and, more concerning, the voices. Quietly, her mother agrees with the therapist. Nola sobs. She tells her mother that she’s not crazy. Maybe this house driven her to the edge but she hasn’t lost her mind. These things are happening. Nola’s mother reminds her that there is no shame in getting a second opinion. Heartbroken, Nola agrees.

Three days later, Nola’s appointment begins right on schedule. An hour and a half of being peppered with questions, Nola’s head is spinning. She is utterly exhausted and desperate for an answer. The psychiatrist cannot provide what Nola needs. There is nothing groundbreaking is discovered. Generalized anxiety disorder with panic attacks. Nola begins medication.

The house no longer holds memory and pride. Instead, it houses fear and uncertainty. Nola discusses selling the house. Many sleepless nights and countless tears later, she decides on a realtor. The house goes on the market. Less than a month later, there are offers on the table. A home inspector visits. Impressed by the mansion, he only comes back with one finding: There was a mat, blanket, water and food, and a music box in the attic along with a note:

Nola,

Thank you for letting me stay in your attic. I had nowhere to go in the cold.

I never meant to scare you.

You’re not crazy. I left after I heard the phone call with your mother.

Hopping along,

Kermit the Phrog