The House Spirit.

​Trigger warning reference to death.

My body jolted. I inhaled sharply, rubbing the grit from my eyes as I rolled away from the wall and into the flat grey of the small room. I fumbled for my phone, the screen light flooding my face: 3:00 AM. I let out a heavy huff, my back hitting the mattress. Too early.

​I closed my eyes, waiting for sleep to reclaim me. Nothing. Instead, fragments of a dream ebbed and flowed: a winding road, rolling hills, and grass flattened by a relentless wind. I felt the cool, black window rubber under my chin and the rhythmic bump of the road rocking my sister’s bassinet. I turned and kneeled on the seat, looking toward the back of the station wagon. My older brother tucked a Rubik’s Cube into his parka. He aimed a finger at me, pulled a phantom trigger, and mouthed, “Boom.”

​The car accelerated with a sudden tug, then spluttered. My father cursed, straining to get the car to the crest of the hill. The sun vanished. Then—flames. I pressed my face to the glass; it was cold enough to mist with my breath. An old house stood in the distance, a glowing orange box-frame. I watched as it collapsed into heaps of flying sparks. A cattle truck roared past from the other direction, concealing the view.

​Scared, I pointed. “Mummy? Mummy, the house is gone!”

​She glanced back from the corner of her eye and spoke to my father, “Your son and his imagination!”

​My body jolted a second time. Still awake. Frustrated, I tossed my head against the pillow. Go back to sleep, I commanded. I shifted tactics, focusing on the mechanics of my breath. In and out. In and out. Finally, I felt the sweet relief of weightlessness as the bedroom walls dissolved into somewhere else.

​I was standing on an old, speckled terrazzo floor. The corridor was lined with thick, curved glass where my reflection morphed like liquid. The streets outside were a rush of anxious people, but here, there was only silent breath. Through a pane, I could make out a dull square of light, the vague outline of a shop counter, the wavy lines of a plush green chair, and a lone hat stand.

​Further down the hall, a woman’s laugh rang out as her lover cinched her close to kiss her behind the broad brim of his hat. I tipped my own hat with a smirk as they passed. The brass knob of the elevator was heavy and cold. A bell rang, the sound clunking through the air. The wooden door slid open and the car squeaked. A waiter in a crisp red vest manually pushed back the collapsible metal gate.

​“What floor, sir?”

“Three,” I replied.

​Like magic, I opened my palm; a gold key was there. The apartment entrance was modest, the walls a mushroom pink. On a low table sat a vase of yellow roses with a card: Maybe these will last longer than your promises. Call me!

​The kitchen was sparse and clinical—a few dishes, one pot, and the rattle of loose cutlery in a drawer. I sat on the lounge. The fabric was soft, worn into a hollow that fit my body like a tailored suit. I leaned into a throw rug that held a list of expensive perfumes: floral for Audrey, earthy musk for Melba, and the sharp, piercing citrus of Maria. In front of me, the morning paper was neatly folded on the coffee table. The date confirmed the decade: Sunday, June 9, 1940.

​Then something felt off. My eyes were pulled toward the spare room. The air there felt stagnant. I tried to ignore it, but unlike the rest of the apartment, that door was shut tight. I wiggled the knob until it gave way with a heavy, mechanical clunk. I kicked a doorstop under the frame; I couldn’t risk the latch catching.

​No window. It was a storage room, a labyrinth of dust, mildew, and forgotten things. Wooden chairs were unevenly stacked; a table sat buried under cardboard boxes and brittle, yellowed paper. I sneezed into a large handkerchief; my nose started to dribble. I looked up. The ceiling felt miles away, as if I were at the base of the Eiffel Tower. The floor began to tilt and sway like a surfboard on water and suddenly, the smell of old paper was choked out by something sharp and metallic—the acrid, biting sting of gunpowder and blood. Dizzy, I stumbled back through the lounge room sliding doors and out onto the balcony.

​The sun dropped. The light died.

​A third jolt. The walls were bright yellow now—the sun had returned. I squinted at my phone: 7:00 AM.

​I didn't wait for the shower to warm. I stood under the spray, shivering as the cold bit my skin. I reached into the wardrobe and grabbed the first things I touched: a red satin blouse and black plaid woolen pants. Who cares.

​I was breathless by the time I fought my way onto the bus. I swayed in the aisle, trying to tuck my blouse in with one hand while white-knuckling the overhead rail with the other. Momentarily, the image of the curved dream-glass intruded on my thoughts. I blinked, looking down to see my shoes scuffed and dull. Yuk!

​At my stop, I checked my watch. Only a few minutes left. A burst of laughter and the sound of a smacking kiss drifted from a passing car. My hair whooshed, escaping its loose band. What a mess. When I finally reached my desk, I stopped.

​Beside my keyboard sat a vase of yellow roses. The buttery petals and heavy, old-world scent triggered a sudden, honeyed ache in my stomach—a visceral, desperate pull toward a lover I didn't have.

​Lover? I hadn't even had coffee.

​I witnessed my fingers tremble as I reached for the card. Sttangely, my heart raced with phantom expectation. I flipped the card over.

“Congrats on the new baby!”

​“Huh? New baby?” I looked around, my voice dry. “Did someone here have a baby I don’t know about?”

​A few muffled “no”s and scattered laughter drifted over the cubicle walls. I stared at the roses; the image of the small pink apartment slipped into my mind.

​“Brenda,” I called, walking toward reception. “These might belong elsewhere.”

“Tah.” She looked at the roses and the card. “Hmm, could be floor three. I’ll ring the florist.”

​After a long day of deadlines, my head throbbed. I didn't want to think; I just wanted to outrun the migraine. I fell into bed and let sleep claim me.

​I am wandering barefoot on the roadside, the grass blowing. I reach the crest of a hill and see it—that house. I walk into the yard as the dry paspalum crunches underfoot. The heat pushes at me, heavy with the smell of earth and timber. That menacing salesperson in that red vest was there, waiting. We walk up the stairs like a bridal march and stood on the veranda.

​"This is the third time," I snapped, swishing a fly from my face as my voice echoed through the empty house. "I told you I didn't want to return here! Not now, not ever!"

​He didn't blink. Cunningly, he spoke: "Madame, if you must... I can open that door?"

​The lock clunked. He disappeared, but I still felt him behind me. I stepped inside. This was that storeroom. I sharpened; I knew this place. I moved past stacked chairs and old bed-ends. A lampshade, picture frames, and boxes were piled to the ceiling against a window of dirty glass.

​I reached for a box. It popped open. A tarnished frame corner poked out: a picture of a man in military dress and a woman in a hat holding a bouquet. Their eyes shone, but their smiles were sparse. I flipped it over. James and Maria Carrington. Wedding day, December 10, 1940.

​I woke up in a sweat. The names—James and Maria Carrington—and the date, December 10, 1940, were burned into my mind. I Googled them immediately. They existed. They were married on that exact day.

​I fired the names off to my sister. Can you find an address for these two? She replied during my lunch break: Why? What’s the big deal?

​Sorry, busy, I wrote back. Can you just look? I owe you one. I’ll even babysit.

​I checked my phone on the bus home. She’d attached a PDF and a link to a real estate archive: 34 Hamblin Road, Minden.

​The history was there in cold, digital text: 1970s fire; rebuilt to original 1920s frame. I scrolled through the PDF of James’s records. He’d died in action in France, 1942, most of his files redacted. There was one surviving child, a girl. I zoomed in on a grainy archival photo: a family in hand-colored garments, the baby in a yellow frock sitting stiffly on Maria’s lap. Maria had lived in that house until 2001.

​I Googled the address. My heart hammered. Family Estate For Sale. A stomach-honey ache of desire settled in me again. I almost cried with the relief of it. It felt like a long-lost lover returning—the exact, heavy weight of my dreams.

​I messaged my sister back: Well, Bob’s your uncle. Can we afford to take a look? I think the view will be wonderful, and I bet the layout will be perfect for all of us.