Lisa was beautiful.
Well, I was told she was beautiful.
I was told she was beautiful and yet, I cannot conjure her face to memory. I was too childish. Too preoccupied with the ghost children that roamed the grounds by the monstrous tree.
I call them ghost children because my mind is conflicted, as to if I was living in reality, or witnessing another plane of existence entirely. The ghost children had no names and no faces. No distinguished features. No distinct form. They were an unfinished sketch. Outlined, but never detailed. Hazy shapes and colors never shaded in, never completed. If I saw one of them tomorrow there would be no recollection, no moment of epiphany. Just another faceless passerby.
I can’t remember them. The dog maybe. The great big dalmatian that played under the monstrous tree, barking when the spirits ran too fast. Yes, I might remember him.
I saw blurred children varying of age led by a girl older than me. I remember she was soft; her voice was quiet but serene, and atop her head was a halo of strawberry tinted curls. Her silhouette was the most memorable. She was the only girl among the children and was excited to see another feminine child. Excited to see me. She gathered all the ghost children and led us to the second level of the house of modesty.
The staircase was wide and wooden. Four people could climb a step side by side at one time. The wood had expanded from moisture and overuse, creaking ominously if one-stepped incorrectly. The railings were smooth and soft from repeated use. This was the first aspect of the house that felt real. Images of hands sliding against the wood for decades flickered through my mind like a slide show. Swirling fingertips distorting the railing one touch at a time. Physical proof, that I was somewhere. Adding to the history I left my fingerprint.
The ghost children climbed the stairs with practiced confidence undeterred by the squeaking splintered wood. Following behind them I ascended. Leaving Lisa behind.
– Liz Larsen
The Junction Journal 