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The Leftover Pizza
Not again, I thought to myself, rolling my eyes toward the heavens. I quickly shut the fridge door, making the bottles inside quiver. Opening the cabinet under the sink, I peered into the garbage and found the missing pizza box I was certain I left in the fridge the night before. Sighing, I pulled the warped, oil-stained box out and set it on the counter. Flattening out the soggy cardboard, I flipped open the lid, cringing at the stale smell of say-old cheese now mixed with garbage. Instead of seeing the three sliced of ham and pineapple pizza that should have been waiting for me, all I found was three unwanted crusts and some crumbs.
This was the third time in the last two weeks this had happened. Exhausted from a long day of work, I wanted nothing more than to veg on leftovers while rotting my brain watching mind numbing reality TV. Instead, I was met with an empty fridge.
Yanking my phone from my pocket I sent Rachel, my sister, a scathing text threatening bodily harm and retribution.
While I waited for her to respond, I trudged tiredly upstairs to my bathroom and started the shower. Stripping off my scrubs, I eagerly stepped into the steaming hot shower, letting the water pound my back and wash the sterile hospital smell from my body. After changing, I went back to the living room and flopped down on the sofa just as my guilty pleasure show, 90 Day Fiance, began.
I had just settled in when I heard keys jingle in the front door, followed by my older sister waltzing into the room, acting innocent as could be. Which was impressive, considering the deadly glare I was aiming her way.
“You don’t even like pineapple on pizza,” I argued at her before she could come up with some lie to defend herself again.
“Exactly, which is why I didn’t eat your pizza, or the curry from Tuesday, or the chinese from last week. You really need to stop eating out, and starting taking better care of yourself by the way. But seriously, I didn’t take your food, I swear,” my sister promised.
“You must have, or it must have been Dave. I know he stayed over last night.” Actually, my sister’s boyfriend Dave was here so often it was basically like having anther housemate.
“It wasn’t him either. Look, I know this sounds crazy,” Rachel began, pausing nervously for a few seconds, “but I think this place might be haunted,” she blurted out.
“You’re right, that does sound crazy.”
My sister quickly grabbed my arm before I could stand up. “Look, I’ve noticed other weird things besides the food. Like things not being where I left them or missing entirely. And sometimes, I feel like I can hear footsteps on the the roof at night,” Rachel confessed in a whisper.
“That’s just called being forgetful, and weird sounds are part of living in an old house. Now, stop eating my food!” I demanded again, wrenching my arm from her grip.
Looking back, I really should have listened to my sister.
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The Watch
EPushing on the old, chipped door, I cringed as the rusty hinges squeaked their displeasure at being moved.
I carefully looked around the tidy room. I noticed the dresser that’s top drawer lay slightly open. The vanity table against the opposite wall with a few different makeup products left on top. The large, four poster bed in the centre of the room with a t-shirt thrown on top. Finally, I let my gaze rest on the nightstand where my grandparents smiled at me from a small 5x7 frame.
Clutching my sister’s note tightly in my hand, I slowly walked over to the bed and lay down. Trying to delay my task for as long as possible, I brought the paper up to my face and re-read it once more.
Tara,
I know this has been an extremely difficult time for you. I know how close you were to both Nana and Papa, but it’s been a year since they passed and four months since we moved in. I know you don’t want to do this, but I think it will help you process and begin moving on. Take the next week to get started, Dave and I decided to stay at his place this week so you could have some time to yourself.
All the moving boxes are in their room already. Please do this, not for me, but for Nana and Papa. They wouldn’t want to see you so sad. They would want you to live the best possible life you can. Live for them, Tara.
Love, Rachel xx
youtube
Epitaph. “Eric Clapton - Tears In Heaven (Official Video)”. Online video clip. Youtube. July 22, 2010.
Being honest with myself, I knew my sister was right, but packing up all of Nana and Papa’s things felt so final. It would mean accepting that they were really gone. I had been putting off cleaning their room because I thought, childishly, that if I kept their room exactly the way it had been, then it would be like they were coming back. But I could feel the emptiness sitting here now. It wasn’t keeping them alive at all, it was just keeping me from accepting the reality of the situation.
Getting up, I slowly began packing items into the boxes my sister had left. It was a slow process, as I silently shed tears over certain items and memories. I finally broke down completely when I was at the last item, my grandfather’s watch.
It was nothing special really, just a plain silver watch with a gold accent around the face. It wasn’t fancy or expensive, but my grandpa always had it on. What made it special was hoes he would come up with the most elaborate stories detailing how he got the watch, they were always completely ridiculous and unbelievable but it had us all in stitches by the end every time. The real story still remained a mystery to me.
Setting the watch carefully back down, I decided I had packed enough for the day.
The next afternoon when I walked into the room, I noticed the watch had been moved, and one of the boxes of Papa’s clothes looked rifled through. Thinking there had to be some logical explanation, I immediately called my sister. After confirming with her that she hadn’t been back home, a chill went down my spine.
Maybe Rachel had been right about the whole ghost thing after all.
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The Candy Wrappers
Over the next week, I took notice of every strange occurrence and noise around the house. I started noticing that if I left food out on the counter overnight, some or all of it would disappear by morning. I noticed lights I turned off, on again when I got home. At night, I even began to hear the footsteps my sister had told me about.
One night as I was walking up to bed, I contemplated who to contact in this type of situation. The authorities? A priest? I was completely out of my depth.
I was about to turn towards my room when something caught my eye from the other end of the hall. Turning towards the object, I looked down and saw...wrappers. Two silver candy wrappers crinkled up like they’d been tossed on the ground.
Searching around me for where they could have come from, I turned to the right and noticed the door leading to the attic was slightly ajar. That was strange since no one ever went up there. My grandparent’s had only used it for storage. Honestly, it had always given me the creeps.
Steeling myself, I slowly opened the door, taking a moment to let my eyes adjust to the dark. I found more wrappers, as well as a trail of mud and leaves leading up the stairs to the attic.
After slowly looking around at all the evidence, I started chuckling to myself. Of course it wasn’t a ghost. Some critters, probably raccoons, must have just gotten into the house through the window in the attic.
Climbing the stairs, I rolled my eyes at how dumb I had been to start believing a ghost was haunting the house. However, when I reached the top, I stopped dead in my tracks.
A stained, lumpy mattress, a table with a plate from the kitchen, and a pile of Papa’s clothes in the corner. I found all this and more crammed into the small space of the attic.
Before I could even register what I was seeing, the window on the far side of the room slid open and a leg appeared, followed by another, and then a body and head squeezed through. Within seconds, I came face to face with a tall, bearded stranger.
It’s weird, I had always imagined that everything would happen at hyper speed in these types of situations. Instead, time seemed to slow down, and my brain noticed the smallest, most insignificant details. Like the fact that the man was wearing my Papa’s clothes, but they were too small for him. Or that his beard seemed quite unkempt.
These were the thoughts that went through my head in the two seconds it took for the man to notice me.
Putting his hands up slowly, he began pleading, “wait, I’m sorry. I had nowhere to go and no one was living here when I started staying he-”
Before he could finish, I was taking off back down the stairs and slamming the door shut. Leaning against the door and panting heavily, one thought came to mind.
I guess my sister was wrong about the ghost.
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The Attic - Louis van Lint ,1943.
Belgian, 1909-1986
oil on canvas, 65 x 54 cm
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