Graphite and Sawdust - Ch. 2

Chapter 2 - Watching

Oliver

  By now, it's instinct to go to my hiding spot when people are in the house. Even though they can't see me, and they won't see me, it's just easier to hid than to there with them looking right through me.   However, after a few long minutes of silence from downstairs, I decide it's probably safe to come out. I creep from my hiding spot, close the door soundlessly behind me, and float to the attic door. 

   Yeah. Float. You didn't read that wrong. 

  I normally don't, since it's not like I have to. I just prefer to do so when people are in the house, so my footsteps don't scare them. Since, y'know, they can't exactly see me, and that would be unnatural.   It''s one of the perks of being what I am - whatever I am. I feel like I'm as close to a ghost as I can be. I'm visible when I want to be. At least, I think so. I can see myself in mirrors and whatever. I try not to let people see me. Sometimes I can touch stuff, but it usually takes a lot of concentration. I can open doors, since, no, I can't go through them. I can touch objects, but not people. At least, I don't think I can. Since I tried last time, I haven't had any desire to try to touch a human again. 

  I open the attic door as slowly and softly as I can and shut it in the same manner before drifting down the attic stairs. 

  Peering down into the foyer, I see a woman pacing on the stone floor. It's the same woman I've seen here many times, the landlady. I've never tried to make contact with her. In fact, I haven't tried that in years. Even if I did, I wouldn't do it to her. She already seems fidgety enough, so she doesn't need me breathing down her neck. I'm about to go back to the attic when a cold thought shivers through me. 

  Crap. Crap. 
  Did I lock my room?
  As soon as it crosses my mind, a knock sounds through the house. I instinctively duck away, pressing myself against the wall of the upstairs hallway as the woman, after some hesitation, opens the door. In the flurry of anxious thoughts rushing around in my head, I miss the first words of the woman's greeting to the person on the other side of the door. I'm only brought out of my daze when a new voice, one I've never heard, enters the house.
  The voice, light, airy, English, echoes in my mind. It holds a warmth that makes it seem familiar and comfortable to anyone who hears it. It doesn't surprise me, really. The landlady has brought people here to look at the house before, trying to get someone to sell it to. However I have a feeling that when this foreigner gets a look at the music room, they'll be out the door in no time.
   "Mind clear, Oliver," I think to myself, "Focus. You have to lock your room."
  But I can't. Not with them in the foyer. I wait around, willing them to leave the general vicinity of the downstairs hallway. I accidentally forget to remain floating, slowly drifting down until my right foot rests on the floor, making the wood beneath it creak. I'm instantly in the air again, hoping my unwanted visitors don't think anything of the sound.
  Then I hear them coming up the stairs. 
  I flatten myself closer against the wall, if possible. The landlady and guest pass by me easily on their way to the attic, and I take a glance at them as they do. I catch a glimpse of dark orange hair before the pair disappear into the upper level of the house.
  I hurry downstairs and through the hall, straight to the door of my room. I test the knob, finding it unlocked. Relieved that I remembered in time, I let out a small whoosh of air. I tug a thin cord from around my neck, a key dangling at the end of it. I slide the key into the lock and turn, securing the door and the secrets behind it.
  I stop floating now, too overcome with relief to keep it up. I sit Indian-style on the stone of the hallway, listening to my unwanted guests walk around upstairs. Deciding that the risk would be greater to try to sneak past them, I opt for waiting it out. I lean back against my door and close my eyes.
  They're back downstairs sooner than I expect. The woman speaks to the guest, explaining the layout of the house. They stroll down the hallway, having seen the living room. I stand up, realizing I'm in the path to the kitchen door. I take a few steps back towards the stairs when the pair turn the come into view.
  My eyes widen when they land on the guest. It's just a girl. She couldn't be any older than I suggest myself to be. Her hair hangs in slightly uneven waves just above her shoulders, the orange bright against the grey of her jacket. I stop myself from sucking in a breath as she reaches out, nearly shoving her hand right through me. I move just in time, watching her hand close around the doorknob to my room. She tries it, unsuccessfully, and I can't see her face because I'm halfway to the stairs by now.
I hear the woman reply to the girl's confusion brought on by my room. "Oh, that door has been locked ever since my mother owned the place."
Yup, and it's gonna stay that way so long as you two are in here.
I'm about to head upstairs when I notice them about to step into the music room. I shouldn't. I know I shouldn't, but curiosity gets the better of me. I want to see how this girl reacts to it.
I drift after them, following behind the girl as she enters the room. As soon as I'm in, I float up to the tall ceiling, just in case one of the two women decide they want to step through me.
I watch the girl as she looks around the room, wall to wall, a pleasant look of awe gracing her face. Her gaze lands on the bay window, or whatever is left of it.
I don't get the reaction I've grown used to.
"Oh dear," the girl breathes, but her voice doesn't even hint at distress. It carries a strange, lingering amazement. She steps toward the gap, and I can't help but drift closer to her. It's not as if she can see me anyway.
I wonder now what on earth she could be doing here. She can't be older than a college student. Now, up close, I notice her more minute details. Light freckles form galaxies along the bridge of her nose, her cheeks, the edges of her forehead. Amber eyes gaze forward, sparkling with something so like enchantment. I take a short breath and move away a bit, out of her proximity.
Floating back, I'm filled with a new relief. She can't be buying the house. No way a college student has the money for it, especially with the repairs it needs.
The tip of my foot brushes the tangle of vines on the floor, disrupting a mother bird in her nest. She flies up quickly, fleeing through the window. I look after the bird apologetically, knowing full well she can't see me. The girl jumps a bit, startled, while the landlady reacts similarly from the doorway. The scene doesn't scare the girl off, though. She reaches the window and leans in to stare out.
I don't see what she finds so captivating. This house is literally in shambles. The walls are washed of color, the air is dank, there's an enormous hole in the wall that lets in creatures from outside. Despite all of that, here she is grinning like a child, amazed at the sights she sees.
She moves to the piano, tampers with the lid, runs a thin finger along the keys. She plays a few, eyes widening. "It's in tune."
"Of course it's in tune," I muse, "Who do you think does everything around here?"
I don't pay attention to their conversation. I'm too busy watching her fingers over the keys. The tune is choppy from years of neglecting practice, but it isn't the sound that catches my attention. The way she moves her fingers is so strange. Almost as if, even if she isn't sure what she's doing or if she's doing it right, she fully trusts her movements. There's no hesitation at all.
I've never seen anything like it.
She slides the lid back over the keys and spins in a slow circle. She shuts her eyes. that small, knowing smile still gracing her lips.
"I'll take it."
Something in me shatters. I lift slowly off the floor, away, far away from the piano, the girl, the landlady. I float backwards until my back hits the wall.
She can't be serious. She can't be buying the house. If she does, that means that I...
Well, what does that leave for me?
The rest of their exchange is a blur. I don't listen. I'm too busy dealing with the thoughts washing over my mind.
There will be someone in the house at all times.
She'll change things.
She'll let other people in.
The house will be fixed and I'll never be alone again.
What if they find out that I'm here?
A small pained noise let out through my mouth and I clamp my hand over it, startled.
"No big deal," I tell myself, trying to calm down. "I'll just have to find a way to make her leave."
I glance at her again, staring at her back. She radiates joy, nearly bouncing on her toes. The landlady offers to walk her out, and the girl moves to follow before glancing back into the room. She doesn't look at me directly, but her exuberant expression softens, threatening to fade into something darker, unsure. She moves into the hallway, closing the door behind her.
"Oh, yeah," I think, "She'll be easy to scare away."


(((Woah, calm down there, Oliver. No need to sound so creepy. I decided to upload these chapters together, since they overlap. However, I think in the future that the two perspectives will occur over different times, switching between Doddie and Oliver. We'll see. I also want to add more of Oliver's story, since he's sorta in the dark right now, poor thing. I hope you enjoyed these little snippets. Again, no proof-read, so please don't judge for errors. Also, what even is correct spacing. Idfk. -Liz)))

Graphite and Sawdust - Ch. 1

Chapter 1- Being Watched 

Doddie

  I try to remember everything my father ever told me about buying houses.
   "Don't overreact, and don't seem too eager to buy."
   "Play hard to get, otherwise they'll charge you more than it's worth."
   "And no matter what, Dorothy, do not buy a house that you can't handle."
  However, staring up at this house in front of me, all of his words disappear from my mind.
  It's magnificent. Three stories of pure wondrous beauty.
  Reed-like blades of grass tug at the cuffs of my jeans as I walk towards the front door. Three crooked steps lead onto the porch, which wraps around the left side of the house. I knock soundly, a few short raps, before stepping back. When it doesn't open at first, I wonder if the owner is somewhere else in the house and unable to answer the door. I opt to let myself in. The door opens as soon as I reach for the handle, the thick wood creaking loudly as it's swung back against the outside wall. The woman opening the door blinks at me in surprise.
   "Oh! You must be Miss Perrinore. I didn't think you'd be here this early."
  Still elated by the outside view of the house, I grin as I take her hand in mine. "Just Doddie's fine. And I take it you're Mrs. Thomas."
  Surprise returns to the woman's face as she blinks once more. "Oh, I wasn't aware you were English."
"Email these days is so misleading," I say lightly. At this point I'm practically bouncing on my toes, anxious to see the rest of the house. "So, this is it?"
   Mrs. Thomas glances behind her, nervousness clear on her face. "Yes, this is it. I guess I should let you in, then."
   My heart sinks a little when I see that the area just inside the door isn't how I pictured it from seeing the outside of the house. Cool, flat stones set into cement make up the floor, covering the wide walk-space before continuing on down the hallway parallel to the front staircase. The stairs, made of dark wood, travel straight up into the second floor. When Mrs. Thomas makes no effort to give me a tour - which is totally fine by me - I turn into the room to the left of the foyer. It seems to be a dining room, judging by the length of the room. Instead of one long table, two twin square ones sit in the middle of the room, absent of chairs. The floorboards, made of the same dark wood of the staircase, squeaks under my faded Chucks. As if the house is retaliating, something creaks somewhere upstairs. Mrs. Thomas visibly winces.
    "How old did you say this house was again?" I ask, paying no mind to the sound.
    "I'm not sure, exactly. I'm pretty sure it was built in the early 1800's, but it hasn't been lived in in a while."
    "It doesn't seem to be in terrible condition," I observed, glancing at the seemingly fresh glass panels in the front windows.
    "Yes," Mrs. Thomas says, "The previous owner, my mother, had someone come try to fix it up some ten or so years ago, but he didn't get very far."
    "Is there any particular reason for that?" I ask. I can't help the mix of hope and excitement fluttering in my chest.
  Mrs. Thomas levels me with a stare that made the flutters grow. "Nothing my mother decided to tell me. Come on, let's look at the rest of the house."
  She leads me upstairs first, to the attic, which consists of a storage room and a small bedroom. I'm far more interested in the second floor, which is made up of three bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a small laundry room. I'm surprised to see the last of these things, even if the laundry machines were missing. Mrs. Thomas waves off my questioning glance. "The man who came to fix the place up managed to get the plumbing in before he quit. There's even a hot water heater, in case you ever have to shower here."
   We duck out of the room and head back downstairs. She shows me the kitchen, the dining room once more, and the sitting room.  After seeing the dining room, I go to the door parallel to it, turning the knob to find it locked. Mrs. Thomas turns back to me from where she's started down the hallway. "Oh, that door has been locked ever since my mother owned the place. No one tried to open it. My mother was going to call a locksmith but never got around to it." My hand tingles in eagerness to open the door, but I suppose that's not going to happen today.
   Once we're back in the foyer, Mrs. Thomas turns, lifting her hands to stop me.
    "The room I'm about to show you is the reason I don't think you'll buy this house."
   I give her a confused look, but she only leads me down the thin hallway. She stops at a peculiarly wide door, its surface made of dark oak. The woman turns the handle, seeming to struggle slightly as she does so. She shoves against the door with her shoulder, forcing it open. She allows me to step in first, and I can't help the small smile from gracing my lips.
   It isn't a large room. In fact, it wasn't any wider than one of the bedrooms upstairs. However, the ceiling stretches higher than it does throughout the rest of the house. The floor is made of the same stone of the foyer, only with larger stones of darker grays. I imagine there used to be a large rug to cover it, but there isn't one here now. The wall parallel to the door is windowless, instead bearing long empty picture frames against sky-blue wallpaper. The same dark wood of the door lines the area where the walls meet the ceiling. The wall to the right is completely bare, and when I turn to see the final wall I see that there's hardly a wall at all.
   A splintering wooden frame for a large bay window sits between two thin panels of wall. No glass graces the frame, and instead thick bundles of vines curl their way into the house.
    "Oh, dear," I say softly. Ms. Thomas says nothing, remaining in her spot in the doorway, still clutching the knob.
   I walk to the window, my feet already catching on the vines. They stretch rather far into the room, almost eight feet from where they come in from the window. The thin branches curves throughout the entire framework of the window, almost creating a wall of leaves. I step carefully, trying to find the stone beneath the branches. When I'm almost to the window, something rustles in the leaves a few feet from me, and a bird - I'm not able to see just what kind - takes off through the wall of vines. Mrs. Thomas lets out a startled noise, and when I turn back to her, her hand is over her heart. Instead of returning to her, I take the final few steps to the window. I set my knee against what would be the bench-seat, lean forward, and peer out through the hole the fleeing bird had created. Woods stretch further beyond the wall, from where the vines came.
    "It'd be an expensive fix," Mrs. Thomas tells me.
    "No doubt," I reply in a soft voice. Nothing I can't handle. Yet I don't let those words leave my tongue. I don't know if they are true.
   I turn back to her, facing the middle of the room, when I notice just what sits there. A grand piano stands on three legs, absent of its bench. Judging from the thin splinters in the dark wood, it's been there for a while. I step towards it.
     "That's been there ever since my mother inherited the house, maybe even before then."
   I slide the wooden cover up, putting the shining, opal-white keys on display. I run a finger over them before pressing down on the F key. Then G, then C.
    "It's in tune," I marvel.
    "That's the miraculous part," Mrs. Thomas says, "Since it's been here so long." She pauses, then asks, "Do you play?"
   I smile. "Only what I learned in primary school." I press the C key again, continuing while I mumble "The Lord bless you and keep you" under my breath. I cover the keys once more, turning to survey the entire room. I shut my eyes and breath deep.
    "No matter what, Dorothy, do not buy a house that you can't handle."
    "I'll take it," I say, letting out the withheld air with a smile.
   Mrs. Thomas's returning glance surprises me. She doesn't seem happy. She's still in the doorway, leaning against the jam.
    "How old are you, Doddie?"
   I blink owlishly at her. "Nineteen."
    "You said you were a student at a nearby university."
    "Yes, ma'am. I'm majoring in home construction. This house will be part of my personal project."
   Mrs. Thomas sets the back of her head against the door-frame, hesitation showing clearly on her face. I wipe my own face from my previous joy, growing serious.
    "Look, I understand if you've decided you don't want to sell-"
    "Of course I want to sell," Mrs. Thomas answers softly. It should seem sad, but I can't detect anything of the sort in her voice. She almost sounds guilty.
   Another creak rings through the hallway upstairs, and the woman hugs her arms, shutting her eyes. I don't know what to say, so I settle on resting my hand on the smooth wood of the piano. When Mrs. Thomas opens her eyes once again, she doesn't look at me, but at the floor.
    "You'll only be fixing the place up," she says, asking for confirmation, "You won't be living here."
    "No, ma'am," I answer, the words heavy on my tongue.
   She nods, and offers a small smile. "Alright, then."
   I allow the grin to return to my face as I rush in to hug her. "Thank you!"
   She pats my back affectionately. "But you have to promise me to be careful around here. It'd be a good idea to have someone here with you at all times. I don't want you alone here."
   I nod fervently, pulling away from her. "Of course," I reply, trying to cloud my lies with my excitement, "Thank you, thank you so much."
   She smiles once more, a smile that seems more exhaustion than happiness. "Come on, then, I'll walk you out."
   She exits the room, and I take one last look at the vines creeping through the bare window.   Something cold tingles at the base of my neck, and my shoulder roll up as I shiver. A strange feeling settles over me, an uneasiness I haven't experienced much of before. I glance down the hall, seeing Mrs. Thomas already at the door, her back to me. I've never been used to being watched, never been able to tell when someone's eyes are on me, but I could swear that right now, someone's looking at me.



(((Is Liz writing a ghost story?!? Maybe, idk, you never know with me, really. I've been wanting to write something like this for a while and haven't really gotten around to it until now. Sorry for any mistakes, I have absolutely no effort to proof-read. -Liz)))
(((Post-author note: I wrote both of these chapters back in February and I'm just now getting around to publish them. Now that I have more time to write, hopefully this story won't get neglected, because I have a lot of ideas for it. If anyone really reads my stuff, I hope you'll be patient with me when it comes to updates. I'm literally the slowest writer in the universe. -Liz)))