Page 36 of Folds
fourteen hours of darkness
BY B.P. GILMORE
the spectre of hill house
Only the foolish don’t believe in ghosts. Especially in this town.
I don’t think skepticism is the root of foolishness, though.
They say the things that go bump in the night, or the shapes that flicker at the edge of one’s vision, eventually find their way to this valley. Which makes it even more depressing that the spectre haunting Hill House is… me.
It’s almost funny, in a way. I do find it interesting to be perceived as a whisper of a thing when I’ve got a mouth that moves faster than most people’s thoughts and a body that refuses to be tucked into a corner. I’m all soft curves, light brown skin and a crown of unruly coiled hair that rarely stays put, a living, breathing oddity in a town that prefers its monsters to be easier to ignore.
I certainly never expected to earn a nickname, let alone ‘The Ghost of Hill House,’ at least not yet. It’s not said with cruelty, most of the time. No, direct cruelty isn’t the Drayring Valley Way. Most of the people around here say it with pity. I believe this to be infinitely more humiliating.
I would prefer if my failures weren’t so public, but I suppose spending most of my waking time at the gates of a place I’m not supposed to be has become town gossip. I think there’s even ameme from my last attempt to get the town council to grant me access to the grounds. Mortifying.
“Auburn, your latte is ready!”
At the chipper voice, I shake off the thoughts and steal one last glance out the window. It’s my favourite time of day. The world is still, and the people who do venture out into the sleepy early morning just before sunrise operate with an unspoken pact. The silence isn’t to be disturbed.
I cross the small, dated coffee shop to the pass-through. Well, what will become the pass-through in a few short hours anyway, once it stops moonlighting as a catchall for the army of shiny silver implements I could never name.
I wonder if Sarah keeps opening at 4 am just for me; it can’t be good for business.
Fortunately, the pensive brunette has never forced pity upon me, which is why I wouldn’t dream of going anywhere else, even if three new trendy cafes have popped up in the last year.
“This is a latte?” I ask, eyeing the questionable foam. I do sometimes wonder if a lack of pity is a fair trade for loyalty, considering the fact that Sarah seems to despise the idea of coffee.
The questionably coloured beverage sits on the counter with about as much confidence as a baby deer on a set of roller skates. It’s a sharp contrast to the confident, round-featured woman behind it, who cocks her head as she studies the cup between us with a raised eyebrow.
“Definitely,” she confirms after far too long for that word to carry any weight.
I pick it up gingerly; it might be active.
“Sarah, it’s green.”
I dare to bring my nose to the brim of the mug, it smells like coffee… I don’t know if I find that comforting.
“I was out of oat milk, trust me, you’ll love this.” Her expression is so sincere that it almost makes me abandon the need for questioning. Almost. She continues before I can kick offthe interrogation.
“It’s either pistachio milk or green almond milk.” She assures me.
Against my better judgment, I take a sip.
“Well?”
It takes everything in me to swallow it and not spit it back into the cup.
“Uh, why do I taste leaves?”
She grins and laughs, a deep, rich sound that draws out my own.
“Guess it was the green almond milk, so that would mean you’re tasting spinach.”
I can’t imagine how incredulous my expression is, but by the way she doubles over with renewed laughter, I have to guess my dismay is clearly communicated.
She takes the drink and throws the contents back, doing nothing to hide the grimace on her face as she does.
