Beyond the Old Steeple

​It wasn't so much an occurrence as it was a feeling, one found deep in your gut. It was an accumulation of things, from the dark, ominous sky to the sudden gusts of wind that swept up the dry leaves, sending them off in every direction. It was a feeling, one she couldn't quite put her finger on. It felt as though something was hiding behind the old steeple, watching over the borough as everyone coward away from the storm. Perhaps this threat wasn't as great as the one on its way, the one no one knew about. Charlotte had weathered many storms, but this one seemed to hover over the town, waiting for their weaknesses to show.

A sense of relief washed over her as she stepped into her car. The sign across the street danced in the wind, rattling back and forth as though waving her off. The ride home was a long one. Some mornings, she could hardly remember merging on to the highway. The thought of one's subconscious taking control of a speeding vehicle wasn't for the faint of heart, but Charlotte was used to having instances of lost time. People would often ask her where she had gone — more so to fill an awkward void than in the intent of receiving a serious answer —, but she rarely remembered where her mind had traveled to. It happened more often when she was younger. Her parents had taken her to see specialists who had dismissed them, nearly making them the laughingstock of the office for worrying about such a trifling thing. "This is a common occurrence amongst children" or "she'll grow out of it eventually" were the responses she had heard most often. When one doctor failed to treat her, her parents set off to find one that would fix a problem most deemed unworthy of their precious time. These "blackouts" also happened in class, which was cause for irritation among her teachers who enjoyed calling her out in front of her peers when it was plainly obvious she wasn't paying attention. Her history teacher in tenth grade, a certain Mr. Samson, took pleasure in calling on her to answer difficult questions. She would often get it right without ever knowing how, which seemed to make him more irritable.

Charlotte pulled sharply on to her street, nearly missing it. Once inside, she shrugged off her coat and hung it in the empty closet ; all the jackets, bags, and shoes had been put away in boxes. In the living room, her father made some obscure comment about the weather, which she was too far away to hear. He was perched on his reclining chair, his computer resting comfortably on his lap. His "revolutionary" novel was in the making and that no one should disturb him.

Later in the afternoon, the Wilson family set off towards Richmond. Charlotte dreaded having to move, but once her mother put her mind to something, it was ultimately set in stone. Civilization seemed to grow scarce : on the rare occasion she spotted a house, it was often old, rundown, and far away from the main road. The dark clouds had not lessened, casting a shadow over the country side. Tall pine trees surrounded the old house, most taller than the two-story home. The harsh winter had taken its toll: the green paint on the window shutters was chipping away and the gutters were caving in, overwhelmed by the heavy snow of the last season. It was a work in progress, as her mother had put it, which was the reason they had gotten it so cheap.

Her mother's eyes glimmered at the sight of the old house and, for her sake, Charlotte managed an unconvincing smile. A blond woman, dressed in a pencil skirt, stepped outside to greet them. Everyone huddled inside to avoid the incoming storm and the young woman proceeded to give them a tour of the house to show them the work that had been done.

After a few minutes, Charlotte strayed from the group. She ventured off into dark corridors and empty rooms, taking note of the layout of the house. Every door frame was short; she could nearly graze the white moldings if she stretched her arm enough. At the end of the hallway, her future bedroom lay motionless, untouched for years. Charlotte opened the door carefully, the hinges creaking loudly. Every corner reaked of dust and damp wallpaper. The window on the opposite side of the room was veiled by lace curtains that had yellowed over time. She approached it reluctantly, as though she wished to cower away from the light. Droplets of rain gathered on the glass, blurring her view of the garden. Upon closer inspection, she noticed a speck of white perched atop the picket fence. The creature turned its head and stared up at the window, as though it knew she was standing there. Its dark, penetrating gaze lingered on her silhouette, confined by the small square in the wall. Frightened, the barn owl took flight, its long, elegant wings contrasting the growing darkness that threatened to swallow the plain. A shiver crept up her spine, and she sprinted down the stairs, desperate to get away from the damned house.