'Annie's Book' by Hannah Gemmell.

Fresh rays of sun shines through the cracks in my blind, crossing paths with my eyes- its morning. I live alone with my golden retriever, Holly. It is a friendly neighbourhood. The highest forms of crimes we have is the occasional theft or drug use in an isolated house. Stereotypically, everyone knows everyone, at least at a superficial level. Most people like everyone. One of the few ostracised members of this society is my quiet neighbour Annie. I am not aware of her last name. She has lived next door since I moved in 5 years ago. She is older, enjoys her own company, friendly but people see her as odd. Her appearance is typically dishevelled, she is covered in loose, dated clothing. Her style is strongly practical, dull-toned items. Her overall aura is earthy. I do not see anyone visit her. Apart from the subtle friendship we have managed to develop over the years, over the top of the sectioning garden fence, others have taken her perceived abnormal low interest in her image and her preference for her own sole time, as painting her with a ‘weird old lady on the corner’ palette. Predictably, this eventually hindered potential friendships outside of ours, to be built. Even our friendship- comparing it to others, the quality of it is a fraction of the connection I have in comparison of other friends. Our friendship is crafted with minor conversations with petite detail- like I said, I do not even know her last name. The way she is, identifies that she is a very private (arguably, secretive) person, who seems to not help, on her end of the friendship- building process.

The morning light wakes me up, in conjunction with sounds of voices forming from Annie’s cottage. Sounds of cars turning in next to her house and on her drive, car doors slamming, with additional people’s footsteps walking down her garden steps, arriving onto her patio. This unusual movement makes me sit up, “She’s got visiting here, since when?” I open my blinds and see there are police and ambulance workers walking in and out of her home. Swiftly, I put my night gown on, place my feet in my slippers, then quickly I meet these workers. I panic, “Is everything okay? What has happened? The police officer responds, “The residence of this cottage passed away this morning during her morning her coffee.” After I tell her she is my neighbour and I identify myself, she provides me with more detail. “Your Melody, okay well your neighbour Steph-Annie died, we are still collecting details, currently there seems to be no unusual activity, medical staff has confirmed it was from natural causes. I would like to have someone speak to you, as Steph-Annie has given her home to you in her will.”

This may be the weirdest thing. Yes, we had a friendship to a degree, but it was a small bond. Like I did not even know her full name being an unusual “Steph-Annie,” instead of the typical “Stephanie.” She was always ‘Annie’ to me. I am confused, did she not have any family or friends that deserved her home more than me?

The following morning, as I am fixing myself a cup of tea, my doorbell rang. I but the jar of sugar down, twist the knob and see a petite, brown haired women at the door. She is dressed in brown and dark grey 3-piece pencil skirt suit. She introduces herself as Amber, from ‘Western Wood’, a long standing, well respected company that provides will services. I show Amber through to my office, as we sit facing each other at my grand wooden desk (that I harvested from my dad’s office, before sanding and varnishing the dusty colour, to be a warm chocolate brown) Amber lets me know that as Annie does not have any kids or good relationships with extended family, nor did she have other friends; subsequently, Annie considered me her only friend worthy of this gift. Amber continues discussing the details with me, but her voice is blocked out by the processing of the situation in my head. I tap the desk rhythmically, faintly to try to keep my confused anxiety at bay. I feel bad, she considered me her only friend, but despite my effort to be kind to her, it was only of minimal effort. I believe the shared beliefs of Annie’s insanity of the local community, unconsciously blocked me from trying to heighten the quality of our friendship. I feel like I do not deserve her kindness.

As Amber leaves when all the paperwork is completed, she hands me Annie’s old keys. Even the keychains on Annie’s keys highlight aspects of her personality that I never got to know. She has a ballerina figurine key chain, which I can only imagine represents her old ambitions or experiences. She has garnet pendent stating her month of birth, January. I did not even know her birthday. She never mentioned it but, equally I never enquired. Annie’s door has clearly been standing for decades, it has an aura of having been extravagant, but has decayed through the years. The rest of her home echoes the same message- like, it once reflected positivity for the future and luxury, however the years have transformed it into a rundown house, of lost dreams along with broken bonds. The home interior reflects a mismatched life, none of the items connect with the next seamlessly. She has items of 1920s style adjacent to items of 1980s aesthetic, accessorised by clutter that shapes a life. Despite the unique atmosphere of the home, some may miss the beauty that lays here. She was unusual which is cascaded through her home, but positively, it reflects her personality. You can really receive an accurate profile of her, without needed to lay your eyes on her.

I choose to enter her bedroom, as to be honest, I am most curious of it. The bedroom continues the perfect representation of Annie. It was beautifully messy. Sitting on her bed and examining the contents of the room, I move my attention to her bed side table next to my legs. Unexpectedly, in contrast to the rest of the home, the first draw I pull is almost vacant. A lone black, old book sits there. “Is it a Diary of some sort?” I think to myself. Abnormal to my typical behaviour, as I do not typically root through other’s personal belongings. Although, the suspicious unusualness of the minimal draw interior, results in me believing there is something of significance in Annie’s black book. Starting to look through it, there is noticeably barely any writing, which is questioned by the fact of the aging signs of the book. “Surely, there would be more usage of it, if it is so old.” Written on the last page is the statement, “12. 43, 1.1.1956, Dove my darling.” Underneath is a black and white image of a female infant in lacey garments. The only rational answer I can devise is the young girl is her daughter. This book grants more questions then answers on Annie’s life. “Since when does she have a daughter?” I believe now this home should go to her daughter, so to attempt to rectify this, I phone Amber from the phone number she provided me on her given business card. Amber confidently confirms that after extensive searching, their company failed to identify any daughter.

Curious, I go back to Annie’s book. Small nots randomly placed in various pages in the book are found, as I flip through the pages. “Christopher Charles,” “Tamben House” and “Valley Hill,” are amongst the terms littered in the book. These words recall no meaning to me. Due to the rarity of any words in this book, it suggests these words must hold significance. I then continue to research these terms in google search engine for the next 4 hours. “They have to hold some relevance,” I think, “perhaps there is links between them and the mysterious young girl.” Eventually, my research attempts turn out to be fruitful, as I uncover a minor but promising online confirmation that these statements are not just a random collection but have some interesting correlation. Within a small blog, named depressingly, “The glass heart,” I found writings by ‘H.B.B’ which discuss a cult ran by a gentleman called Christopher (referred to by followers, as Lord) Charles who had disappeared along with all the present cult members, from their ‘home’ at ‘Tamben House’ which sat on to off an apparently- sacred ‘Valley Hill.’ “Was Annie a cult member?” It is either that, or maybe she searches and reports on them. Surprisingly, this enlightens me, as it aids in explaining Annie’s perceived unusual behaviour that was witnessed by myself and other members of the local population. However, the space that is left empty, that is dying to get filled with an answer, is who is the young girl? “Where is Dove,” I think out loud as I turn the pages, to look back on her photo. My main concern, is that if Annie was in a cult, is Dove still there? As the absence of seeing any young women visit Annie that could be Dove through the years, in conjunction with Amber confirming that records state that Annie had no children, cements worry for Dove’s welfare. I henceforth take it upon myself to try to solve this mystery and possible re-gift Annie’s home, to in my opinion, a more deserving owner, of Dove. The first logical step I believe to commence my journey, is to try to contact ‘H.B.B,’ as their blog was helpful, but I believe I require more detail. Therefore, it is a waiting game for their response with my inquiry.

Two months fall by without a reply. In a last attempt of help till I turn to another source; I inquire again with more detail along with a picture copy of Dove. Contrastingly, this attempt received a swifter, more eager response. ‘H.B.B’ replies with their question, “where did you get that picture from?” I respond, “my neighbour had it in their house.” They brief me by explaining that they understand that when they were 2 months old, they were put up for adoption by their mother, in order to protect them from a twisted cult that their mother had become entrapped in. They understood their mother was in process of trying to leave but believed it would not be for a while. Although, their mother felt it was easier to remove their child from the cult without causing suspicion (as if questioned on the child’s disappearance, Annie could claim the child died from a childhood illness) Their mother left them outside a public library entrance, on the rare outing from the cult into a town centre. The mother took this opportunity, as they were unable to predict when the next would come. The mother left a brief note, which explained her predicament, acknowledging the great love for her daughter and her heartbreak of being cornered this way. The mother felt that her baby would not have a healthy, happy life, free from harm, if they grew up in the cult. Heather Bridget Bannett is the new name of ‘Dove,’ she has lived a harmonious life because of her mother’s sacrifice. It seems fortunate, that I luckily found the child in the picture, upon my initial reach out for information on the book’s writings.

After this discovery, Heather accepted my offer for her to take ownership of Annie’s home. I give her the black book that started this journey. It is wonderful to think of Annie’s reaction to this from wherever her spirit lays, realising her baby is closer to her. Everything has come full circle almost. Heather now resides peacefully in Annie’s old home, where she can live alongside her mother’s memories that was created there.

Story word count: 1986.