Burn

From Past to Present

Prologue

December 19th, 2009 was one of the best and worst days of my life. It was on this day that my first novel, Ghosts: An Explanation Inside the Unknown, was finally going to be published worldwide. Giving not only me, but also my wife Julia and our yet to be born baby boy Damien financial security. 

When I went to call home about the good news, I didn’t hear the voice I was so accustomed to on the other end. Instead, I heard the voice of her older brother, Mike, who told me it would be best if I sat down. His voice was cracking and it sounded like he was on the verge of tears, but I obliged and sat down in a chair in my publicist’s office. Mike then informed me that Julia was involved in a fatal car crash.

The news devastated me on that day, and four years later it still does. It’s what ended up causing me to spiral into not only a deep depression, but also a severe self-loathing when it came to my writing. In my mind, if my lifestyle would have been different, she would still be alive with me. But instead, I’m alone with only the harrowing thoughts of what our life could have been with our son.

                                                    Chapter 1 

“I think I have a new idea for a story idea Gloria.”

There I was for the first time in four years, in my publicist’s office. She sat across from me, at her rectangular desk decorated with family pictures and various knick knacks from the dollar store.

“So you’re telling me that you finally accept that a long awaited sequel to your bestselling book Ghosts: An Explanation inside the Unknown has been demanded by your fan for four years. Why the sudden change of heart to write again?”

I placed my hands on my lap, looked up and explained to her why I was leaving my semi self-retirement. “Well, it goes like this. I was tired of constantly self-loathing myself and drowning away my problems with the alcohol around my house.” I stopped myself for a second, took a deep breath and continued. “After waking up late yesterday morning and stumbling towards the mirror still half-drunk, I saw a reflection in the mirror, but it wasn’t the one that I was used to seeing. Instead it was the reflection of a broken and bitter man. And if I didn’t do something about it soon, it would infest itself inside of me, like a parasite.”

“That must have been hard, Mr. Rickman, I’m sorry that you went through a period of your life like that. We’re glad that you’re back on board with our publishing company. We look forward to hearing about your progress on your new story. Please keep us informed of how it goes.”

I muttered a thank you, before she shook my hand and escorted me out of her office. Walking over to the liquor store next to Gloria’s office, I picked up a quick twelve pack and walked back to my apartment that I used to share with my wife. Suddenly as I started walking in the direction of the apartment, a thought rushed through my mind. It was back before we were married, we were seeing each other, fresh out of College. Julia would always tell me about how much of a nut she was for poetry slam readings at coffee shops and thought it would be a good idea to bring me to one of them, to lighten me up so she said.

I remember it vividly as we walked into the small, quaint store. It smelled faintly like freshly grounded cinnamon and just a little bit of coffee beans. We sat down in some of the wicker chairs they had available. The vibe in the area was definitely something I’ve never experienced before; everyone was snapping their fingers as people got up on the stage and poured their souls out through there poetry. Smiling lightly, I snapped along with everyone else. It was a fun experience, but what made it truly memorable was when my future wife made me go up on the stage with her and recite some poetry she wrote back in college.

It was a bunch of haikus about falling in love in unexpected places and the effects it could have on people, titled Eleven Places to Fall in Love. Doing something like this was truly difficult for me, since I mostly dealt with social anxiety in settings I was not familiar with. But as I looked down at the people cheering and snapping to my wife’s voice. I looked over at my wife and smiled, before she whispered in my ear.

“Watch it you asshole, get out of the fucking road!”

My thoughts suddenly snapped back to reality and glancing around, I noticed that I trailed off from the sidewalk and over to the side of the road, into incoming traffic.

I signaled the guy an apology and walked back onto the sidewalk. Glancing down at the twelve pack in my hand, I thought of all the times over the four years that they comforted me, and even beyond that. As much as people try to dismiss it as nonsense, beer and I have a love/hate relationship. The hard times were easily faced with a fresh, cold beer in my hands.

It was slightly brisk outside, the drapes of cold etching against my arm, the flesh on it tingling with the soft sensation of goose bumps. All it took was a quick swipe of my hand, and my jacket was buttoned up to the top, and the sleeves adjusted so the cold couldn't touch me. Once I reached my apartment, I noticed a parcel outside my door.

Picking it up, I expected it to be either junk mail or for a neighbour from one of the adjacent houses. The lettering on it was crudely drawn, as if scribbled by a toddler but I could vaguely make it out as Mr. Grant Rickman. Taking it inside, I placed the twelve pack on the kitchen counter, grabbed a knife and slit the edges just enough so I could open it.

Inside were a letter and a small piece of parchment, about the size of a video game. Reading the parchment, it said as follows:

Hello Mr. Grant. I’ve heard you’re a firm believer in Ghosts. After reading your book Ghosts: An Explanation inside the Unknown, I must say it really intrigued me to see a writer with your prestige suddenly stop writing after the success that was the first. But I have a proposition for you that might be worth your while! I am offering you a chance to stay in a house that has been haunted for many years by the spirits that reside in there. No one has been brave enough to stay the whole night, but I expect someone of your prestige and integrity to tackle it. The directions to the address are in the video provided for you. Who knows, maybe it’ll make a good second story!

Yours,

Mr. Poe.

I stared at the parchment in my hands for a second. It was definitely strange to get such information as this. First off, I had no clue who a “Mr. Poe” was, or how I would know him. Suddenly, a thought creeped into my head, was this a pseudonym for someone else? If so, who? Why would they randomly send me a disc for me to watch? It just didn’t add up But, just as human nature intended curiosity got the best of me and I placed the DVD into my player. The screen went blue for a second and a high pitch screeching noise filled the room for a minute, until suddenly, a house came up on the screen. 

It looked like normal, one of those small, two bedroom houses that were probably owned by a single mother trying to raise a child. The exterior was painted all white except for a small gold cross etched onto the top right window. The windows were boarded shut with two-by-fours and the grass around the house looked like it hadn’t been cut in years.

The camera then panned over to the mailbox, showing the address on the side of it. It read as #11 Crescent Avenue. 

Getting up, I moved away from the TV and over to my laptop and after a quick proficient Google Images search, I realized that the address wasn’t that far from my current residence. Only a two hour drive north and I’d be there.

Cracking open a beer, I thought about it for a moment as I tipped the can back and felt the familiar sweet embrace slide down my throat. It was then decided at that very moment; I would leave the next morning and set off to the house. If there were spirits there or not, would be up for debate, but I was sure as hell ready to find out.