Love, Elsie | Enoch O'Connor

Three

There was something about waking up in the mornings, opening up the pub and getting started for the day. I hated it.

I'd never been a morning person; when it's my turn to be on the opening shift, I dread every second of it. There is no purpose of being awake so early either. No guests arrived until after 11am for their brunch, or the start of lunch time. However, as the Priest Hole was a family business, I couldn't expect my dad to run the restaurant all the time. I'm more than old enough to pull my own weight.

Indulging myself in the emptiness, I put my headphones in and began the list of tasks. Having done this for years, I knew everything that I had to do, like the back of my hand. Open the curtains, turn on the glass machine (it takes ages for it to boot up), turn the coffee machine on (and make myself a cup of coffee), restock the sugar, the condiment boxes, tea bags, polish the glass and cutlery from the night before. With the practise, it took no longer than thirty minutes to complete the list.

I'd been keeping the door locked a lot the past week and a half so I decided to wait a while longer before unlocking the front door. It made me feel safer knowing nobody could come in, despite being familiar with all the townspeople.

Even though sometimes my dreams play out events before they happen, I didn't believe something so minor as someone creeping up on my front door would. It hadn't so far since I actually had a dream like it, but I didn't want to risk it. A man, with white pupils and grey hair, knocking on the door. It wasn't our door, it was in a setting I'd never been before. There wasn't anything scary about it either, but the same fragment of the dream would repeat. He would knock, knowing exactly who I am and he'd muster a malicious smile and then the dream would stop there, almost as if it was a TV paused by a remote.

I pressed pause and I took both my headphones out, setting them on the side with my phone before making my way into the kitchen. Breakfast was the only good thing about opening up. I had access to almost everything I needed and was never limited with my options. Today felt like avocado on toast.

With the back of my fork, I mashed an avocado and mixed it with lemon juice, and my dad always told me to add a pinch of chilli flakes for extra flavour. The toaster ejected two perfectly cooked slices of sourdough and I spread the smashed avocado evenly across both pieces. It was the most excited I've ever been for breakfast.

As I made my way from the kitchen to my armchair, the stairs creaked again, indicating someone else was awake now. It was Jake.

"You're up early, aren't you?" Yet again he jumped as soon as the words left my mouth. The toast crunched when I took a bite and watched Jake recover from his momentary myocardial infatuation. "Where are you going?"

"Going for a walk, need to stretch my legs." I'd believe this response of anybody else, but not Jake. Not after his creeping around, him disappearing for the day and returning with a singular shoe.

I decided to follow him.

As quickly as a I could, I tied the laces of my shoes and slipped on a jacket before writing a note and leaving the avocado toast on the side. The minor setback put enough distance between us to ensure I wasn't seen by him. Thankfully, it was close enough so I could see him but if he has turned around, I looked more like a bystander rather than a stalker.

Despite having lived on the island for the majority of my life, following Jake brought me through routes, neither Hattie or I had explored. Beyond the marsh and through the trees was the bombed out children's home. I paused to take it all in. Even in its decrepitude, it was a beautiful building. The exterior glowed golden in the light of the new day and the suns rays shone right through all the cracks in the walls. It stood in all weathers, bearing a sense of pride in it's lasting, once homing children who experienced the glory it continued to hold.

Jake, I assumed, was already inside and there was no hesitation within me about following him. I reached for the handle of the front door, it's hinges functioning perfectly but with the weariness of an old man. It creaked loudly into the silence and I winced, a flicker of fear lingering incase I had blown my cover.

Nothing came in return to my disruption of the serenity, so I continued to explore the hall way of the house. It was a bittersweet feeling; I was never allowed to see the house when I was smaller, so seeing it now was filling my younger self's needs. On the other hand, the fact that the remnants showed so much history, it made me sad knowing the way this building came to this.

As I reached the stairs, on the floor was a picture and a clock stuck on the date September 3rd, 1943. The date the house got bombed. The photo frame that lay beside it had it's layer of dust disturbed, as if Jake had picked it up and placed it back down a matter of minutes ago. It was a picture of the children and their headmistress, stood outside the house with the sun beating down on them. They all smiled, a photo capturing a moment in time, as if the glass preserved them and their memory.

Above me, I heard shuffling along the floorboards, making their way closer towards the stairs, so I hid around the corner, waiting. Jake flew down the stairs, tripping over on something in the conservatory and knocking himself out.

Thuds and pattering, several sets of shoes trampled down the stairs and the floorboards creaked loudly in pain. One by one, I watched children and teenagers come down the stairs and my breathing hitched as to not be heard. They cowered around Jake, mumbling between themselves and a young girl proceeded to pick him up and threw him over her shoulder. There was no way what I was seeing was real. I pinched myself and grimaced. I was not dreaming; that little girl was no taller than four foot and she picked Jake up like he was a pebble.

...

They dropped Jake on the floor by the entrance of a cavern and let him find his bearings. Slowly, he scanned the area but there wasn't really much to look at as the field stretched far into the trees surrounding us.

"You're Emma."

Emma nodded. She was a pretty girl, her blonde hair cascading over her shoulders and the mid length, light blue dress she wore. The most peculiar thing was her shoes. They were massive, gothic lead shoes, strapped tightly to her feet.

What was even more peculiar was the children she was also with; two twins, both with masks covering their faces, the little girl who carried Jake here, floating clothes, and a girl with red hair. They all looked like the people from the photograph in the destroyed house.

"And the twins, and Olive," Jake continued, "and Bronwyn, and he's Millard."

Millard tipped his hat forwards towards Jake and hummed, so to say "yes, yes it is".

"You're dead. All of you, you're all dead. I mean he's invisible, but he's still dead." He said, gesturing towards Millard in his final statement.

"None of us are dead." Millard stated. This was the most surreal series of events I had watched, an invisible man, on my home island. All these children that I aged with but didn't realise.

"Oh my God, am I dead?" Jake panicked.

"No." Emma said, bluntly.

"You.. you called me Abe," He turned to look at Emma, "in the house, why?"

She replied, "You looked like him, just for a moment, before you started screaming, running away and concussing yourself."

I didn't know who Abe, nor was I aware of the interaction happening above me whilst I was exploring the foyer of the house. The rest of the children obviously did and watched the two communicate in silence.

"Wait, what's happening?" Jake asked. Olive placed her hand on his shoulder, lowering her voice.

"We're waiting until the coast is clear before we go into the loop," She looked around, "You never know who's watching."

Whilst I know they didn't know I was there, I couldn't help but think if they had spotted me or who else they were referring to. Standing on this open field gave me a sense of familiarity, I couldn't yet grasp where it was from.

"Wait, before we... before we go into what?" The American looked almost nauseous.

"Please,  Jake. Miss Peregrine's waiting. She saw on the ferry and sent us to get you."