Henry Eckhardt, that is his name. He lived in this house when it was first built in the 1800s and he's never left. He knows he died, he can never forget that. It wasn't peaceful...
Now a new family is moving into his house. The old ones were never there and the ones before that just did construction. There hasn't been an actual family living here consistently in almost a century. That is most likely an exaggeration but it feels like it. Time is hard to keep up with with virtually no activity to dictate it.
Boxes litter the driveway and men carry them in, exchanging jokes and laughs. Evidence of life pools around them in the exasperated reaction of the teenage daughter to horrible dad jokes, the fond kiss between husband and wife at the start of a new chapter in their lives, and the enthusiasm of the little boy.
Henry stands at the upstairs window in what used to be his room. The wallpaper that had once lined the walls has been replaced with light blue paint and the floors have been cleaned but he knows the little scars from inhabiting and where his initials have forever been carved into the rack in the closet. There is so much history in this room that is separated from him by over a century of space and flesh and bone.
Looking out at the yard bustling with domestic activity he notices the teenage son look up at the window he's looking out from. The boy freezes with his eyes locked onto Henry. Henry feels the calm that comes from the occasionally muted emotions of being dead and having nothing else on his mind and flickers himself out of visibility.
The boy looks bewildered but shakes it off and slowly goes to help.
After a couple hours all of the boxes have been transported to the living room and the door of his room opens suddenly. Henry turns to find the boy from earlier standing in the doorway with a heavily beaten up book clutched in his hand.
He walks to the closet and sets the book down on the top of the rack before turning back to leave the room. When he returns he carries two large boxes on top of each other.
Henry stands still at the window and watches.
The boy sets the boxes down and stands for a moment. Henry notices goosebumps forming along his arms and wonders if he would be able to get the boy to see him before feeling a familiar flicker in his chest.
The boy looks around slowly at the room, as if inspecting it, and Henry flickers out of his solid form and into a broader existence.
He is there but he is more of a consciousness than a corporeal entity.
YOU ARE READING
Warmth and Cold
Short StoryHenry has been here for a long time. In the house, existing as a shadow of what he once was. When a new family moves in he is forced to face things within himself and without.
