The Firefly Hours (A Silas Sharp Metaphysical Mystery): Chapter 12

 

Firefly Meadow
by Tracie Kiernan

Day 12 – The Empty House

Real estate agents like to say every house has a story. The reality is most houses have thousands. The walls hear arguments that never leave the kitchen. They witness first steps, broken dishes, awkward teenage dances before school proms, and quiet conversations after everyone else has gone to bed. They absorb birthdays, illnesses, Christmas mornings, and ordinary Tuesday evenings that no one realizes will someday become the good old days. Maybe that's why abandoned houses always feel so loud even in their silence. They're full of conversations that no longer have anyone to finish them.

By Sunday afternoon I'd developed a habit. Every evening I'd choose one question and let Laurel Lane answer it. Thursday's question had been: Are these ghosts? Friday's had been: Can memories notice they're being observed? Tonight's was simpler. Can places remember, too?

The question came from Arthur McCreary. Just before I'd left his porch the night before, he'd mentioned something almost in passing.

"There used to be another house over there." He'd pointed beyond the end of Laurel Lane toward a patch of mature trees bordering the neighborhood. "There isn't now."

Except the county records disagreed with him. There had never been a house there. At least not one anyone had bothered to keep.

Dr. Calico Verde arrived just before sunset carrying a leather satchel that looked old enough to have earned a pension.

"Why am I here again?" she asked.

"I need your expertise in memory,” I told her, and while that was true, I mainly just wanted the company. Her company.

I spread several county plats across the hood of my car scored from the county assessor. I scored the plats from the assessor. Not my car. That’d be crazy. The assessor owed me favor because I worked a case for him once involving a mailbox that kept receiving letters addressed to people who hadn't made those life choices yet.

"So, there’s supposed to be a house here?” she asked. “But there’s nothing.”

“Right there.” I tapped a spot on one of the plats. "No construction permits. No demolition permits. No utility records."

She looked toward the tree line.

"If there was ever a house here..." She tapped the empty spot on the map."...the paperwork forgot."

I tried not to linger on our fingers being so close together but it was hard to ignore the charge between us.

"I've met bureaucracy," I said, changing the subject.

"So have I."

"It rarely forgets."

The fireflies arrived early. There were just enough to announce themselves. The neighborhood performed its familiar transformation of quieted sprinklers and voices stretching further apart. The evening seemed in inhale. Calico closed her eyes.

"You feel that?" she whispered.

"I was hoping you wouldn't."

"It isn't colder but it sure feels that way.” She smiled faintly. "Interesting."

"What?"

"Our senses are disagreeing with one another."

At first nothing happened.

The wooded lot still consisted of brush and trees and tall grass. Then I noticed the shadows. They weren't lengthening with the setting sun. More like they were organizing. Straight edges emerged where no straight edges should exist. I saw corners, rooflines, and window frames. Even the faint outline of a front porch. The image faded in until a modest single-story house stood among the trees. Its green shutters stood out against white siding. A brick chimney towered along the left side. The image before wasn’t sharp or clear. The colors were muted, the lighting dimmed. Like an old photograph developing inside the evening air.

Calico whispered,

"It's assembling from memory."

“That’s why I brought you here,” I told her. “I think this space is trying to remember the house.”

She took one careful step forward, her green eyes wide with wonder.

"Oh, I love that theory,” she said.

We walked closer. The grass beneath our feet remained untouched. The nearer we came, the more details emerged. Curtains stirred behind open windows. A wind chime swayed without making a sound. Someone had left a bicycle lying in the front yard. One wheel slowly turned. I reached toward the porch railing. My hand slipped through empty air. The railing remained exactly where my eyes insisted it should be.

"Fascinating," Calico said in her best Spock voice.

"You have a stronger adjective?"

"I do,” She smiled. “I'm choosing not to use it."

A screen door creaked open. Both of us froze. A barefoot woman in her late thirties stepped onto the porch carrying a watering can. Her auburn was tied back in a messy bun. She watered flower boxes that weren't really there. Paused to admire them. Then smiled past us toward the street. She seemed oblivious to our presence. We followed her gaze to a little boy racing across the yard.

She laughed. "Not through the flowers!"

He ignored her as little boys have throughout recorded history. The scene lasted perhaps twenty seconds before gently dissolving. The porch emptied. The outline of the house softened. Calico watched the place where the woman had stood with fierce fascination. Calico watched with fierce fascination. The woman hadn’t stood with fierce fascination. Though, I suppose, maybe she could have.

"That's not a memory.” Calico said.

I looked at her. "I thought we decided it was."

She slowly shook her head and paced where the porch had been seconds earlier.

"A memory remembers an event." She looked back toward the fading house. "This remembers belonging."

The distinction settled heavily between us. Then something changed. The house had nearly faded away. Only the faint outline of dark windows remained. The porch had dissolved into twilight. I started to turn away. Behind us, Arthur McCreary called out.

"Don't leave yet."

We turned. Arthur stood leaning on his cane at the edge of the sidewalk. Watching the lot with the resigned expression of a man greeting an old acquaintance.

"It always does this,” he said.

"What?" I asked.

He pointed toward the darkness where the living room should have been. For several long seconds nothing happened. Then, one lamp clicked on. Warm amber light spilled into the front window. A second lamp answered from somewhere deeper inside. A hallway light flickered to life. Shadows moved behind curtains. Someone crossed the living room carrying what looked like a basket of laundry.

Arthur sighed. "They're home."

Neither Calico nor I spoke. We simply stood together, watching a house that had never existed settle in for the evening.

*****

My new comedic sci-fi novel, Someone Else's Book Club, is available on my website or through Amazon!