Pale Lily (2008-01-18)

CD5K > FU > DWB > fab > palelily

A fictional tale of abandoned real estate and forgotten ghosts.

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Though something old and rustic may not look like much, it may be exponentially valuable. This is a lesson my mother taught me from early childhood. I first came to understand it when I was a mere 10 years old; when she still worked as a real estate agent who evaluated the salability of various properties.

The 1920s-esque house, towering over the rest of the block, was a sight to behold, even after all these years. In sharp contrast to the bleak suburbs surrounding it, it was obviously the masterpiece of some wealthy alliance of landowner and architect.

I had heard about the Roaring 20’s, and about Prohibition and the resulting explosion of organized crime which both contributed to that name. It seems that, back then, an outrageous but true story was always just around the corner if a person was willing to look hard enough, and this house was no exception; rumor has it that the house belonged to a local but well known ‘rumrunner’ who eventually became so paranoid about his particular line of work that he contracted psychosis. In a fit of madness, the deranged madman murdered his wife and daughter before going after certain ‘business associates’ with whom he had grudges. He was arrested by daybreak and sentenced to death by electric chair. The rumor then goes on to say that his undead wife and daughter still walk the halls of the house, seeking retribution for the wrongs done to them.

Stepping foot into the old, creaky house, my mother and I walked straight into a historic piece of art which was a seamless merging of craftsmanship and practicality. Various forms in hand, we set about determining the property value of the estate. Unlike my mother, I was never particularly interested in real estate, but some of the houses she dragged me along to were absolute treasures, so I just grit my teeth and bore it.

Anyway, everything was going splendid, until we spotted a young girl wandering around upstairs. Calling after her yielded no response. My mother, afraid that this might be some sort of anomaly, immediately reached for her cell phone, while I traveled up the flight of stairs to see what was going on.

I was greeted by the room of a girl not much younger than myself. The walls were painted a light shade of pink, accompanied by a stripe of darker pink which boasted outlined hearts. A bed was pushed against the corner, opposite the closet, which faced a small window. A roll-top desk and the chair beneath it collected dust beside the bed. Opening the desk revealed a diary, displaying its last entry, a blood-stained page which contained two poems.

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I felt a presence behind me, and looked toward the mirror-doored closet to see the translucent figure of an eight-year-old girl garbed in a white dress. A scar across her throat was visible. She smiled and wordlessly identified herself to me as Lily. Turning back toward the diary, I read the two morbid poems that had been written during Lily’s last moments.

A promise is a promise
and unto you I say
Never again shall I
see the light of day

Hmm. It would appear she tried to go peacefully.

The madness overtakes him
results of his guilty sin
Because he knows he will burn
upon his family does he turn
Indeed, Hell would be a better place if
we, his family, were there to grace it
But why, madman, drag the innocent behind you
when your eternal damnation spawns from the Brew?

Wow. To think that a brilliant mind like hers came to such an end. It just goes to show that nobody is safe.
Lily patiently waits behind me with her arms to her sides. Turning toward her image, I can’t help but comment.

"This is beautiful," I whisper, "I’ll never forget it."
She smiles once more. I continue, "..but you remain here."
Her grin fades as she sadly nods. I feel a sudden urge to help her swell up inside me. Returning to the desk, I take the pen buried in the binding of the diary. "If you’re unable to find peace, perhaps I might be able to help."
Not waiting for approval or even acknowledgement, I begin to write whatever comes to mind on the blank page opposite the poems.

Just an ordinary house, I once said,
then I saw his dead daughter lying in bed
Today, this young girl came up to me
and spouted volumes of brilliant poetry
Rhymes from near and far, both revised and uncouth
tales of her forcibly lost youth
But her words will never get through
for I am flesh and blood, and she is transparent and blue
And though many of you might ask why
I believe it is time to bid my friend goodbye.
Upon this page I make one last crease;
here’s to hoping she finds eternal peace.

---

After writing my name and the date under the poem, I look toward Lily, who is peering over my shoulder. Tears in her eyes, she hugs me, awarding me silent praise as she slowly fades into the bright midsummer afternoon.

Closing the desk, I feel as if the house and its surroundings are breathing a long-awaited sigh of relief. I slowly return to the bottom of the stairs, where my mom waits.

She begins to ask questions in a nervous, quivering voice, "Kristina? Wh-What happened? Are you okay?"
"Yes, I’m fine."
"Who was that little girl we saw? Was she a spirit?"
"Her name was Lily, and she couldn’t find peace, so I helped her."
Her complexion changes from concern to puzzlement.
"Oh. So she’s gone then?"
"Yeah. I believe she found the right path."
She takes a minute to regain her composure before speaking again.
"Phew. Well, I’ve finished up down here, so how about we go get lunch?"
I nod in agreement and we exit and lock up the old house, never to return again.

Just before we drive away, I spot a bright figure in the front yard bowing at me. All I can do is smirk at the sunbeam and utter, "You’re welcome."
Then, the house pulls away from us as my mom and I escape the suburb, praying for the child prodigy who left this world while writing.

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