JENNIFER

V.

2008-01-08T22:51:00.000-05:00

Monday, November 10th, 1997.

Karen's angry at me. Because I'm helpful. Yes, you heard me. She's angry at me because I'm helpful.

Feeling bored, Sunday morning, I offered my mom to help her with the rest of the dead leaves. I kinda like it, and it gives me an excuse to make a fire outside, so really, it wasn't like it was a chore or anything. Later, at lunch, we're all sitting at the table and then my mother got up to put her plate in the dish-washer and she said to Karen "So, Lady K, what were you doing while Jenn here was helping out outside?", but she said it with a smile, joking-like, knowing full well that Karen was sleeping in because she stayed up late with Julie last night. So Karen made a face a face at me (knowing that mom couldn't see her) and said: "Some people have a life outside of this house, you know."

And then she left, taking the rest of her lunch with her, going to finish eating it in her room, I guess. Probably thinking that I planned it all to make her look bad. As if.

You just never win, you know? Whatever I do, someone ends up unhappy. God, it must be so cool to live alone, with no one to answer to, no one watching you and no one else's territory to thread on, just silence, and auto-determination. I'd still be miserable, but at least it would be my own private misery, and it wouldn't be aggravated by other people.

I guess that's why people finally end up in a stupid dead-end job that they despise: they just want money to be able to live on their own.

After that, I called Katie, she wasn't there, so I ended up going to the mall to see a movie, all by myself. First time I've done that. It was quite nice, actually.

IV.

2007-08-07T21:01:00.000-04:00

Friday, November 7th, 1997 .

Everything’s crap.

Even Katie is shunning me now. She spends all her time with her new boyfriend. They even sit together in the school-bus. Laughing, giving each other little kisses... completely ignoring me. So I sit all the way in the back, alone, and I listen to music. We barely even talk anymore, me and her, and when we do it’s always about school stuff or TV or who’s going out with who, and so-and-so’s party. None of that interests me anymore, I’d rather be completely silent if all we have to talk about is that senseless, boring drivel. I remember, we used to talk, really talk, about our future and our parents and our crushes, but now… how did we end up like that?

I’m happy for her, he’s a great guy and when they do acknowledge my existence he’s really nice to me, but… oh I don’t know.

We went to the mall together during lunch hour, just me and Katie. It could have been a nice opportunity for some kind of friendship moment, but no. We were walking silently, going from store to store. She started listening to her music so I did too. Two zombies walking in zombie land.

And now it’s Friday night. By myself, which is kind of a blessing. Karen’s out. Mom and dad are with their friends, downstairs, having a drink, talking loud, talking too much. Thankfully I had an early supper so I evaded the obligatory “Hi Jennifer how are you Jennifer how’s school Jennifer you’re so tall Jennifer have you dyed your hair Jennifer?”

Yes.

Because Gordon said:

“Suffering is my enemy.
I shall not resort to pain
as a means of aggression.

I SHALL NOT RESORT TO AGRESSION AT ALL!
FOR REMORSE IS THE SEED OF WAR,
IS THE SEED OF MADNESS,
IS THE SEED OF HATE,
IS THE BIRTH
OF BLACK IN THE BREAST.”

Black in the Breast. So I died my hair black, even if it’s naturally dark. Black black black black black, like rotten leaves in the water and the water in the gutter and the gutter that flows down in the sewers. Black like the attic. Black like when I wake up in the autumn morning. Black like the inside of our pumpkin after the candle blew out.

Before they got here, mom asked me to help her with the cake she was just finishing. Holding out the icing thing, she said: “Hey Jen, my cake is done, you wanna do the dollop?”

It’s my “specialty”, according to my family. “You do great dollops!”

My specialty… it’s only my specialty because you decided that it was, to make me feel special or something.

Everything seems so artificial to me.

I’m now sitting at the top of the stairs, listening to their conversation. They’re drunk by now, or at least my parents are. I can hear it in their voices. My dad’s laughter is shrill and out of control, my mom’s voice is slow and over-emphasized.

It should make me laugh to listen to the “grownups”. I used to do it all the time with Karen, we’d have such a thrill spying and then running off to our rooms when we just couldn’t keep the laughter in any longer. Now, alone, not even caring if they spot me on their way to the bathroom or the kitchen, it just brings me down.

“I just do as Life dictates, now matter how degrading it can be sometimes,” says my dad.

Oh why, dad, why? Everything they’re saying, it just shows how much unhappiness they’re hiding, or maybe just ignoring, or maybe, maybe even unaware of.

Later, after the smell of pot has permeated the house, I hear my mom saying: “Only when I’m writing, can I have an intelligent conversation with myself.”

How about having an intelligent conversation with somebody else? How about calling me over for something other than a fucking dollop, once in a while?

They talk and talk, sometimes they’re so incoherent, and the music so loud, that I can’t really tell who’s talking, and what they’re saying. I put my head on my knees. I keep feeling a slight pinch under my eyes, my tear ducts trying in vain to produce some tears.

Back in my room, thinking about what I just heard my dad explaining to the others. Something about lucid dreams, and how when he was younger he used to fall asleep with his fingers pressed down on the vein in his neck, stopping the blood-flow a little, and that somehow this brought on a state of lucid dreaming. He went on to tell about one dream he had where he was a witch about to be burned at the stake, and he finally managed to wake up before it happened.

The lady-friend asked if it was dangerous, and my dad said he knew of someone who ended up dead, not doing it the right way.

What “right way”? How cool it would be to be able to control my dreams, to do whatever I want, fly or travel or talk with Gordon Filligreen. I can’t ask dad for details, he’ll say it’s too dangerous.

Maybe I’ll try it anyway. And maybe it doesn’t really matter if I do it “right” or not.

III.

2006-11-04T17:35:00.000-05:00

Wednesday, November 5th, 1997.

Gordon Filligreen says:

"The Time has come, oh yes, the Time has come,
for us to open up the Book of Knowledge
and take from it.

We read, but we do not Read.
We see the words, verbalize the sentences,
but we do not reach for the Ideas that lie beyond;
beyond the binding, beyond the ink.

The Time has come to Learn and See.
If Education be Wine,
then let us drink from the bottle,
and not from some water-diluted cup."

II.

2006-10-13T22:09:00.000-04:00

Monday, November 3rd, 1997.

Woke up before the alarm. Drew the blinds, and saw the beautiful sun shining on the rake that was lying in the yard. I went downstairs and decided against breakfast. Noxious because of my periods. I ate an apple though.

School.

I probably failed my biology test. Too much biology going on in my body in the first place. Later, this guy Peter invited me to a party Friday night. Told him I’d think about it, an answer which betrays that I really mean: "I don’t really feel like it". Didn’t want to be rude, but I was. Just want to be left alone.

What would I do at that party anyway? Try to have a coherent conversation, listen to music I can’t grasp or appreciate, sneak out for a beer? Jessica and Katie won’t be there, so I’d be stuck with girls I barely know. James won’t be there either, so what's the point?

Best to forget about it. And spend another lousy Friday night staring at the walls.

I.

2006-10-04T21:27:00.001-04:00

Saturday, November 1st, 1997.

Halloween's over. It's over. It's over. It's fucking over. All I can remember is lighting up the pumpkins on the porch, then seeing Karen go out the door with Julie (both of them dressed as some kind of Goth punk-witch), then giving candy to grinning little demons for what felt like 19 hours, and then seeing Karen come back (her lipstick all smeared and her make-up running down her face) with more than a bagful of candies. And then going to bed, falling asleep with the radio on, hoping for some other show dedicated to Halloween but never getting to one.

So it's over, and it took me almost a day to realize it, what with the pumpkins still being on the porch and the decorations still hanging from the houses all around the neighbourhood, and all the candy Karen forced into my hands. It's all lying on my dresser, as intact as it was when she gave it to me this morning. I've decided not to eat it. I resent her stupid trick and/or treating. She's too old, she shouldn't have gone. Hell, she's older than me and I'm too old. Choke on your goddamn candies, I'll look at them every single day until they're all covered in dust and the house-keeping lady throws them in the trash. You won't melt my teeth with your little artificial sugar-filled poisonous fruits.

But enough about her. Fuck her. And fuck Gordon Filligreen, with his endless drivel. Listen to this:

"How sweet the means to get there,
how wrong I was to stay there.

I felt weary,
I felt sad,
it was normal
so I was glad.

But still I went
and O I paid."

Fuck him, that he gets in my head so easily.

I threw the book on the wall, trying to make it bounce into the aforementioned trash. I missed, and now I feel bad. It's an old book, it's a nice looking book, without a cover illustration which always is a good thing for me. And it belongs to my parents. Or should I say "belonged"? I mean, I've been carrying it around with me for days, and --- let's face it --- I have no plans to let it go. This is my book now, my possession and my territory.

Luckily, nobody's noticed yet, nobody important anyway. Nobody that I'll have to answer to, anyway, like my parents or my sister.

I mean my teacher noticed, and a few people in my class when it happened (which, surprisingly, didn't make me feel too ashamed). And Katie too, just barely, she saw it in our locker and she said something like "Good book hey?" or something. I tried to answer something significant but all that came out is "Yeah".

It's still (mostly) my little secret. And I intend to keep it that way. It's always easier, for everybody involved.

Well, gotta go. They're calling me to dinner. Musn't miss that momentous event, can we?

CHAPTER 2: The Diary

2006-10-04T21:27:00.000-04:00

VIII.

2006-09-06T21:10:00.000-04:00

Later, in bed, Jennifer was glad to have spent another of her life's evenings with her sister, in merry ritual. But that longing to go out, to do something, did not leave her.

I don't have the guts to get dressed again and go out...

So as a substitute for action, she took her walkman, inserted the little earphones into her ears, and turned on radio.

Hectic music, very loud, pierced her eardrums. She turned the dial. Somebody talking about a painting. She turned it again. An old record playing, sounding like music from the thirties or forties. A woman singing:

Swinging at the séance,
black coats.
Swinging at the séance,
blue notes.

A jazzy, merry, tune. She smiled and listened on. She heard people cheering, which meant it was a live recording. Very moody, it was, and so Jennifer was hooked. Too quickly, with a big chaboom, the tune ended. Almost right away, something very fast started playing. Another jazzy tune, frenzied, with a gypsy kind of sound. She forced herself to listen to it, to grasp its angry meaning. It was a short piece, so she got through it all. Then another one started, this one with lots of drums, sounding very contemporary, despite the saxophone. She didn't like that one, but she wanted to know the name of that first tune, the "séance" one, so she didn't turn the dial, hoping the DJ was going to talk soon.

She almost fell asleep, but right then another swinging song started. Sounding a little like the first one, probably dating from the same period, this time it was a man singing.

Got the jitters, got the jitters...

The kind of lyrics that you would expect to be gloomy, but the way he sang it, it was fun. She was tapping her fingers on her belly. Her eyes closed, she got flashes of these women, with the weird hats, dancing the Charleston.

The song ended, and yet another one started, this time with a cartoony, spooky laugh, and a woman's scream. Then a whistle, some sirens, a bassoon. You could just see the cartoon evolving in your mind.

There's a man of mystery that's roaming through the land.
Far and near you hear of him, he's found on every hand.
Every city, town, and village knows of him by now,
There's a way to recognize him, let me tell you how.

Now if your path at midnight dark by a graveyard goes,
and someone whistles [big whistling sound]
that's Mysterious Mose!

Or on some dark and stormy night while the tempest blows,
if someone whistles [big whistling sound]
that's Mysterious Mose!

He sees all, knows all, he's just been everywhere;
Some night, he might wait for you upon the stairs!

So when you're going down the cellar, walk upon your toes,
and if someone whistles [again]
that's Mysterious Mose!

Now a funny-sound solo. Almost like a Bugs Bunny episode. She liked that, being told a story.

Wakes from the sleep by the peep-peep-peep
of a flute from down below.
If someone whistles
that's Mysterious Mose!

Now if at dawn of an early morn
a trumpet softly blows,
if someone whistles,
that's Mysterious Mose!

He sees all, knows all,
perhaps a clarinet.
Or a bass horn, or anything that he can get.
He plays on every instrument,
but there's just one tune he knows.

When someone whistles
that's Mysterious Mose!

A catchy tune, one that she would even dance to.

Then it ended, and finally the DJ spoke.

"That'll do, that's enough fright for the night. Except more coming. Oh some grand old big band and swinging Halloween material. 'Mysterious Mose', done by a generically named 'Radio All-Star Novelty Orchestra', from the later thirties."

Wow, what a great time the thirties must have been. It must have been a fun time to listen to the radio.

The DJ went on explaining the other titles that he had played. One had been called "Square dance for eight Egyptians Mommies". Then he named the ones that he would be playing next. About the first one, he said: "This is a version of a song, and this is true, a song that was so effective in the earlier part of the century, say the thirties and forties, that it caused people to actually take their own lives. This is the truth. This is a version of it, and I suggest that you just ignore the scary aspect of it, and appreciate the tonal quality".

It started. A somber piano melody, with a woman's voice, but so low, so broken, beautiful somehow.

Sadly one Sunday
I waited and waited.
With flowers in my arms
all the [something Jennifer didn't get] has created
I waited 'til dreams,
like my heart, were all broken
The flowers were all dead
And the words were unspoken
The grief that I knew
Was beyond all consoling
The beat of my heart
Was a bell that was tolling.

Saddest of Sundays.

Then came a Sunday
When you came to find me.
They bore me to church
and I left you behind me
My eyes could not see
What I wanted to love me

The earth and the flowers
Are forever above me
The bell tolled for me
And the wind whispered, "Never!"
But you I have loved
And I'll bless you forever

Last of all Sundays.

And again that piano, sounding somewhat like Chopin's drenched rain-music.

And then, contrast of all contrasts, a funny drum-beating, some banjo-playing, a dirty blues. A dry voice singing, she imagined an old black man, smiling. A nice man telling a frightening tale.

There was a murder in the red barn
a murder in the red barn

The trees are bending over
the cows are lying down
the autumn's taking over
you can hear the Buckshot hounds
the watchman said to Reba the loon
Was it pale at Manzanita
Or Blind Bob the 'coon?
Pin it on a drifter
they sleep beneath the bridge
one plays the violin,
and sleeps inside a fridge

There was a murder in the red barn
a murder in the red barn

Someone's crying in the woods
someone's burying all his clothes
Now Slam the Crank from Wheezer
slept outside last night and froze
Road kill has its seasons
just like anything.
it’s possums in the autumn
and it’s farm cats in the spring

There was a murder in the red barn
a murder in the red barn

Now Thou Shalt Not Coveth Thy Neighbour's house
Or Coveth Thy Neighbour's wife
but for some murder is the only door thru which they enter life

Now they surrounded the house
they smoked him out
took him off in chains
the sky turned black and bruised
and we had months of heavy rains

Now the ravens nest in the rotted roof
of Chenoweth's old place
and no one's asking Cal
about that scar upon his face
'cause there's nothing strange
about an axe with blood-stains in the barn
there's always some killing
you got to do around the farm

A murder in the red barn,
murder in the red barn

Now the woods will never tell
what sleeps beneath the trees
or what's buried 'neath a rock
or hiding in the leaves
'cause road kill has it's season just like anything
it's possums in the autumn
and it's farm-cats in the spring

A murder in the red barn
a murder in the red barn

Now a lady can't do nothing
without folks tongues waggin'
is that blood on the tree
or is it autumn's red blaze
When the ground's soft for diggin'
and the rain will bring all this gloom
there's nothing wrong with a lady
drinking alone in her room

But there was a murder in the red barn
a murder in the red barn.

Now that had been scary, but she had liked it, better than all the rest. A story, what she liked best. She hadn't heard everything correctly because of the accent, but she had heard enough to understand the feelings, and she wanted to hear more.

But the DJ came back on, and again named the tune he had just played. Jennifer learned that the Murder in the Red Barn piece was by Tom Waits; she had never heard of him, but she promised herself to remember it and to try to find that song and others by him.

The DJ then announced that he would end the show with a reading of "The Cask of Amontillado", by Edgar Allan Poe, a story about a man taking vengeance upon another.

She was happy, she listened intently, but sleep overcame her, just as the narrator (and murderer) was trapping the other one in the catacombs.

VII.

2006-08-21T21:43:00.000-04:00

Evening.

Jennifer was sitting in the living-room with her sister. They had decided that it was a good night for the Carving of the Pumpkin. An old ritual, one for which they were not too old. Not yet.

Jennifer had turned on the TV, and was waiting for the Charlie Brown Halloween special to begin. She had seen it countless times before, but like Linus waiting for the Great Pumpkin, she did not give up on it. Meanwhile, Karen was trying to figure out a good way to carve the pumpkin. She had already tried a couple of patterns, drawing them on the pumpkin with a marker, but every time she got frustrated at what seemed to her to be poor results, and had started all over again.

"Come on Jen, you try something, I'm out of ideas," she said finally.

So Jennifer took the pen, and drew a really big, wailing mouth. Then she made a small, triangular, tilting nose. Then, perfect round eyes. Next the eyebrows. That was a pivotal point. With the eyebrows she could make the face frowning and evil looking, or she could make it mournful and anguished, or even playful. Of course, she chose the anguish, the sorrow. All in all, it looked scary enough.

"Okay," said Karen, "that's perfect." Of course she would have said that to anything Jennifer would have made. She just wanted to work on something she had not invented herself. Knife in hand, she started to cut out the eyes.

By now the TV show had begun. Charlie Brown had just been invited to his first Halloween party. Jennifer smiled. She was awed. Those Charlie Brown cartoons always put her in a kind of a trance. Those big weird skies in the background, and the dead leaves, and the naked trees. She always got a feeling of quiet meditation from those cartoons. She felt some of her most intense memory-feelings when she watched them. Something indescribable.

"I've never liked that show," Karen said. Jennifer did not reply. She felt bad; now she had her sister's feelings to think about, while watching the show, and it spoiled it for her a little. But she knew that it was no use saying anything. She just wished her sister had not said it.

The Jack O' Lantern was coming along. Snoopy was now flying on his kennel, shooting away at the Red Baron. He crashed behind enemy lines, and had to sneak back, amidst creepy and sad landscapes of lone farms and dead shivering trees. Karen handed her the knife, it was her turn, so she carved the nose. Linus, big eyed and hopeful, in the pumpkin patch with Sally, waiting for the Great Pumpkin. "What an idiot," said the kids in the cartoon.

"What an idiot," said Karen.

Of course, you don't understand. If I was there, I'd wait with Linus too. They all say that he spoiled his Halloween, that he missed the trick or treating. But in the end, he's the one that will have the most intense recollection of the moment. He's the one that'll have immortal feelings of awe and sadness, looking back on a childhood of believing. We have to play the game, even if we don't believe, for in the game we find truth. In the game-playing we meditate on things and we establish memories.

Those confused thoughts went through her head, and she suddenly yearned to go out, to roam the city in search of a pumpkin patch, and to spend the night there, in thought and meditation.

"Thought and meditation... thought and meditation... my, that Gordon Filligreen is really getting to me," she mused.

The Jack O' Lantern was finished around nine thirty. They looked at it, smiling, proud of themselves. They closed the living-room light, and looked at it some more, lit up by a candle. Then they put it outside, on the balcony, for the next day.

The ritual was over. They went up the stairs together, then split up to go to their respective rooms.

VI.

2006-08-15T20:36:00.000-04:00

The school-day went by as usual.

In her English class her mind drifted as the teacher told them about irregular verbs, and at one point she opened Filligreen's book (from now on she vowed to carry it everywhere with her), read a paragraph, and then closed the book, leaving it on her lap, thinking about the single sentence that she had read:

Being superstitious can simply be another way of being attentive to the World that surrounds us. That Giant, Never-ending World, Infinite in all its ramifications and components, both big and small.

She thought about it. She remembered this morning, when she had opened the cupboard to take a spoon. She had one in her hand, but another had fallen on the counter. So she had put away the one which she had taken first, and used the fallen one instead.

In a sense, that's just my way of acknowledging all those things that are random. A way to commune with Randomness: the World. Or maybe it isn't randomness at all, and so it becomes a superstition or, in some cases, a religion. By using the spoon that the cupboard gave me, I play a little game. The cupboard becomes a playful spirit to me, and I smile.

Her teacher went by her desk, glanced at her book.

"A dreadful book for one so delightful," he joked. She looked at him as if she had been slapped, put the book back in her bag, and then went on with her schoolwork.

V.

2006-08-07T21:55:00.000-04:00

Just before dawn she woke up from another disturbing dream.

No! No! I want to sleep, I don't want to stay awake for hours thinking back on what I just witnessed. The horrible, horrible sights! And all of it coming from MY head...

She struggled for sleep, but of course a thing so delicate is not to be struggled for. She lingered in that semiconscious state, thinking of nothing specific, yet feeling obsessively feverish. She turned and lay on her belly, her face turned towards the wall. She usually could not sleep in that position, somehow feeling that her breath is cut off, but now she was desperate, and willing to try anything to get back to sleep.

Slowly, pulse by pulse, she felt herself falling, falling back into unconsciousness. But suddenly it was too frightening, this plummeting feeling, and she started, then realized that she was now wide-awake.

It was no use trying again. She knew that it was better to just get up and start the day.

Silently she went down the stairs, then to the kitchen where she poured herself a bowl of cereals. This being done, she carefully crossed the kitchen floor and entered the living room. She put the bowl down on the coffee table, took the red book down from the shelf, the book that she went to a lot these days; the one by Gordon Filligreen.

Why am I so drawn to that book? Maybe because that man gives off a feeling of such sadness and loss, that I can't help put feel sympathetic. Or maybe I sense that he has some answers for me.

Curling up with her bowl and book in the big cushioned chair, she read.

Would you live in the Ogre's Palace of Murder? Would you choose to sleepwalk until such a time as he would choose you, and not your brother, for his Horrible Feast? Would you accept his Tyranny, all in the name of Brute Strength?

No! No, I tell you! And so I refuse this Commonplace tolerance. I will not stand by and grin as the Ogres devour all that is Good.

'And who are the Ogres?', you ask in breathless curiosity. We, my friends, us, and the Traditions of War on which our gardens are growing and our foundations are built.

She stopped. That was enough. Her heart was beating hard, she was almost seeing the Thing that had made her dream a nightmare. Not a monster, per say, but a Scene, a Situation, that was unacceptable, unmanageable. Something about a bus and a crash. No, not a crash, but a fight. And a crowd rushing for her, a desert of violence, a black-haired man grabbing her, and she pulling out a gun, and shooting him in the chest, in the face. And then running, getting back to a hospitable place, a supermarket. And the cashier telling her that one of them is in the store, look out. So she goes around, shooting everybody, and realizing that the only evil person here is herself.

No, I did not dream that. I am taking that horrible feeling and putting some images on it. The dream was oh so subtler, and not as obviously violent.

She put back the book and went back in the kitchen. The sun was slowly getting up, a timid white light coming through the windows.

Don't have to leave for school for another two hours. What am I supposed to do until then?

She climbed the stairs, and walked to her sister's room.

She slowly opened the door, and peeked inside.

Karen was breathing noiselessly, lying on her side, her face turned towards the door. Jennifer entered the room, and came closer to her sister. After a few seconds she gave her a little kiss on the head. Immediately she felt more at ease. She felt surrounded by loving people, and not just by ideas of fear and death.

She crept back to her own bed. The sheets were still somewhat warm, and so she was immediately comfortable. Her sister's face still clear in her mind, she fell asleep.

IV.

2006-08-02T21:04:00.000-04:00

She did not think about it until she got back from school on the next day. Getting close to her house, she suddenly remembered the little brown man. She got to thinking about what he had said.

We have lots of books at home. Maybe I can find a red book somewhere.

So she went straight to the big bookcase encased in one of the living-room's walls and scanned its contents. There, she found three books that had red covers. The first one was a dictionary, the second one a crime novel. The last one was impossible to classify in just one look, so she sat down with it.

The title page read:

The Glory of Human Containment
(A Work of Obnoxious Prose and Irregular Verse)

by Gordon Filligreen

"Probably a philosophy book," Jennifer said to herself, a little disappointed. Nonetheless, she turned the pages and she read.

Even the richness of the Mind has been rendered reprehensible...

Thus, in vain,
we speak our mind
and while exposed
our thoughts are hacked at.

Forward and out:
thus goes my friendship.
I gain it,
then lose it,
and why is that?

She thought about it a little, then skipped a few pages.

It is not the Work that I flee; it is the 'Choosing of the Mask' ceremony; it is the Role-Adopting ritual. I must remain, and retain, my Self.

It is good that I was born very rich, as it would have been good had I been born very poor, for in one and the other the Choice of Career is not one to be made.

The Rich live off their Inheritance, and are expected to retain and maintain that Wealth; the Poor struggle for whatever they can find. Those in between, who have the Luxury of Choice, are cursed with endless possibilities. How to choose? How to reduce oneself to a single occupation? Whatever choice is made, is Betraying, and Forsaking.

She closed the thick volume, and put it back on the shelf.

"I'm interested by the ideas, but I don't like the words," she thought.

Asking herself why the little brown man had told her to seek that book, and if a little brown man had asked her anything at all, she absent-mindedly went in the bathroom and took a long hot shower.

III.

2006-07-28T22:45:00.000-04:00

An hour later, she was sleeping. The wind was blowing against her house, and her window was rattling in its frame, but she was oblivious to it. Her dreams seemed to welcome and include the sounds...

She was walking in a strange house, lost. Everywhere, electric lamps threw a yellowish light at her feet.

They're necessary, it's dark outside.

She got to a very big room, an auditorium of sorts. She got closer to the stage where, a few moments later, a trapdoor opened in the middle of the floor. A little brown man stepped out. He step-danced a little, and cartwheeled a few times, and then got closer to her and kneeled. He was not scary to her.

"I am Crimson," he said with intent. "Of my likeliness you must find a book."

He got a little closer, and told her what seemed to be a big secret: "A red book! A book of red!".

Then he ran back to the trapdoor, as if running from something. Jennifer looked behind her, fearful of what she might see, but there was nothing. And that nothing was frightening.

She ran too, and ran some more. The dream shifted, and presumably went on to other things, all of which she forgot about.

II [continued].

2006-07-23T07:31:00.000-04:00

"Hey Jen," said Karen, not without some mirth. "We're going up to the attic to call up some spirits. We could use a third wheel, you wanna play?"

A few seconds went by, and a neutral "Okay" fell from her mouth; she was too surprised (and too proud, maybe) to be enthusiastic.

So they went up to the attic. There, Karen lit up a candle (a pink perfumed candle she had taken from the bathroom). She looked very excited. Between some cardboard boxes and an old sofa, they set up the game and sat around it.

There was Julie, the serene and experienced one. There was Karen, the anxious rookie. And finally there was Jennifer, the silent and uncomprehending observer.

"Now we need to be very serious," explained Julie. "It's not going to work if we laugh or goof around. We have to believe in it or else it won't work. Now put your hands on the pointer. Don't press on it, just touch it a little, and let it move when the spirit starts talking."

"It spells out everything it wants to say?" asked Karen.

"Yeah. Okay, so first we have to establish contact," said Julie, her tone suggesting she didn’t want any more interruptions. After a very ominous pause, she slowly said: "Are you there?"

Beneath their fingers, they all felt the pointer inch its way towards the YES pictogram.

"Okay," said Julie, getting excited despite her cool and calm. "I think it's here. Do you want to know its name?"

"Yes!" Karen whispered.

"What is your name?" asked Julie with solemnity.

The pointer made its way to K. Then, very slowly, it went to the R.

"KR…" spelled Karen.

"Shhh," said Julie.

From R, it went to S.

"KRS?" asked Karen.

"No," said Julie impatiently. "One of you moved it with your hand. The S doesn't count."

So it went on to the H.

"KRH?" Karen went on.

"No, it went over the I before the H," said Julie with authority.

Then, nervously, they felt the pointer go to END.

"His name his Krih," she concluded.

Jennifer was doing her best not to laugh. This Julie was such an incredible performer!

Not that I don't believe  I don't know about that yet  but she's so serious, look at her!

"Okay," Julie went on. "Do you have something to ask him? Oh wait! He's saying something."

"What?!? You can hear him?" said Karen with a little scream of astonishment.

"Yes, I have powers," she said in a whisper. "It runs in my family. Wait."

So they looked at her. Her eyes were cloudy with thought. She was absolutely serious. They were getting a little scared, and liking it.

"It... HE says that he can't go on," she said, as if unsure of herself. "He's unhappy. He... he has to leave. But he will contact us again, maybe tonight, and reveal something."

"You mean he'll talk to us, when we're alone?" asked Karen with a worried look on her face.

"Maybe, I don't know. Look, it's pointing to END again. He's gone."

So it ended. Soon, the candle was extinguished, the attic door closed, and they were back downstairs.

Was she simply tired of playing, or was the ghost really unable to go on? I wonder... I've known Julie to have her whims before...

But there was no way to know for sure.

Julie followed Karen to her room. As for Jennifer, she returned to her own room, and looked outside through her window for a long time.

II.

2006-07-18T22:40:00.000-04:00

Later in the evening, Jennifer's mother remembered to give her a letter that had come for her in the mail. It was from Doug, a childhood friend that had moved across the country, and with whom she had maintained a good friendship.

_____________________________

Dear Jennifer,

How are you doing? Good I hope. Me? Well I'm doing okay.

How is your dad? I hope he's feeling better. My uncle had a minor stroke too, last year, and he's recovered completely, so I do think you should worry.

Do you have a boyfriend yet? I'm still going out with Clara. I'm sure you'd like her if you met her. Of course she's your complete opposite. You have dark hair, she has blonde hair. You're shy, she's full of energy. You're tall, she's short.

Have you thought about my offer? It would really mean a lot to me. It's been so long since we've seen each other. We have so much catching up to do. Letters are never as good as a real conversation.

Anyway I better go. I'm in my math class, and Mister Bloated (Bolton) would be really mad if he caught me writing a letter.

Write soon, you hear? Last time I had to wait two months for an answer!!!

Have a ball, it's an order!

Your friend,

Doug

_____________________________

It left her less than happy.

I'm always glad to get a letter from him, yet afterwards I'm always sad. Why is it that letters are always so insignificant? Maybe because we're starting from scratch each time we write one. But for once, I would like the contents to be important. Not a damn telegram, but a real LETTER. Something that you can read many times, and try to understand for hours. But Doug's not to blame… I'm sure my letters feel the same to him. Because neither of us has the guts to really pour our hearts out.

Still, it was good to hear from him.

As she was pondering on what to write to him in her reply, she heard the front door open and close downstairs. Probably Julie, Karen's friend. Suddenly, Jennifer was itching to go downstairs to see what was up.

She left her room, and came face to face with them in the stairs.

I [continued].

2006-07-13T05:43:00.000-04:00

She sat on her chair by the window, and looked outside. From here, she could see the entire backyard. Her mother was there at the moment, standing in the middle of the yard, raking the leaves. She also had a fire going, and thin white smoke was filling the air, going up and up to join the clouds.

That's what I'll do. I'll go outside and help mom.

Not that she was that anxious to rake, but it was an occupation, and one that would be of help to another. She put on a wool sweater, and joined her mother outside.

"Hi sweetheart!" said her mother. "Did you just get home?"

"Yeah, five minutes ago. Need any help?" she replied.

"Sure," said her mother with a smile. "Here, burn this pile here, I have to go inside for a minute."

Her mother handed her the rake, and went in the house. Jennifer did as she was told, and brought big handfuls of dead leaves to the fire. At once she breathed in the peculiar smell of burning vegetation, that Autumn smell. The sun was radiant, giving a glorious yellow shine to the already colorful foliage.

The light is strange today. Artificial. It's like a light we would see on a theatre stage, or on a movie-set. It gives a joyous feeling to the entire scene.

A little while later, her mother came back.

"Hey, I'm not paying you to stand around and mope," she joked. Jennifer went back to work with a smile.

For twenty minutes all she did was rake and rake, the scattered mounds getting bigger and bigger. She was intent on her work, in fact not thinking of it at all. She was listening to the leaves she was raking, and to her it was like the sound of waves on a beach. She thought of the Ouija board, and of how strange it is that young people should be interested by such things. Then…

"That's enough, you can burn some of it now," said her mother, gently.

So she did. The leaves covered the red-hot coals, and a thick pillar of smoke arose. She suddenly thought of an episode in a Stephen King novel, It, when the young heroes dig themselves a pit in which to make a fire, the smoke of which was supposed to give them visions. Smiling, she got closer to the fire, and breathed in a lungful of smoke. She almost choked on it, then let it go. It occurred to her that it was a strange thing to do.

Imagine explaining that to mom.

She laughed, feeling light-headed and slow.

They both worked for another half an hour, then went inside for dinner.

I.

2006-07-11T21:49:00.000-04:00

Jennifer stepped down from the school-bus. Her older sister Karen was walking behind with her friend Julie. As they were heading home, Jennifer listened with serious intent to what the older girls were saying.

"So, do you believe in it?" Julie was asking.

"I don't know. Do you?" replied Karen.

"Yeah. The other day, I was playing with my cousin Mary, and we heard a voice. It was creepy."

"What did it say?" asked Karen with wide-eyed interest

"Oh, something like ‘Leave me be’," she said offhandedly.

Karen looked thoughtful.

Jennifer was intensely curious, having no idea what they were talking about, but she chose to remain silent.

"So, you wanna play?" asked Julie with earnest.

"Okay. Tonight?" said Karen with some trace of wariness.

"Yes, as soon as the sun is down, we can play. Just call me whenever you want me to come over," said Julie as she was getting away from them.

"Okay."

Karen waved to Julie, and they each went their way.

Now that she was alone with her sister, Jennifer could not help but ask what they had been talking about.

"Oh, this game called 'Ouija'. You call spirits, and they answer," replied Karen.

Now Jennifer was shocked. A game, in which to talk with spirits. Somehow those concepts didn't go well together .

As they entered their driveway, Jennifer looked up at her house, and, because of their talk, saw it as a haunted mansion, filled with the shadowy ghosts of her family.

Why am I getting scared by my own house? It's not even big enough to be a mansion... a basement, two stories and an attic, that's all. But still, I've lived here my all my life, and can't help being overwhelmed by the amount of life that's contained in these walls. The life that's right now making me think of spirits.

They went inside, and took off their shoes and coats. Karen then went to her room (immediately picking up her personal phone, no doubt), while Jennifer went in the living room, sat down on the couch, and turned on the television. She watched the images of some commercial flicker and flash, but her mind was elsewhere. A minute or two went by.

Why am I even bothering with this thing? I know there's nothing good on, not at this time anyway.

So she turned it off and went up to her room.

CHAPTER 1: Autumn

2006-07-11T21:48:00.000-04:00