A LONG STRING OF PICTURES
I’ve been at the Silver Star Society for longer than I’d care to tell you. There never was a stop number twenty for me, and at this point, probably never will be. I don’t run away anymore. I don’t need to. This is my home now, and I’ve committed myself to the mission of this place. Guests have come and gone, and I’ve seen it all in my time—the frauds and the faithful, the fights and the friendships, the sunlight and storms.
The times have changed. Horses don’t fill the courtyard much these days. Guests drive automobiles, but their numbers dwindle each year, even as houses are built in the valley, all the way up to the woods, surrounding the stone wall on all sides and filling this place with families and love.
Visitors bring cameras with them, loaded with film, taking pictures of everything in the house like it’s a circus attraction, and nothing more. I often wonder how many actually have faith in the other side, that there are spirits out there, waiting for them.
When Ms. Eldridge passed over one cold winter’s morning, the Silver Star Society began to feel like everywhere else, and some days I look back and wonder: Did I really see the shadows? Did I step over for a time?
I’ve lied to myself before.
Some days I feel like Charles, doubting everything. He was as close to a father as I ever had after my own, and a picture of him hangs in the entryway of the house. He’s leaning against the stone wall after it was rebuilt, that small smile peeking out from underneath his mustache. Other days, I feel like Margaret, believing it all without question. Maybe I’m a little bit of both.
That old camera of mine sits in the upstairs hallway on a wooden tripod, little more than a decoration now. Above it is the picture of me and George on the porch, framed, and if you squint your eyes and tilt your head, you can almost see a shape beside me, and an arm wrapped around my shoulder, a little cowlick of hair sprouting from the top, but maybe that’s just my mind playing tricks.
Still, I know what happened that day, and what I saw. With each passing year, the space between the living and the spirits feels thinner to me. I see people I once knew everywhere I look. Sometimes, shadows paint the walls at night, little white eyes hovering above me, and I wonder if they’re coming for me.
My memories hang in my mind like pictures, clipped on a string that’s draped from edge to edge. Not all of them are clear. Sometimes, storms shake them loose, or a blur appears where it shouldn’t, but I do my best to remember what’s real and what isn’t. With a twist of my fingers, I can reach up, pull a picture down, and be in that moment again.
This evening, the air is chilled, and the wind blows down into the valley, whistling through the houses and crisscrossing streets. I creep out past the metal gate, hiking up my dress as I walk through gardens and yards and into the woods. I know the paths, the rocks, the streams. I know the way to the house where George’s family still lives, and the spot where we buried my secrets long ago. I work my way through the trees to the little clearing and wipe the moss from the stone marker, check the strings on the silver stars that hang from the branches. They’re old and rusted, but still make beautiful sounds when they bump into each other.
It’s peaceful here, a Hidden Place of its own. I can feel the thinness of this place, more and more each day.
Sometimes, when it’s quiet, I call out to him.
John? Are you there?
And tonight, when I listen closely, I can finally hear his voice.