I had first come to write. I had hoped a séjour in the country might do me good. I had always hated the countryside, the slow pace of life, and the deafening silence of the empty stretches of road, but mama always loved. She enjoyed the emptiness, and used to tell me boredom was good for the soul. I guess that might’ve been what pushed me to journey all the way here. Perhaps boredom was the inspiration I needed to finish my novel. When I finally arrived, I noticed the house had not aged a minute. The walls still their pristine sky blue, the plaster still lily white.  The house was laughing at time, and at death itself.  There was, I thought to myself, perhaps one change. The hill on which the house was perched seemed steeper than I remembered. As a child, I used to run up the hill with ease, chasing the dog back up to the cottage while papa was away and mum was slumped over in her sofa, reeking of dry vermouth and regret. But now, I found myself out of breath not halfway up this pastoral Kilimanjaro. Finally reaching the top, and tired from my long journey, I let myself in, and collapsed into mamas’ old sofa.

 

Once I mustered the energy to get up off the couch, I decided I should put the house in some order. Opening the shutters, I began to notice the dust that seemed to cover every surface of the house, sticking to it like glue. Not one single object in the room seemed to escape this thin film of filth, not the wax bananas mama always loathed, nor the mantelpiece, nor my old dollhouse. Above the mantelpiece hung a painting of the house, which mama always hated. I remember how she used to stare at it for hours, complaining of the forced perspective. No matter how long and hard she looked at it, she never could find the paintings’ vanishing point, the point in the distance at which all perpendicular lines seemed to meet. I was no art critic, but I always thought it was pretty picture. Looking at it now, I noticed so many details that, as a child, I could never appreciate. The delicate brushstrokes, the realistic rendition of house, even the deftness with which the dirt and gravel path leading up to the house had been depicted. But as I followed the perpendicular lines, I realized mama had been correct, the painting had no vanishing point. Looking up from the picture, I came to see how large and airy the house actually was. Alone in this big living room, with its’ lofty ceilings and large alcoves, the weight of the silence and solitude of this place began to sink in. I felt as though the house was judging me for allowing it to remain in such a state of neglect for years. Perhaps it was right to do so, I had abandoned it, without ever planning to return. “But I’m here now, is that not good enough?” I screamed. But the house didn’t respond, and the dust simply remained as is, mocking me.  

 

I decided to just get cracking, I didn’t have time to deal with dust, I had a deadline.  As I began to type, the echo of the pitter-patter of my typewriter began to fill the room with a pleasant cacophony of sounds. A symphony of productivity, it warmed my heart in a way I had not expected. As the sun began to set, I realized that the house was no longer connected to any source of electricity, and being in such a remote area, it would be unlikely that I’d be able to find a generator before night fell. I began to frantically search our outdated kitchen for some candles and kindling for the fireplace, but could only find a handful of birthday candles and some damp logs that had been stored behind the old liquor cabinet. Crouched there in the small cabinet, I painstakingly selected the few logs that seemed to have survived the cold, damp rot of years gone by. I remember how mama used to spend hours crouched in this very same position, seeing if she could find even a drop of brandy or bourbon to top up her umpteenth drink of the night. As a child, I used to think she was so funny, playing hide and seek by herself in that cabinet, but it’s only as I grew up I began to understand the depths of her sadness. I remember the day papa left, she sat crouched in that cabinet until every bottle had been drunk dry. She even slept there, without even a blanket for warmth, clinging on to her pillow like a life preserver. The next day her pillow was stained with tears, and no matter how many times we washed it, the spot would simply not come out. 

 

Awaking from my reverie, and realizing that the darkness of night was very nearly upon me, I rushed to light the fire. That done, I decided to pay the washroom a visit, armed with my little blue birthday candle as my only source of light. Though the electricity was out, I was happy to find the water was still running.  As I started a second fire to heat the furnace, and began to draw myself a bath, I peeped out the window and saw something I had never seen. A lone figure, a woman from the looks of it, was standing at the edge of the hill above the lake. I couldn’t tell for certain but it seemed she was wearing the same clothes as me, a beige pullover with brown checkered trousers. What’s more odd is I could’ve sworn she was staring at me. I couldn’t tell for certain, her face was shrouded by the inky black of night, but I could feel her eyes, burning into me and burrowing through me like hot coals. I jumped back. I had always been afraid of spending the night alone in the house, and now, with mummy gone, it seemed like I was going to have to do just that. Oh why didn’t I just stay in my flat in the city? What pushed me to come to the ends of the earth on such a whim? These questions hung over me, like an executioners axe. As soon as I came to my senses, I quickly slammed the shutters closed. I was too unnerved to take my bath. In the pitch of black, and without even the slightest beam moonlight to guide my path, I slowly made my way to my old bedroom, and threw myself on the bed with great force.  I daren’t sleep in mamas’ bed, though it was bigger and plusher. The idea seemed disrespectful somehow. As I lay there with my eyes closed, watching my twilight images go by, I could still feel the burning of her eyes in mine. I suddenly had a premonition, the feeling that, somehow, she was in the house with me. I wanted to get up, to search the house, to protect myself, but no sooner did the idea come into my mind did I feel my body sink into a deep, and dreamless sleep. 

 

I awoke the next morning, not with a feeling of fear, but simply one of curiosity. I felt compelled to find out exactly what was going on. I walked to the washroom and threw open the shutters, but she wasn’t there. And why would she still be there, however many hours later? I hurriedly put on my coat and rushed out into the cool, crisp autumn morning. I ran to the precipice where she had been standing the night before but saw nothing. No footprints, not a single blade of grass out of place. I stood as close to the edge as I dared, and looked down into the deep, blue lake. It was perfectly still, no sign of a boat nor a person in sight. I looked up at my washroom window and still, I saw nothing. I went back in to treat myself to a modest meal of cold oatmeal and milk. Finished with my unpleasant gruel, I figured today was as good a day as any to get a generator. I began my hour trek through the hills to the village. When I arrived at the general store, I was greeted by a young man in a red shirt and blue work overalls. Averting his gaze, I silently made my way to the back of the store in search of supplies. Having found my generator, I returned to the till, where the young man attempted to regale me with a bit of rural gossip. But I was in no mood for conversation. I simply nodded along as he rang up my purchase, and quickly left as soon as possible. Though I’m normally not one to pass up the opportunity to gossip, I desperately wished to return home, to see if anything unusual happened. 

 

Upon my return to the house, I promptly set up the generator. After a few attempts to start it, I finally succeeded. Its’ pleasant purr, and the whirling of its’ gears and mechanisms, filled me with pride. That’s when I began to feel a presence. Her presence. I felt her beckoning me to the foot of the hill, like an invisible hand guiding me in her direction. Once I reached the bottom of the hill, I felt as though she was there, though I could not see her. I felt her hands on my shoulders, and suddenly, I felt her warm breath on the nape of my neck. The feeling of her hands on my shoulders, the tenseness in her fingers, it felt somehow familiar. A kind of deja-vu, as though it had recalled a deeply ingrained memory from the recesses of my mind, like something from a past life. An uneasiness washed over me, and I suddenly had the distinct feeling that this spur of the moment trip was in-fact, somehow, predetermined. This thought left me petrified. 

 

I began to run, blindly, and out of instinct. I ran up the hill, panting like a thirsty dog, but no matter how fast I ran, it seemed that the house was further and further away. The house almost seemed to be disappearing into the distance, like I was stuck in the forced perspective of a painting. The house was the vanishing point, a place in the distance that’s at once so close yet infinitely far. I began to panic, my mind racing faster than it ever had before. My eyes began to lose focus, and the world seemed to grow darker and darker. I could no longer see anything in my periphery, simply the house at the top of the hill, the vanishing point, taunting me. Tears began to stream down my face. I’m not sure what happened next, I seemed to lose all sense of time and space, but somehow, I had managed to make it to the top of the hill. Once at the top, I caught my breath, quickly ran in and shut the door behind me. “This can’t be real!” I thought to myself, as I bolted the door for extra security.  

 

I decided I needed a nice, warm bath to relax. Making my way to the upstairs washroom, I tried to calm myself down, practising the breathing exercises mama had taught me as a child. Having made it to the washroom, I once again started the fire in the furnace, waiting on the toilet seat for the water to be warmed. As I began to recline in my bathtub, I chanced to look out the window. There she was! In my clothes again, the same pants and pullover as yesterday. However, this time, with the electricity on, I could see her face. I was mortified. She had my face! And she was staring right at me, making unwavering eye contact. She was smiling, an unnerving and almost childlike smile, like that of a delinquent pulling a juvenile prank. She continued to smile at me, backing up closer and closer to the edge. Then she just fell back, almost as though the wind pushed her, into the cold depths of the half frozen lake. And all the while, she continued to smile. I yelped, like a dog who’s foot had been stepped on, but there was no one for miles to hear me. I felt sick, and quickly pulled myself out of the bathtub only to throw up in the sink. How could she do that? How could I do that? Was she me? The room began to spin and I promptly fell to the ground. When I came to, only one hour had passed. I dragged myself downstairs, to mummys’ drinking cabinet. I had never really been one for alcohol, but that night I drank like had a death wish. Perhaps I did. Eventually, I don’t know when, I passed out from a combination of stress and liquor. 

 

When I came to the next morning, I had a killing head. I thought of doing work, but under these circumstances how could I? I decided to go out to the precipice again, hoping to make some sense of the situation. Again I looked up at the window, and somehow, for some reason, I began to smile. It started as a mere grin, but quickly grew into a toothy, beaming smile. I felt so frightened. I ran back inside and did not leave for the rest of the day. At night, I returned to the window and saw the same sight I had seen the night previous. 

 

It has been thirty days since that first night, and night after night, I sit at the window, and watch her fall back to her doom. I don’t even feel frightened anymore. My fear and anxiety has since been replaced with a calm and cold indifference. What at first seemed like a torture of unparalleled psychological horror now looks like a farcical pantomime, a skit put on every night for my enjoyment. Tonight, I have decided to join her, to confront her, to demand an explanation. As I march to the precipice, I see no one there. There seems to be no one at the lake either, for as far as the eye can see. I turn to the house and crane my neck up at the bathroom. I see her in the window, but she’s not smiling her usual smile. She seems frightened. Of me! Suddenly I feel the hands on my shoulders again. Tense and strong, stronger than mine, I feel as though they’re the hands of my mother. No, I’m certain of it. I can feel her heavy rings, her long, bony fingers, and her grip, tight like an eagles’ talons. I begin to smile, the grip tightening, as the I feel her sharp nails digging into my skin. The me in the window seems even more frightened than before. I’m sorry my dear, I know how hard this must be for you. How long have been climbing this hill, how many times have I been here before? It doesn’t matter to much to me anymore, the ceaseless urge to seek meaning has seemingly left me for good. Perhaps I have finally reached my vanishing point. Yes, yes, that must be it! Running up hills, only for my goals to vanish before my eyes, fruitless endeavours that I toil over only for them to fall short of perfection, underlining the pointlessness of all the great nothings I achieved in life. “I’m so tired” I whisper to myself, as I heave a deep, harmonic sigh. I lean back, and let the wind take me down to the murky depths, so that I might never see my hill again.