The Pages of Life

Being an avid reader as a child, it was no surprise that I naturally gravitated towards writing. It was my childhood dream to become an author when I grew up, but I had to push those dreams aside to take care of my Mom, who was terminally ill. After her passing, I packed up everything and left my hometown behind; with no house of our own, nor with any other family or friends in the area, I had no regrets about the departure.

Two towns over, I found a nice annex connected to the house of an old lady named Ethel. She was a gentle soul that reminded me a lot of my mom. When we first talked on the phone, she was thrilled to hear that I once wanted to be an author. Ethel herself was a published author, but she had not written anything in years and had several unfinished projects that she no longer had the energy to focus on.

Ethel asked if I’d mind helping her with her forgotten projects while I stayed in the annex. She said she’d include me as a co-author, and even reduce my rent by half. I agreed to help her but asked her to keep the rent as it was. She was too generous. The two of us made strides within the coming months, and before we knew it, the first of her unfinished novels was published within a year and a half.

With that first book crossed off, we expedited our efforts for the remaining projects. Ethel and I published one book per year for the next four years, until all her unfinished work had finally come to fruition. She was thrilled about our success, and so grateful for my help. Ethel then asked me why don’t I pursue my own work next; I was a bit hesitant at first, wondering how I’d compare alone, her words of encouragement to trust my instincts and experience were all I needed.

It was not long after those words of encouragement, however, that Ethel departed from this world: later that same year, she drifted away in her sleep. I hoped her passing was peaceful. I oversaw all of Ethel’s funeral arrangements since, like my mom and me, she, too, had no living relatives or friends in the area. There weren’t many people at her burial except for a few of our neighbours. However, I did see, or rather sense, something strange… It was as if there were multiple silhouettes fluttering in the spaces around me, mourning Ethel as much as I did.

A few days passed. I took some time off from work to collect my thoughts, but there was also this lingering unease that followed me into every room. Those phantoms from the funeral seemed to have attached themselves to the house. Ethel’s lawyer told me that she left it to me, along with all her money and other belongings. She didn’t have to rent out her annex; I could only assume she simply longed for company. However, I was left alone in what seemed to be a haunted house. But the strangest thing was that I never felt any sense of danger from those fluttering shadows, just loss.

Seven days later, they finally spoke to me… I was left speechless when the voices emerged from the air, whispers fleeting in the stillness of the night. “We are your creations… We mourn her, same as you do.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing; I could only remain backed against the bedpost, watching as wisps of light danced in the dark spaces of the bedroom. “You needn’t fear us, Louisa, we just want you to continue our work. It’s what Ethel would have wanted…”

The lights and voices then trailed off with one final plea to continue with my writing. I remained seated in bed for the rest of the night, trying to wrap my head around what had just come to pass. I could still feel them around me, eagerly awaiting my return to my unfinished work. I took a deep breath and jumped out of bed. “ I really do owe it to her, and to Mom… I would’ve never gotten where I am today without either of them.” Those were the thoughts that fortified my will as I raced to the kitchen to make myself some coffee before resuming my forgotten journey.