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A home without a wall, |
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A home without a wall, |
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| Passions in Prose |
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The Kitchen Floor |
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Bec Member
since 2001-02-23
Posts 475Canberra 
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This is my first attempt at posting my work on the forum. I do write poetry, but lately I've been writing a lot of short stories. This is based on a true story told to me by my mother. It's a long one, but I hope you think it's worth it...  THE KITCHEN FLOOR Rosalie lived in an old house with her mum, Anne, her dad, George, her older brother, Simon, and her dog, Slimer. Rosalie and her family had moved into the house a few weeks ago, but Rosalie could hear people whispering behind the fences and on the street about the family that lived in the haunted house. “Simon,” Rosalie asked one day while he was playing one of his Playstation games, “What does ‘haunted’ mean?” Simon laughed. “Don’t be silly Rose. What do you need to know that for? Go and play with Slimer, can’t you see I’m trying to play a game?” But Rosalie was stubborn, and was determined to find out what ‘haunted’ meant. She asked her mum and dad. “It means that there is a ghost living in a house. But ghosts aren’t real, so there was nothing to worry about,” said Dad, smiling down at his inquisitive daughter. No one believed Rosalie that people said their house was haunted, so she told Slimer all about it after dinnertime while Mum did the dishes, Dad watched the news and Simon did his homework in the kitchen. Slimer wasn’t very interested either. He barked playfully as he chased the moths that flitted around the kitchen, or tried to eat the bubbles mum made with the dishwashing detergent. After Mum had done the dishes, and Simon had finished his homework, they all sat in the lounge room and watched television together. Simon and Rosalie sat on the couch, and Mum and Dad sat in their armchairs with cups of steaming coffee, and watched the program. One night as the family sat and watched television, there was a scratching noise in the kitchen. “Simon, go and get Slimer, before he scratches a hole in the lino,” said Mum absently, staring at the picture on the screen. “Slimer is in here, Mum,” replied Simon, and he pointed to Slimer on the floor at dad’s feet. Dad went to look in the kitchen to see what made the noise, but there was nothing there. “Anne,” he said, as he settled back into his armchair, “You’ll have to go to the shop and buy a few mouse traps, we must have mice. You never know what was in this old house before we bought it.” Mum set the mouse traps, with a little bit of cheese on each, one under the fridge, one under the old wood stove and one in the bottom of the pantry cupboard. “There,” said Dad, as Mum set the last trap. “They’re probably the best places to catch a mouse.” Mum didn’t know, she’d never tried to catch a mouse before. Every morning when Dad checked the traps, they would all be set off, with the bait still on them, but no mouse. “You must be doing it wrong, Anne,” Dad said as he watched Mum reset the traps. “You’re not catching anything.” “I don’t know how to do it, George,” Mum said while she crawled around the kitchen floor to retrieve the traps. “We’ve never had mice before.” Dad decided that he would try to catch them from now on. He knew how to set the best mousetraps, ones that mice couldn’t escape from. But every morning it was still the same. The traps had been set off, still with the bait on them, but no mouse. Dad didn’t know what to do. They could still hear the scratching in the kitchen every night, but whenever someone went in to have a look, no matter how quietly they tiptoed into the kitchen, the mouse was gone. Dad was getting very annoyed with the mouse. After four weeks of trying to trap it, he decided he’d had enough and it was time to call the pest exterminators. “There,” he said, slamming down the phone triumphantly. “The exterminator is going to come out on Friday.” Mum went to the calendar to mark the date. “The thirteenth?” “That’s the one. Is that a problem for you?” “No, no. That’s fine.” After dinner, homework and television, Mum and Dad sent Rosalie and Simon to bed, and shortly after, went to bed themselves. At about midnight, Rosalie heard the scratching sound coming from the kitchen again. Determined not to let the exterminator kill the poor innocent mouse, she crept out to catch the mouse herself, and let him go in the garden. Her feet made no sound as she padded out of her thickly carpeted bedroom and into the thickly carpeted hallway. She started to tiptoe quietly past Mum and Dad’s room, being careful not to disturb her loudly snoring Dad. Dad stopped snoring, and rolled over. Rosalie’s heart began to beat wildly. She stopped, and quietly dropped to her knees, and shuffled past Mum and Dad’s room. Dad soon started snoring again. Rosalie got back on her feet, and kept tiptoeing towards the kitchen. She reached the kitchen door, and stopped dead. Sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor, was a little boy, with his back to Rosalie, scratching at the lino with his fingers. She screamed in horror. The boy turned around, looked at Rosalie, his eyes full of tears, and vanished. Mum and Dad ran into the kitchen, Mum wearing her pink flannelette pyjamas, and Dad wearing his Casper boxer shorts. “Rose, what’s wrong?” asked Mum, as Dad scooped her up in his arms. “There was a boy, a little boy sitting on the floor,” Rosalie sniffled. “He was scratching on the floor. When I screamed, he disappeared.” She buried her head in Dad’s shoulder. He patted her on the back of the head. “I’m sure you just imagined it, darling,” said Dad, as he carried her back to her room and tucked her into bed. “You just go back to sleep, and we’ll have a look in the morning.” The next day Dad inspected the kitchen carefully for clues about the visitor from the night before. But he found nothing. Rosalie started to think she must have been imagining things. She really didn’t want the exterminator to kill the mouse, she must have dreamed about hearing it, so she could rescue it. That night, at about midnight, as Mum and Dad were going to bed, they heard the scratching noise coming from the kitchen. They looked at each other; each thinking about what Rosalie said she saw. “You don’t think…” they both started. They tiptoed to the kitchen, not really sure what to expect. When they got to the kitchen, they saw a little boy, about three or four years old. He was dressed in nineteenth century clothes, and was scratching at the floor wildly, like he was trying to dig through the kitchen floorboards. Dad took a step closer, and one of the floorboards creaked. The boy turned around, looked at them with his eyes full of tears, and vanished. The next day Dad paid a visit to old Mrs Sinclair next door. She had been living in town for as long as anyone could remember, so he thought she might have an explanation. Over a cup of tea and some scones, Mrs Sinclair told Dad the story of the house. “Well,” she began, as she pulled a tray of biscuits out of the oven, “The story goes that about a hundred years ago, there was a young family in the house, with a little boy, about three or four. Poor mite came down with tuberculosis, and the doctors told them they had to burn all of his toys, in case they had the germs in them. More tea, dear? Would you like one of these biscuits? They’re baked fresh this morning? There you go. Now, where was I? Oh, yes, the boy’s toys. The boy’s father couldn’t bring himself to burn the toys, because he knew how much the boy loved them. So he pulled up some of the floorboards in the kitchen and put them in there. Of course, the child died, and the parents couldn’t bear to stay in the house any more, so they moved away. Ever since then, no one has been able to stay in that house very long. I think you and your family are the first people to live in there for about five or six years. That house has had more owners than you’ve had hot dinners, love.” Dad looked into his empty teacup, deep in thought. “Thank you for the lovely tea and scones, Mrs Sinclair. You’ve been a wonderful help.” When Mum came home from picking Simon and Rosalie up from school, they found Dad in the kitchen, with the lino lifted up, and some of the floorboards pulled up next to him. “What on earth do you think you’re doing?” Mum asked. Dad told the whole story to the amazed family, while he pulled up more floorboards, determined to find the toys Mrs Sinclair had told him about. Simon sat on the floor next to Dad and helped him pull up the floorboards. Rosalie got the torch out of the cupboard and shone it under the floorboards, trying to see the toys. Something shone back at her. “Dad! Dad!” she cried excitedly, as she waved the torch around, the light reflecting off the eyes of the toys, “Under there! Under there!” Dad and Simon pulled up more and more boards until they reached the toys. There were about 50 teddy bears and other stuffed animals, dusty and dirty from sitting under the kitchen floorboards for a hundred years. Simon reached in and pulled out handfuls of toys, and piled them on the floor. When he had them all out, and Dad nailed the floorboards back in and fixed the lino, Mum asked, “Now what are you going to do with all these toys?” “We’re going to leave them here for the boy,” Dad replied, as he dusted himself off and pulled cobwebs off Simon’s sleeve. “See what happens when he can get to the toys.” That night, Mum, Dad, Simon and Rosalie sat on Mum and Dad’s bed, and waited for midnight, when the little boy would be in the kitchen. They all tiptoed out to the kitchen to see the boy. He was sitting in his usual spot on the floor in the kitchen, but he wasn’t scratching at the floor. He was playing with his toys, throwing an old blue bear high into the air and catching it, squealing with delight. Simon had never seen the boy before, and he took a step closer to get a better look. The floorboard squeaked, and the boy looked up. But instead of his eyes full of tears, he was smiling. He vanished, and so did the toys. The next morning, Mum swept the dust from the toys out of the kitchen. She hummed softly to herself as the broom clattered into the legs of the table. She hit something soft with the broom under the table. She stopped humming, and got down on the floor to see what it was. She picked up the old blue bear the boy had been playing with. Mum smiled to herself, and thought that the boy must have left it as a thank you. Late that evening, Dad rushed through the door and waved a slip of paper around in his hand. “I’ve got the boy’s name! I found it at the library. He was Robert Banks, and he was born in 1896 and died in 1899. He’s buried in the cemetery outside town.” Mum picked the bear up off the table and gave it to Dad. “Look what he left us.” Rosalie looked at the bear. He looked like he was hand made, and she decided that if she was three years old in 1899, she probably would have liked him very much. “I know! Mum, Dad, can we take the bear to Robert? He might miss him.” Simon jumped up off the couch and scared Slimer, who was having a nap in a pool of warm sunshine at Simon’s feet. “That’s a great idea, Rose! Can we go now?” Mum, Dad, Simon and Rosalie walked slowly among the headstones, looking for Robert Banks. They walked for an hour, but found nothing. An elderly man dressed in grey trousers, a button up shirt and a tweed coat made his way towards them. “You folks looking for someone in particular? Maybe I can be of service? I’m the caretaker of the cemetery here.” Dad told the caretaker who he was looking for, and the caretaker took a small index book out of his pocket and ruffled through the pages. “Ah ha, here we are,” the caretaker said, laying his finger on an entry on the page. “This way.” He led them to a small area in the corner of the cemetery with a small cement slab. “This is where Robert is. The family was too poor to afford a proper headstone for him, poor little fella. Anyway, I’ll leave you folks to it. If I can do anything else for you, give me a holler.” With that, the caretaker ambled away. Rosalie knelt on the grass next to the little slab. She carefully laid the old blue bear, which she had christened Charlie on the way over, on top of it. “Here you go, Robert. Thank you for leaving him for us, but we think you need him more than we do,” she whispered, and she leaned down and gave the slab a kiss. It was a cloudy day, and a slight breeze lifted the hair off Rosalie’s neck. The clouds parted, and for a brief moment, the sun shone down on the little group, before more clouds zipped the gap up quickly. A few months later, Rosalie and Mum were weeding at Robert’s grave, and scrubbing the new headstone they had put up. The old blue bear was still there. The caretaker, who lived next door, would take him inside every evening, and bring him back out every morning. Rosalie stopped, and looked at Mum. “What do you think happened to Robert’s toys, Mum?” Mum stopped working and looked back a Rosalie. “He probably took them to heaven with him. He’s probably playing with them right now, watching us look after his grave for him.” Rosalie looked thoughtfully at the blue bear. “Do you think he minds that I named him Charlie? Maybe he already had a name?” “I don’t think Robert would mind you naming Charlie. Why did you name him Charlie?” “Because that’s what Nanna called Granddad. I miss my Granddad, and I’m sure Robert misses Charlie.” Mum smiled. Rosalie was only tiny when her father and mother had passed away. She was surprised Rosalie remembered at all. “That’s a very nice name, honey. What do you say we go home for some lunch?” “Yes please, Mum.” Rosalie took Mum’s hand, and they walked to the car, while Charlie stood watch over Robert’s grave. |
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| © Copyright 2001 Rebecca Soric - All Rights Reserved | |||
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Dee Member Elite
since 2000-08-19
Posts 2330Queensland, Australia |
Bec honey, this is the first chance I have had to read all of this. It brought a tear or two to my eyes. You have done a wonderful job, I love it. Even though it is only based on our story you have put so much more into it and I think your Nanna's Dad would be proud of you. He always wanted us to be able to write like him and I think you have got his talent too.  Mum I wish you every happiness and may you always have the best of the good things in life. a brand |
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Bec Member
since 2001-02-23
Posts 475Canberra |
Dee... Not very often I get to call you that! I'm so glad you liked it. It was your story to start with, and even though there are other people who need to like this story, you are one of the most important people that I want to like it. I didn't know Nan's Dad, but I hope he approves... The past is a foreign country - they do things differently there ~ Unknown |
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Dusk Treader
Moderator
Senior Member
since 1999-06-18
Posts 1187St. Paul, MN |
Wonderful tale you've woven here. Surprising that after all my time in here this is my first tale with a ghost siting A very nice story you've penned here, I enjoyed the tale and special care the family gave to the ghost, and not the normal reaction of terror."Beat a drum for me, like a butterfly wing |
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Bec Member
since 2001-02-23
Posts 475Canberra |
Dusk Treader... Thank you for your encouraging comment. I know it's unusual to treat a ghost that way, but I guess that must have been the sort of person my great-grandfather was! The past is a foreign country - they do things differently there ~ Unknown |
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Parker Member Elite
since 2000-01-06
Posts 3129ON |
Bec, it was an interesting story. I enjoyed it very much. I don't usually like ghost stories but this one was very nice. Parker |
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Bec Member
since 2001-02-23
Posts 475Canberra |
Parker... Thank you. I'm glad I've managed to write an enjoyable ghost story! Bec The past is a foreign country - they do things differently there ~ Unknown |
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Marge Tindal 
since 1999-11-06
Posts 42384Florida's Foreverly Shores |
Bec~ I'm here to tell you that you did a wonderful job with this. I prefer to think of Robert's appearance to be that of his spirit ... It is not unusual for the spirit of one to return in search of that which will either make their soul happier, or to ease a pain in someone else's heart. This is tenderly told and held my interest all the way through~ If your grandpa knew this little spirit, Robert, rest assured that there are now two more of them happy with your penning~ More ? ~*Marge*~ ~*The pen of the poet never runs out of ink, as long as we breathe.*~ |
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Bec Member
since 2001-02-23
Posts 475Canberra |
Marge... Thank you for your wonderful comments. I had no idea that a ghost story would be received so well! Guys, I appreciate that you like this so much, but please feel free to tell me if you think there are things that don't quite work... I'd really like that. The past is a foreign country - they do things differently there ~ Unknown |
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Poet deVine
Administrator
Member Seraphic
since 1999-05-26
Posts 22612Hurricane Alley |
Bump! |
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Bec Member
since 2001-02-23
Posts 475Canberra |
PdV... Thanks for the bump! I'm not sure why you bumped... but thanks!Bec "Poetry and Hums aren't things which you get, they're things which get you. And all you can do is to go where they can find you." |
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Poet deVine
Administrator
Member Seraphic
since 1999-05-26
Posts 22612Hurricane Alley |
This is the prose piece you were so worried about...thought maybe you'd like to discuss it..but after reading it, I think it was a case of 'beauty is in the eye of the beholder'..and your teacher wasn't looking at this the right way, cause it's a beauty in MY eyes!!! |
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Bec Member
since 2001-02-23
Posts 475Canberra |
PdV... This isn't the piece... sorry, I mustn't have explained that very well... I'm not going to presume that you do actually want to read the peice in question, but if you do, mail me. I don't expect you to, but if you want, I won't be disappointed if you don't, promise... Bec "Poetry and Hums aren't things which you get, they're things which get you. And all you can do is to go where they can find you." |
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Solstice Son Member
since 2000-09-19
Posts 469 |
Beautifully done...send it in to someone...have it published around harvest time when spookey stories are all the rage...its that good hun Sol " The question shouldn't be...'Why are we here?' but rather 'ARE we here? " |
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Voiceless Senior Member
since 2001-02-19
Posts 686Under the stars upon the wind |
OH I love this! It is absolutely the greatest, Thank you for sharing! Freedom is not Free (Korean War memorial) |
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Bec Member
since 2001-02-23
Posts 475Canberra |
Solstice Son... Wow... Thank you so much for your comment. I didn't really think of something like that! This was an assessment poece for university, and it was pretty well received. Voiceless... Thank you! I'm so glad you like it! Bec "Poetry and Hums aren't things which you get, they're things which get you. And all you can do is to go where they can find you." |
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Sunshine
Administrator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-06-25
Posts 63354Listening to every heart |
Bec, I saw your note, and I will come back to this later tonight to read in full. For now, here's that BUMP you need for others to give it full consideration and some possible critiquing! |
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Fariegirl Member
since 2003-02-05
Posts 147 |
I really liked this. I used to only post in poetry, too. Welcome here, I hope to read more of your work.  ~*Love never said is love never felt.*~ |
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tonia Junior Member
since 2003-06-13
Posts 41taiwan |
you really did a good job, keep writing! it really is a fab...i think next time you can maybe consider putting less effort on the details(clothes...etc.)..not saying that its not good,just stating that you can put more emphasize on the facts...im also new at this,too...so dont take my suggestion seriously if you dont want to. p.s. it's a really nice piece tonia =) |
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Bec Member
since 2001-02-23
Posts 475Canberra |
Sunshine... Thanks for the bump! Faeriegirl... This is actually one I wrote ages ago, but I'm glad you liked it! Tonia... That's the sort of thing I'm looking for! Thank you so much for your suggestions. I plan to incorporate them into the re-write. Bec "Poetry and Hums aren't things which you get, they're things which get you. And all you can do is to go where they can find you." |
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