C.E. Phillippi

The floorboards here always feel cold. It does not matter if the sun is shining through the dusty glass or if the Alaskan snow is piled high against the porch. The chill stays. I spend a lot of time watching the light move across the wood; it is the only way I can really tell that time is passing at all.

Sometimes I look down at my dress. The blue is still bright, even though everything else in this house seems to be fading into grey. I remember when it was new. I remember the way the fabric felt soft against my knees and how the hem would swish when I ran. Now, I do not run very much. I mostly drift from the corner of the hallway to the top of the stairs, waiting for a sound that makes sense.

The new family is here now. I see the Edwards children, and I want to reach out to them. I want to tell them to be careful of the shadows that stretch too long in the corners of the rooms. There is a heaviness that lives in the walls (something that was here long before they arrived) and it watches them just like I do.

The Hatman is never far away. When the house gets very quiet, I can hear the scrape of his presence. It is like a weight pressing down on the roof. I try to stay in the light because he thrives in the dark parts of the hallway where the lamps do not reach. He wants everyone to be as afraid as I was, but I am trying to find a way to be brave for them.

I wonder if they can see me standing by the window. I hope they see the blue of my dress and know that I am not the one they should fear. I am just a girl who stayed behind, watching the snow fall and hoping that someone finally brings enough light to drive the tall shadows away.