COMMUNITY ESSEX
© 2026 Serj Rowan. All rights reserved.
Chapter One
Now it was their mother lying in the darkness of a narrow coffin. Made of rich brown wood and without ornaments, it rested in the centre of a makeshift morgue, surrounded by faded pastel paintings on the walls. They stood there together—he and she—separated from the coffin by a battered sheet of plastic glass.
A blizzard had struck the tiny community; its heavy discord of sounds penetrated the thin walls and blasted away the expected silence. And while nature recklessly buried roads and houses under snow, there was no turmoil within these two—only scarce, lingering thoughts.
The man blamed the sudden virus that had struck everything and everyone down. I told her, wear a mask… The woman wondered whether the rare, insincere family reunions were her fault. What could I do about their constant excuses?
As they whispered goodbye, holding back tears—the way they were taught—a door in the back opened, and four figures appeared behind the glass. Dressed in worn-out coveralls and frayed respirators, they lifted the coffin onto their shoulders and vanished, leaving the siblings alone on the other side of the room. But the coffin continued to stand before their eyes.
The red tape that followed the farewell dragged the man and the woman to the depths of sorrowful bureaucracy and spat them out at a dinner, where everything tasted bitter, even disgusting, especially the whisky, whose smoky finish made them think of coffin wood.
“Good night.”
“You too.”
Good night, Mother.
Night placed an icy touch upon their beds and thinned their dreams with a ghostly scent of solitude. The man muttered something, pushed his earplugs deeper, and turned over as the blizzard pounced on their windows. The woman lay with her dry eyes open, staring into the void of the ceiling and listening to the wind hammering the glass.
❖
Morning found the North-West Territories bathed in sunlight. The glowing disc had just crested over the horizon, and the omnipresent snow reflected the light—first in faint, hesitant pulses, then sharper and more rapid, like sparks struck from the bars of a cell by a broken spoon. Luminous chaos pounced on the community houses, barging through the windows and tearing through the loosely drawn curtains, reflecting across the walls, onto the beds, and over sleepy faces.
The woman tried to cover her eyes with her palm, but the chilled touch only woke her up. She sat up with a sigh, giving a pale greeting to both morning and the clothes she had not taken off the previous night. Long, thin fingers, their nails bearing remnants of a manicure, ran through her tangled hair, tousling the dry curls—once a richer brown—that now fell in a grey gradient over her shoulders.
Gods, when was the last time I slept properly in this house?
Leaving the bed in a similar havoc as her hair, the woman moved out of the room the same way she had ten years ago and for countless years before that: petted a dilapidated teddy bear that lived on a shelf in solitude, worked the faulty handle open, yawned in the doorway, and slid into the bathroom across the cold hallway, this time trying to straighten maroon trousers on the way.
Something ends, a thought ran through her mind while she watched the toothbrush’s dreary motions in the mirror. She did not notice how her left hand had reached the glass and manifested the words on the foggy surface. The hairdryer expelled the moisture and concealed the letters, but the woman saw them again before leaving the room.
Something ends, Angie. She stared at the mirror, trying to remember when she had added her name, but, blaming it on her clouded head and the heavy morning, wiped the inscription off with a towel.
Done with the stressful hygiene, Angela entered the kitchen, shaking off splashes from her black blouse. The man, of course, was already there. In his early fifties, his hair had aged like hers, as had his neglected beard. They looked at each other but hurried their eyes away. The awkwardness filled the room and stirred up yesterday’s memories, bolstered by visions of a funeral years ago, sustained by all unspoken statements and emotions still living in the house.
“I’m making coffee. Wanna double-double, Angie?” the man asked. Reindeer embroidered on his shabby sweater—always worn over a polo shirt—were following every motion of the bleak cotton threads with their weary heads.
“Y-yes, please. I… that would be great. Thanks, Charles.” Angela’s hands were shaking a little, and even she could not tell whether it was from cold or anxiety. She went to grab some cornflakes, trying not to make the plates clink, knowing it would disturb Charles. He had already suggested making her a cup of coffee, and she knew that was a lot for him to process. Still avoiding eye contact, she sat in the middle of the long dining table, stirring the food without a sound. Their mother’s place was to her right, and she struggled not to look at it. Trying to speak as casually as possible, she asked, “Up for a long time?”
“Well, yeah, eh? You know me.”
Sometimes Charles considered every word, choosing what to say too carefully. Pauses—shorter than a heartbeat—clipped his speech, masking his fear of blurting something out with an air of confidence. “Did… this. Did… that. My usual stuff.”
Angela nodded, her mind elsewhere. Charles poured coffee into her porcelain cup and filled it with extra cream and sugar, leaving dune trails on the saucer.
“Thanks, Charlie.” She sneaked a peek at him. “I really appreciate it.”
Charles returned the nod and remained standing at the table, looking at the empty chair near Angela.
“No one came!” He clenched his fists. “None of them!”
Angela’s hand twitched a little, as if she meant to touch Charles, but did not dare.
“That was… sadder than it should’ve been.” She let out a troubled sigh. “I expected to see Max, at least. Was messaging and calling him for a few days.” Angela paused in frustration. “For nothing.” She looked at her brother’s angered face and said, softer, “Breathe, Charlie.”
He harrumphed, but leaned on the table with his palms, took a few deep breaths, and relaxed. I was expecting to see someone, too.
“Sorry that I have to overstay here, Charlie. The hotel kicked me out suddenly, hiding behind pandemic rules.” And they added out loud together, “Jerks.”
Wan smiles touched their tired faces.
“Don’t you worry, Angie. It’s your room. Always been. Always will be.”
Angela tensed. Room, yeah. We signed papers, Charles. She plastered on a polite smile and let her thoughts drift to the medical skyscraper towers of New Amsterdam, where she would seal herself in a sterile room, shielded by research and trials—from Charles’ negligence and his house. I only need to hold out for a week.
Charles finally sat at the table and grabbed his mobile. While he was frowning at some news, Angela was chewing her breakfast with no enthusiasm. The process was already more successful than last night, but she still could not taste the food. The rough texture of cornflakes made her think she was eating paper.
Right as she was about to get up, a dull knock on the front door forced their confused eyes to meet.
“Are we expecting someone?”
“No. Don’t worry.” Whenever Angela was around, Charles felt the urge to be a protective elder brother. “I’ll check it.”
❖
As Charles rushed through the house, hatred and fury flared up in him again. Not a minute of rest. The spikes of resentment were so palpable that he wanted to scratch his arm. Instead, he wrenched the front door open and noticed a retreating figure in the distance, wrapped in a grey cape, following their own footprints in the snowdrifts.
“Hey!”
The person stopped and turned around, the thick scarf covering the face.
“That’s for you, Charles!”
While his mind was still processing the feminine voice, Charles’ distracted gaze drifted from the figure to the road and back before it settled on the porch, where a cardboard box lay half-sunken in the fresh snow, waiting to be picked up. The person took a few more steps back.
“It’s from Rose.”
“Marge? Marge, is that you?” And he screamed, tearing his voice, “Why didn’t Rose come yesterday?! Why hasn’t she come for the past few weeks?!”
A couple of frightened grey jays took to the sky, and Marge replied only when the flutter of pale wings had died down.
“Sorry, Charles. Rose… Rose isn’t doing well, you know. You should pay her a visit.” She scratched her nose with the glove. “I have to go, Charles. Bye.”
Marge left, leaving Charles clenching the doorjamb. For the past ten years, right after his father passed away, Rose had visited him and his mother every week, bringing homemade pies and chit-chat. Her visits became notably warm when he stopped working and had to fill the minuscule but existing social void. Thirty years older, grasping at life like an aster flower in early winter, Rose was the community’s last witness tree. Charles could not imagine this rough bark becoming brittle. He could not imagine he would need to step out of his house, despite Rose living nearby, just down the long, snow-covered street.
“This can not be happening,” grumbled Charles as he reached for the package. Now holding it close, his eyes ran over the small, graceful letters. “To Charles. Something begins—” He did not bother reading the last word and tore the packaging apart, grinning with fierce satisfaction at the sound of cracking cardboard.
❖
Angela, worried about Charles’ long absence, found him standing at the intersection of two voices: crackling warm chuckles of the fireplace from the living room and winter’s whisper from the street, making its way inside the house and under Charles’ clothes. He was holding the package’s contents and just staring at what Marge had brought him—a frayed white robe with washed-out but still visible suspicious dark stains. Pieces of cardboard lay at his feet, covered with a torn plastic bag.
“Charlie?” Angela’s voice brought him back from the tintless memories to the hallway’s cooling embrace. “Is everything alright? Who was that? And what is… this?”
“Marge came by.” He took another breath of the stinging air. “She said it’s from Rose, eh? Just some… stupid clothes.”
He shook his head a few times, fending off the phantoms. Angela shaped her lips into a thin line.
“They didn’t show up yesterday and now have the nerve to just drop a box? Unbelievable! What are they thinking?”
Charles shrugged.
“Welcome back to Essex.”
Angela’s face twisted as if she had a toothache.
“She didn’t even ring the bell.” She shook her head in disapproval. “Didn’t want to talk to us?”
Welcome back, indeed.
“Anyway, is it Mom’s, maybe?”
Charles closed the door, and the wrinkles on his face changed shape a few times before he answered.
“Yeah, I don’t think so. And…” He peered at the garish, polychromatic floral prints on the walls. “I need to do… my stuff. In my room. Do not disturb me. Please.”
“Of course, Charlie, I—”
A loud buzz in her pocket interrupted her. She jerked her mobile out, glanced at it, and almost dropped it, having to catch it with the other hand. “What the hell?!”
Charles, already heading away, turned around with displeasure spilt on his face and took the offered phone from Angela’s outstretched, shaking hand. He noticed her arched brows but ignored the expression and peered into the device. The enlarged font under the cracked screen protector was showing one line from a sender named “Max”.
“You shouldn’t have come back.”
“How dare he!” Angela flared up. “Cut me off when Bernardus died, and now this?!”
Charles’ lips curled upon hearing their father’s name, the reindeer on his sweater mimicking his shrug. He returned the phone.
“I. Need. To think!”
He left, clutching the robe under his arm. Angela leaned against the relief wallpaper, panting, with a finger hovering over the call button. She let out a quiet “no” a minute later, turned the mobile off, and hid the disturbing message in her pocket.
“And I need a distraction… Oh, what a mess.”
She let out an exasperated sigh and pushed the trash Charles had left behind under the shoe rack. Overdecorated walls pressed in on her, and she thought of ripping the absurd eyes from the floral prints to join the junk below—but just headed to the kitchen with a stiff cross of arms over her chest, beating the unwashed floor with her short heels.
❖
Charles sank into a chair and tucked the white robe under the screen. His elbows pressed on the fractured lining, causing the foam to spill through the cracks.
Memories.
He moved closer to the desk.
I hate memories.
The green flashes of rapidly changing lines of text against the black background calmed him.
I don’t need memories. But…
But something yearned to be found. To be resolved. Charles tried to make sense of his blackout in the doorway, but his brain refused. He launched a secure browser application, and his index fingers began clicking pristine key caps, forming the words with the cadence of his usual speech—not too fast, with pauses.
Time for a leisurely hunt, eh? The hell is this robe about.
He prepared traps and directed the hounds in different directions. They picked up the barely perceptible scent—but the further they ran, the more it became a stench. And when the fumes penetrated too deeply, Charles feared he was the victim—surrounded by facts, news, and archived documents like helpless, terrified prey. But all these findings lacked connection, scant notes in the margins, nothing more—and he lashed out at the keyboard again and again.
Charles knew the search would have been easier if he had gone upstairs. But he had no intention of disturbing the carefully packed boxes that contained his parents’ belongings, so he stayed in the chair trying to find newspapers and other articles on the Internet.
Robe.
Essex.
Moved.
White robe.
Went missing.
Each word was leading Charles through the capacious garden of fading, neglected images, closer and closer to a hatch door in the back.
Mining.
Balance.
Family.
Kid.
Basement.
Charles opened the hatch and fell through to relive his past.
◈ ◈ ◈
Nice day! Kinda sucks I’ve got this dumb runny nose… but no school? Lucky!
Thoughts are racing under the boy’s green cap.
Outta here! Bye-bye boring walls! Sweet home, here I come!
The cheerful kid dashes home, wiping away snot with his sleeve along the way. “Don’t rush,” his mom would say. But a ten-year-old is always on the run.
Out of breath, he bursts into the house, throws his school bag into the corner, blows his nose loudly in the bathroom, and runs straight to the kitchen. He coughs once, opens the fridge, grabs the cloudberry jam and butter, throws them on the table, opens the bread bin after coughing once more, and takes out the still-warm, wonderfully smelling bannock.
And the boy crafts the finest little feast. If there’s a “Snack of the Month” award, he’d certainly be the winner. Snorting and chewing on the taste of freedom, he approaches the open window.
The rich scent of spring wafts in, making its way through his stuffy nose, causing him to squint with pleasure. At this very moment, a large hatch in the backyard shakes and bursts open. A man in a white robe climbs out, and the boy cannot tell at first glance that the stranger is his dad. Grief sits next to weariness on his father’s face alongside a narrow splatter of blood. There are bigger splashes on the robe.
The joy of seeing his dad almost displaces fear, but the inexplicable outfit confuses the boy. He stops chewing and just looks at his dad, who is unaware of the kid’s presence, for now. The father wipes away sweat, smearing blood across his face—not noticing new streaks of frightening scarlet on his forehead and cheeks.
Only after trudging through half of the backyard—on his way to a shed—does the man feel eyes on his back and whirl in a sharp movement, scaring the boy. The instant panic on his dad’s face gives way to fear; the fear shifts to anger, revealing jagged teeth. The boy’s father throws something into the grass, strides towards the house, and hisses at his son.
“What are you doing here, Charles?”
“I…” Charles suddenly gets lost and can only sniffle.
“Don’t tell anyone. It’s our secret,” and now, the father is standing above the boy. “Do you understand, Charles?” He narrows his eyes for a moment and says, “You’re a big boy, Charles. You are. But go to your bed and get better first. Later, I’ll explain to you… the hunt.”
A drop of blood slips off his grim face like a newborn bird from a perch and crashes onto the jam.
◈ ◈ ◈
Charles surfaced on the memory pond, sweating from the nightmare. Disturbed waters were washing over him with blood-scented waves, the current still holding his feet. It took him great effort to look away and free himself from the depths—but his breathing stabilised, fingers relaxed and stopped crushing the armrests. Swallowing hard, he stood up from the table and retreated from his room to wash away the sweaty beads running down his matted beard.
Charles glared at his reflection, and it hissed back at him, “Something begins!” He landed a thick spit in the sink. “I wish nothing had ever started.” Grunting and clenching his fists, he walked out into the corridor, where an unfamiliar smell hit his nostrils.
“What happened here?” Charles ran into the kitchen and stopped mid-room, his face twisting in confusion.
“What do you mean?” Angela was cleaning her hands with a colourful towel. “I washed the dishes.” She shrugged.
“Mom was not using this soap. Mom didn’t use this towel. What did you do, Angela?” He grew heated. “Did you open her boxes? I packed them nicely, Angela. Why did you open them? What else did you do?!”
Angela’s lips twitched. A dimple of disappointment appeared on her left cheek, but she pulled herself together and removed the smirk. She gave an encouraging smile to her furious brother, put the towel aside, and began approaching him, speaking in a soft, dreamy voice, as if to a child.
“I found this soap under the sink, Charles. I didn’t touch the boxes. I am so sorry that it caused you inconvenience. I found this towel in the drawer with a bunch of others. There are no boxes in the kitchen, Charles, and I’ve been in the kitchen for the past hour.” Now standing quite close to her brother, she placed her left palm on his chest, despite the menacing look he gave her. “I thought it would freshen up the day—just look at these nice colors. No boxes, Charlie. I promise I won’t touch the boxes you made.”
Chin up, she added more warmth to her eyes as she looked into his. Charles nodded, blinked, then nodded again—he had clearly forgotten what it was like to have a sister around. She had not looked into his eyes for that long in years. “Yes, don’t touch the boxes,” he mumbled and looked down. The logic in Angela’s answers had calmed his agitated, galloping thoughts, and he felt a humiliating pinch of long-forgotten guilt.
“It smells nice. Peach, eh?” And he changed the subject, although he had no intention of doing so. “Listen, Angie, I need to visit Rose. When Marge came with the… package… she said that Rose wasn’t feeling well.”
“Oh,” Angela replied, quietly celebrating her victory, and withdrew her hand from the prickly wool of his sweater. “Do you want me to come with you?” They had done nothing together since childhood, and now something inside Angela demanded to fill that gnawing gap with the small mischief of breaking the pandemic law. “Let’s go together.”
“Okay.” Charles felt both uneasy and relieved. He stood silent for a few seconds, biting his lip. “Okay.”
“I’ll put on my parka and we can go. Wait, extra pants first. And the warmest sweater…”
Minutes later, she left her room under a sufficient weight of clothes and felt something staring at her. She turned and thought she had seen a quick flash of black in the distant kitchen window.
“Charles, did you see that?”
He stood near the front door, staring at the flowers on the wallpaper, preoccupied with his own thoughts, and it took him a while to answer.
“See what?” He shouted right when Angela came closer.
“By the gods, Charlie! Right in my ear!”
Charles repeated his question as if nothing had happened, and she fell silent, hurt by his inattention. Then she shook her head and whispered, “No, nothing. I thought someone was in the backyard. Watching me.”
“You’re still jet-lagged,” said all-knowing Charles, and frowned, unhappy with how long it was taking to get outside. “Maybe it was a bird?”
Now it was her turn to bite her lip.
“Well, only if it was a really big bird… Something…” They blinked at each other, thinking of their own continuation of the sentence.
“Ah, it doesn’t matter…” She sighed. “I’m just tired.” We’re leaving, she wanted to add, but only looked back at the empty corridor once more. “Let’s go.”
❖
Angela and Charles marched through the empty street, squinting against the bright snow and inhaling the frosty air through their thick knitted scarves. They just had to move their heavy-booted feet through the deep grooves—Marge had already trailblazed the tall drifts. Charles was whispering under his breath, counting the steps. Angela, first inspired by the joint activity, felt increasingly sombre as she looked at the deserted community. The hollow gazes of the sparsely spaced houses seemed to watch her, and she had to lower her head. Her steps became unsteady.
She looked up from the road only when they reached Rose’s house, and a squalid view appeared before them: hardy English ivy had overtaken the fences of the small backyard and prepared to swallow the building; dry, untreated tree branches stuck out over the house in all directions. Greasy windows still had unwashed trails of autumn tears, and dirt clogged a thick layer around the frames.
“Has it been like this for a long time?”
Charles shrugged—he had not wandered into this part of the community since school. He went to the front door and found it ajar. His hand rose to ring the doorbell, but it was nowhere to be found. Charles wanted to knock, but the narrow gap looked at him with barbed uncertainty, and his hand froze mid-air. He swore he felt something urging, lurking, calling him from within, but that passed when he heard Angela.
“Anyone home?” She knocked on the chipped pistachio paint, not surprised by Charles’ hesitation—he had often spaced out before.
No one replied, and Charles, embarrassed by his fear, brought his fist down hard on the door. It creaked open and filled the entryway with sunlight, revealing piled-up, dusty cardboard boxes of different colours. None of them looked at Charles with any sinister intent, and he let out a slow breath before glancing back at his sister.
“Rose?” Angela repeated and knocked again.
Charles whispered a few silent heartbeats later, “Maybe she needs help? Should we go inside?”
Angela’s gaze swept over the surroundings, searching for the judging stares of neighbours and strangers that had always burnt her back in the big cities. Only now did it strike her that no one really cared what she did in Boston or New Amsterdam—but she had brought and preserved that watching feeling from home. Just as she was gathering her courage to answer, they heard weak, raspy words.
“Angela? Is that you?”
Angela flinched, shocked by the dramatic change in a familiar voice.
“Yes, Rose, it’s me.” She nudged Charles’ shoulder, and he added hastily, “I’m here too, Rose.”
“Come on in.” The voice faded away.
Charles and Angela stepped inside, accompanied by the screeching duet of door and floor. They moved past the cardboard stacks into a hallway and froze in the entrance to the living room—once spacious, as they remembered it. Furniture, various belongings—everything—stood in tall piles aligned along the walls, covered in powdery dust. Its particles hung in the air like a thin web, lit by scant light coming from dirty windows. They rubbed their itchy noses and stood motionless. A woman’s form, clutching something lustrous, glided toward them, the surrounding dust glimmering like a veil.
“How nice it is of you to come see me, little Charlie.”
Charles rubbed his eyes with his cold fingertips, and the haze dissipated, revealing Rose clearly—a plump woman with a wrinkled face, who already stood far too close. Old and seemingly feeble, she had a dagger in her right hand raised high and firm. Short in stature, barely reaching Charles’ chest, she looked intimidating. Despite the steel aimed at his chest, Charles blurted out the question that was burning him from the inside, “Why didn’t you come to the funeral?!”
His loud voice snapped Angela out of her shock, and she frantically pressed the mobile’s power button several times to trigger the distress call. Rose let out a sad sigh.
“That doesn’t matter now, does it?” Rose’s voice became distorted, and sudden crunches jagged her speech. “Now it’s your turn, Charles. Now it’s time. Something begins, Keeper.” The last word slapped Charles. He flinched, his wide eyes fixed on the dagger’s tip.
“Rose?” Angela took her phone out. No connection, dammit. She looked back at the old woman. “Rose, what’s going on?” Now she was unsure whether her old nanny wanted to plunge the dagger into her brother’s heart or give it to him.
Hatred flared in Rose’s eyes. Her pupils dilated, and something else looked at Angela through them.
“Ah, yes, Angela.”
Rose swung her weapon towards Angela, nearly cutting Charles’ clothes. Her lower lip stuck out, and she drew out the words like a preacher: “Ye that fled were not destined to return!” She then hissed like a sick cat, “You shouldn’t have come back!” and lunged forward.
Instinct made Angela lean backward, waving her hand. She squealed as the steel pierced the mobile and jerked her hand back, leaving the device hanging by the blade. Screaming, she jumped back into the corridor. Rose stared at the cracked screen in surprise, but shook the phone off the weapon right away, sending glass shards and pieces of plastic scattering across the floor. Charles, who had been watching everything as if through a mist, snapped out of his stupor and grabbed Rose by the wrist.
“Rose! Calm down, Rose! What’s gotten into you?!”
The old woman looked at him with disdain. She shook her head as if the puppy in training had not lived up to expectations.
“Now you are the Keeper. You need to feed the land, Charles.”
The wrinkles on her face strained, her fervent eyes drawing Charles in.
“The Mother asks for retribution, Keeper. And she…” Rose nodded towards Angela, “she must be gone.”
Rose turned her wrist, offering the steel to Charles. He seized it right away and let go of her hand, leaving deep red dents on her delicate, translucent skin.
“Keeper, Rose? What…?” His memory was tossing and turning like a bear waking from hibernation.
Angela steadied her trembling hands, seeing that the dagger had changed hands. She yanked off her parka and held it out in front of her—ready to throw it at Rose to entangle her arm if she attacked again.
“She. Should. Be. Gone!” The veins in Rose’s eyes burst and cut through her whites with black threads. Charles stared back, bewildered.
“But she just got back! Why?!”
Rose chuckled in a creaky voice. “She had her last chance ten years ago.”
Sudden memories pulled Angela’s heart down: her father yelling at her on the phone; the letter she had received from her mother after Bernardus’s funeral. The one Angela threw into the fireplace without reading it.
No, no. Nonsense.
“Something ends.” The old woman’s index finger poked Charles in the chest. “But something begins, Keeper.”
The sound of tearing cardboard echoed through Charles’ thoughts.
“Feed the land, Keeper. Give’r!”
“Okay.” Angela’s reason overcame her fear, and her voice became firm. “You are delirious. You need help. We need to—” She wanted to step closer, but the hallway filled with the creaking of floorboards and footsteps followed. Rose placed her fists on her hips, Charles did not move, and Angela stepped to the side so she could see both Rose and the newcomer.
❖
“Mother, I found the door open…” Marge—in her late fifties, thin even with thick winter clothes on, her skin too dry, a web of red veins across her nose and cheeks—entered the hallway and stopped. She glanced at the statuesque trio, breath and words stuck in her mouth. “Take that dagger away from my mother, Charles.”
“She attacked us!” Angela snapped. “Look what she did to my phone!”
Rose was quicker to reply than her daughter, who stared at the debris on the floor. “We have a misunderstanding here, it seems.” The old woman’s voice changed again, leaving Angela surprised—it had lost its sudden fluctuations and turned into the normal voice of a tired senior. She looked at Rose’s face but saw nothing more than clouded old eyes.
“Follow me,” Rose waved at them and walked further into the room, slouching and rubbing her lower back. She stood closer to the window and leaned against the largest pile of rubbish.
“Marge? Are you all okay? How can you live… like this?” Angela swept her hand before they followed Rose. Marge’s lips twitched, but Rose was quicker, again.
“I don’t think you should be here, Marge. We’ll handle this.” Her daughter flinched, but nodded to her and left the room without a word.
Rose sighed and turned to Angela.
“There was a moment in my life when I thought that a big fire could be an excellent answer to everything.”
She caressed her left arm from the shoulder to the elbow as if there was a scar, but the handmade sweater concealed it.
“I was taught to think differently. But the scenery remained, so I can remember my mistake every day. What else do you want to know, traitor?”
Angela stopped dead, thrown by such impudence. She opened her mouth, but found nothing to say and turned to Charles. But her brother did not seem to hear what Rose said. He walked up to her and said with quiet malice, “Why did no one come, Rose? It was so important to us.”
Rose looked at him and shook her head. “Can it be that you truly don’t know? Didn’t Matilda tell you, Charles?” She snorted with discontent. “I know Bernardus did not.”
“No one told us anything, Rose. You didn’t tell me anything,” replied Charles, glancing at the weapon in his hand. The dagger reflected his worried eyes on its sharp six-inch blade with a narrow fuller. “If there’s anything to tell at all,” he added while pushing back the memory door.
Rose peered at Angela. “You left your people, Angela. You left your home. I wonder why your mother did not warn you not to return.” She shook her head and doubled over in a fit of coughing. “The land, Charles. It has to be fed.” Her voice cracked again. “It asks to be fed.”
Her eyes widened, and she leapt at Charles with as much strength as her aged body allowed. “Feed the land, Charles. Now!” she yelled as she grabbed his wrist and clawed at the dagger. “While it’s not too late, Charles! Get rid of her! Feed the land!”
“What are you talking about, Rose?! I don’t want your stupid dagger!”
And Charles let go of the weapon the same moment Rose pulled it from him. She staggered, took a step back, tripped, and fell. Her head struck the massive wooden leg of a floor lamp that was sticking out of a pile, and a wet, slurping sound echoed through the room. Rose’s body relaxed, spreading her arms out to the sides. The dagger fell to the wooden floor with a thud, and a trickle of blood slid past it.
“Marge!” Angela screamed, dropping to her knees and sensing a shift in the room. Not only had Rose’s spirit drifted away, but something else had left too, allowing her compressed lungs to breathe. Later, lying in bed, she attributed it to her fatigue and sensitivity. “Charles! Call an ambulance!” But Charles stood paralysed, mouth agape.
Marge ran into the room. “Mother!” she howled and kneeled at Rose’s body, tears bursting out of her eyes. She mixed her sobs with her words, “What… have you… done?” Her right hand was shaking over her mother’s head, and her left one was trying to feel Rose’s pulse.
“Ac… acc… accident…” Charles mumbled.
“Charles?!” Angela tried to reach her brother, but he just closed his eyes and pressed his fingers to his temples as if he had a headache. She turned to Marge. “I can’t call a unit, my phone is…” she paused, not willing to say “dead” and then realised that there was no ambulance nearby, only the community’s small medical room.
“Out,” Marge whispered to Angela’s face, and she noticed the smell of strong alcohol. “Get out!”
Marge looked at them both and cried louder, her nails digging into her whitened palms. “Are you happy, Keeper?! Then get out! Take that vile instrument and begone! I can deal with my mother on my own!” She stood up, swaying and sobbing, and lifted a blanket from another pile of belongings that covered a landline. Her trembling fingers pressed one key after another as the siblings backed away from the room.
The clouds that had gathered in the sky enveloped the community in greyness and shackled it with the frosty evening. When Angela and Charles got back home, a call confirmed the worst.
“We should have stayed.”
“She did not want us there.”
“She was drunk.”
Charles objected with a shrug.
“They just ruined my day,” he snorted. “I’ll eat in my room.”
He left, leaving Angela alone in the kitchen with a bottle of whisky that she had no appetite for, and she too went off to spend the rest of the night in her small bedroom, trying to figure out how to get a new phone in the midst of a logistical crisis and not to think about Rose.
The news passed from one house to another, scratching its phantom claws at the closed doors, unwelcome yet finding its way inside through keyholes—and the night dropped an anxious anticipation upon the community.