Where everyone but I sleep
Mar. 26th, 2023 06:04 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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logRoland Glenbrook is 20 years old when he questions his sanity.
No, he thinks after a pause, there's nothing wrong with his mind. But something strange is going on in his new home—or is it that he's more susceptible to ghost stories than he first thought?
The aforementioned house is anything but new. An old family home that's persisted for generations, its sordid history is the only reason he resides in it now. According to the realtor and various news outlets, it was the site of a gruesome murder wherein the eldest son of the family died to protect his brother from an armed madman. It was later entered into the housing market in the aftermath of legal proceedings, and Roland would be lying if he were to say that he wasn't drawn to the marked down price. All the same, he arrived with a bouquet upon receiving the key and laid the flowers down in the center of the house—the living room—before moving in with his meager belongings the next day.
With so few things to his name, there was no need for movers. Serenoa had offered to help long before closing, but Roland had shared the address and summarily declined. Thus, when he glimpsed movement out of the corner of his eyes after bringing in the last box, his initial assumption was that Serenoa had come anyway, only to call out his name and hear silence in return.
Since then, such occurrences have been oddly common enough to make him wonder. On most days, he can come home after a protracted session at school and hear a pin drop in his lonesome abode while grading papers and preparing activities for the children. There are some days, however, when he rounds a corner and looks over his shoulder to thin air.
And then there are days when he doesn't go home until long after the witching hour. After all, who would be missing him? More importantly, there are times when he shouldn't be holed up alone. Conversely, there are times when he desperately wishes to disappear from sight, as he does after dinner with Frani and Cordelia goes as well as he expected it to.
That is, he has enough sense in his addled mind to lock the door behind him before sliding down against it. Then he sits on the floor with his face between his knees, wondering if there's ever been any point to what he does, when his phone rings.
"Cordelia," he says, jovially in spite of tear-stained cheeks, "did you lose your way?"
"No, we made it back home safely," says Cordelia on the other side of the line.
"That's good news. Then is something on your mind?"
"Um, about what Brother Frani said . . . "
"Ah, that? Don't mind it."
"But . . . "
"I'm happy that you've called, but let your brother handle this one. I'm just sorry that I left before I could say a proper goodbye."
"I don't mind." What a sweet child. It breaks his heart that she must always be caught in the crossfire of their family's endless bickering. The large, foolish part of him can never let things go.
"You've grown into a fine lady. But even the finest people need their rest. Be sure to get all the sleep you need tonight: You've earned it."
The call ends shortly thereafter—as does Roland's cheer. He lowers the phone to his side with a dull look about him, and he stays that way for all of a minute before he forces himself to climb onto his feet. There's no use in sobbing like a spurned child. He has work tomorrow and children to educate. If he slacks now, they'll suffer for his negligence.
He finalizes his lesson plans for the week, then retires to bed as soon as those are done and over with. If the blanket feels more smug around his body than he remembers it bring before, he credits it to the exhaustion of his weak heart as he drifts off to sleep. A glutton for punishment, he dreams of his mother and, by extension, of a time when everything had been a little less fractured.
He awakens in the morning with considerable grime in his eyes that threaten to glue them shut. Roland pushes out of bed and fixes himself some much needed tea for the morning. It's only halfway through his daily commute via public transportation, though, that he blinks to himself in belated realization. Was it just him, or was someone there at the door earlier . . . ?
No, he thinks after a pause, there's nothing wrong with his mind. But something strange is going on in his new home—or is it that he's more susceptible to ghost stories than he first thought?
The aforementioned house is anything but new. An old family home that's persisted for generations, its sordid history is the only reason he resides in it now. According to the realtor and various news outlets, it was the site of a gruesome murder wherein the eldest son of the family died to protect his brother from an armed madman. It was later entered into the housing market in the aftermath of legal proceedings, and Roland would be lying if he were to say that he wasn't drawn to the marked down price. All the same, he arrived with a bouquet upon receiving the key and laid the flowers down in the center of the house—the living room—before moving in with his meager belongings the next day.
With so few things to his name, there was no need for movers. Serenoa had offered to help long before closing, but Roland had shared the address and summarily declined. Thus, when he glimpsed movement out of the corner of his eyes after bringing in the last box, his initial assumption was that Serenoa had come anyway, only to call out his name and hear silence in return.
Since then, such occurrences have been oddly common enough to make him wonder. On most days, he can come home after a protracted session at school and hear a pin drop in his lonesome abode while grading papers and preparing activities for the children. There are some days, however, when he rounds a corner and looks over his shoulder to thin air.
And then there are days when he doesn't go home until long after the witching hour. After all, who would be missing him? More importantly, there are times when he shouldn't be holed up alone. Conversely, there are times when he desperately wishes to disappear from sight, as he does after dinner with Frani and Cordelia goes as well as he expected it to.
That is, he has enough sense in his addled mind to lock the door behind him before sliding down against it. Then he sits on the floor with his face between his knees, wondering if there's ever been any point to what he does, when his phone rings.
"Cordelia," he says, jovially in spite of tear-stained cheeks, "did you lose your way?"
"No, we made it back home safely," says Cordelia on the other side of the line.
"That's good news. Then is something on your mind?"
"Um, about what Brother Frani said . . . "
"Ah, that? Don't mind it."
"But . . . "
"I'm happy that you've called, but let your brother handle this one. I'm just sorry that I left before I could say a proper goodbye."
"I don't mind." What a sweet child. It breaks his heart that she must always be caught in the crossfire of their family's endless bickering. The large, foolish part of him can never let things go.
"You've grown into a fine lady. But even the finest people need their rest. Be sure to get all the sleep you need tonight: You've earned it."
The call ends shortly thereafter—as does Roland's cheer. He lowers the phone to his side with a dull look about him, and he stays that way for all of a minute before he forces himself to climb onto his feet. There's no use in sobbing like a spurned child. He has work tomorrow and children to educate. If he slacks now, they'll suffer for his negligence.
He finalizes his lesson plans for the week, then retires to bed as soon as those are done and over with. If the blanket feels more smug around his body than he remembers it bring before, he credits it to the exhaustion of his weak heart as he drifts off to sleep. A glutton for punishment, he dreams of his mother and, by extension, of a time when everything had been a little less fractured.
He awakens in the morning with considerable grime in his eyes that threaten to glue them shut. Roland pushes out of bed and fixes himself some much needed tea for the morning. It's only halfway through his daily commute via public transportation, though, that he blinks to himself in belated realization. Was it just him, or was someone there at the door earlier . . . ?