Mrs Brenners heaved her huge bag on the steps of Harlem Mansion as she fumbled within the folds of her handbag, trying to fish out the large key that was wedged in between her purse. Slightly trembling from the cold wind and pangs of hunger she managed to unlock the door, her bag dragged sluggishly behind her.
The previous owner of Harlem Mansion had left most of her possessions behind when she hurriedly sold the property to Mrs Brenners. The large living room loomed ominously in the warm orange light emitted from the light sources Mrs Brenners now switched on as she surveyed the threshold of her new residence; emotionless. Settling herself on the large couch opposite the fireplace, she unzipped her bag and began to unpack. At least twenty percent tonight, she told herself as she wiped the sooty dust off a photo frame, propping it’s aged form against the ever so slightly chipped vase left on the coffee table.
The photograph was faded, but not as vague as her memory of it – her husband, Mr Brenners, holding the right arm of her son Arya while a younger looking Mrs Brenners held the left, both hoisting their laughing son up in the air. The moment was frozen, washed and sealed beneath a piece of glass, a longing moment that Mrs Brenners wished that she could re-live a thousand times over.
Having lost her husband to cancer a few months after the picture was taken, Mrs Brenners solely dedicated her life to taking care of Arya, for he was the sole reason for her smile even after the tragedy that befell Mr Brenners. It was not until 3 years later, when Arya was eight, a cement truck took his life on the road whilst he was trying to cross the road from school – the driver of the lorry was charged under the offense of manning a enormous vehicle under the heavy influence of alcohol. But then, nothing the law did could console the grief that engulfed Mrs Brenners for the rest of her lonely years ahead.
To take a healing step, Mrs Brenners decided to move out of her home, the one that had too much happy memories gnawing and mocking at her loneliness, and found Harlem Mansion, a large property that outskirts town. It was a new leaf, she had assured herself, to help her cope with the ramblings of her own mind and away from everything that served as a reminder of her late husband and son.
Mrs Brenners snapped out of her reminiscent daze as she continued to unpack her belongings. Within five minutes, the heat of the night and the exhaustion of travelling finally won Mrs Brenners over and she slowly slumped backwards into the couch, snoring lightly.
Mrs Brenners awoke with a start as she yawned, digging her finger into her ears. Did she hear it right? The sound seemed to be coming from behind.
“Mama, I’m here.”
Loud footsteps echoed as it came closer towards her and suddenly, Arya materialised from behind the sofa.
“Mama, it’s me.”
Mrs Brenners thought she might pass out. Clutching her chest, her heart now throbbing wildly against her palm, she rubbed her eyes and blinked. Arya stood in front of her, his brown eyes twinkling, his mouth curved into the lopsided smile that she always adored. He moved closer to her and Mrs Brenners realised that he was merely a translucent shadow. Startlingly, Arya had tears in his eyes.
“It’s lonely down here, Mama. It’s dark, and cold.” he whispered, looking down at his feet. Somewhere through the numb shock and apprehension, Mrs Brenners managed to find her voice.
“D..Down here ?”
Arya pointed a translucent finger down at his feet.
“This very house sits on the remains of me and many others, Mama. I’m here, right here.”
Mrs Brenners started to break out in a sweat, as her heartbeat quickened rapidly.
“I miss you, Mama.”
Hot tears filled the back of Mrs Brenners’s eyes as she looked at her deceased son, silently crying. Part of her screamed at her to hug her son, hold him close and not let him go – another part of her told her to run and never look back at this place.
“Come with me, Mama.”
Arya’s voice was no longer distant, but cold and sharp. He was no longer standing, but he walked towards her, his left arm outstretched ; directly poised towards her exposed neck. His eyes were now brown slits and his now chilling smile wider than ever.
“Come with me, Mama.”
Blood began to ooze out from his mouth, his hands barely an inch away from Mrs Brenners’s neck.
“Come with me, Mama.”
Mrs Brenners’s screams echoed around Harlem Mansion that night, but no one heard her. Not at all.
