Bringing Mae Flowers

That night I dreamt about Sarah.

She stood with her back toward me. She turned as I approached her, and she held out her hand toward me. Before I could reach her, she was fading.
I ran, trying to reach her before she disappeared completely. I could hear voices, but I couldn’t see anyone else. The voices grew louder as Sarah’s silhouette became more faint. Just before she disappeared, her deep eyes met mine. Her plea echoed into the morning: “Free us, daughter”.

It was a few days before I could drive across town to meet Jason. The realization that I had no plan other than hoping the man was home and willing to talk to me crossed my mind while I waited at a red light. I tapped the steering wheel with my right index finger, cursing my morbid obsession for making me so careless. Still, I didn’t turn around.

The apartment complex was as boring and non-descript as Jason’s inherited house was decrypt and eerie. The tan stacco buildings stood in a row, separated by a few rows of parking between each 3-story structure. Double checking the apartment building and number, I made my way up the echoing metal and concrete stairs to his apartment, mentally preparing my speech. I almost ran when I heard footsteps approaching the door after I knocked, but instead I held my ground when a tired looking man with mousy brown hair opened the door.

“Are you Jason Young?” I asked, unsure of where to begin.

“Yes?” He replied, more of a question than an answer.

“I’m Jen Childs. I was wondering if I could talk to you about something.” Jason’s brow furrowed in suspicion, and I was struck by the absurdity of my coming to this man’s apartment.

“That depends on what it is you want to talk about. Are you a cop? A missionary? What’d you want?” Jason kept the door close to his body, as if he planned on shutting it in my face at any moment.

“I’m a writer, and I wanted to ask you about your house– the Young House, down on Orchard-” I didn’t get a chance to complete my sentence when Jason’s sharp inhale cut me off.

“I’m not talking about that place”, he said as he moved his body to shut the door. Sensing only a moment to convince him to change his mind I raised by voice just under a shout:

“Wait! Please, I need to know why I keep having these dreams!”
Jason’s door slowly reopened.

I sat on the edge of a sagging sofa next to Jason, who sat in a battered armchair. My body mirrored his: back straight, and hands placed in fists on knees, touching nothing but ourselves. I looked at his profile and He stared at the blank television screen across the room. We sat in silence for several heartbeats before he began to speak.

“I never lived in that house.” He said in a tight voice. “It was like the Boogeyman growing up. I heard stories about it, but I never really saw it until my Grandma died. That was the first time I went inside.” Jason’s fingers picked at a bit of loose fabric as he spoke. “I was seven. All I remember is feeling– watched. Like, something was following me and it didn’t like me. It made me uncomfortable and I begged my Mom to let me leave the whole time we were there. My mom, she didn’t feel it, that heavy feeling of being watched. Maybe it was because she was only a Young by marriage. She said she was sure I was imagining it. Mom didn’t believe in curses, said that it was all nonsense, and Dad was Gran’s only family so she made me and my Dad stay and help her pack up. That’s when it happened.”

“What happened?” I asked softly, afraid of spooking him out of the story by speaking too loudly.

“That’s when it killed him.” His fingers stopped. “That’s when Dad died. Heart attack, it started in the attic. He was slumped over some old, dusty chest.” Silence fell over the room for a moment before Jason broke it once more.

“It was after Dad died that the dreams started. Dreams that I was walking through the old house, hearing voices in my head. Mom thought I was going crazy from missing Dad. She made us go to grief counseling together. She and that therapist were convinced that the dreams were just a part of the grieving process, but, I know they weren’t. Because if they were about losing Dad, why wasn’t Dad in them? Why didn’t I hear his voice? Why did I just see the house, and feel the walls, and smell the rotting wood of the place instead of Gran’s perfume or Dad’s shaving cream?”

Jason’s breathing was getting faster, and his voice was getting louder.

“Then, there was the time I cut my hand on a jagged piece of wood in the dream. When I woke up, my hand was bleeding. If it was just a dream, how could that happen?”

I looked at my own hands, recalling the dust and grime I had awoken to.

“I know that I sound crazy, but I won’t go back there. I avoid that side of town all together. Whenever I see that place, it starts to haunt my dreams again- like it can’t let me go. I want to tear it down, but I was afraid that whatever is in that house would be released and follow me.

He stopped suddenly, taking deep breaths to calm down.

“I remember my Dad telling Mom about it all once, when they thought I was asleep– He told her he couldn’t go back to that house, he told her the curse would kill him like it killed every other man in his family before him, and I know it’s crazy, but I feel it too –”

“I don’t think you’re crazy. I’ve dreamed about that house too.” I spoke softly, afraid that he might not hear me, but for the first time since he answered the door, he looked at me.

“You mean it? You’ve heard the voices? You’ve seen the house–”

“All of it.” I answered honestly. “And I need to know why.”

It was dark by the time I left Jason’s apartment. My back was stiff from sitting imobile for so many hours. Between fractured accounts of half-remembered tales and speculations there were minutes of shared, contemplative silence.

“It’s not a pretty story,” Jason said, nursing a drink with a trembling hand. “My ancestors were horrible people. The things they did…” he put the dripping glass against his forehead and continued.

“You know how the early settlers here were? The truth behind the ‘brave pioneer’s’ who fled religious persecution? You know the truth right? About how they stole the land from Natives with threats and violence, masacres and starvation, and all that comes with it. Well, the Youngs were a part of that. And they were rewarded for their- effectiveness. That’s how they got all the land, but even after all that, they didn’t stop.”

Jason took a deep breath, but words kept coming.

“Slavery wasn’t illegal here back then. It wasn’t common here, but it wasn’t illegal. You know how the early Mormons felt about black and Native people? Well, they were no different. They ‘employed’ many people, and the conditions were -well- bad. Bad enough to draw attention even then. When I was younger I looked up the records in the city archives, and what I found wasn’t fun to read. It made me sick to tell the truth.”

I nodded. I had read the same articles, and could only imagine how it would feel to be a descendent of those kinds of people. It made me almost glad to not know who my family was.

“You said you did some research?” He asked.

“Yes.”

“Then you must know about Sarah.”

Her name sent a shiver across my heart, and the girl from my dreams flashed before my eyes. I felt my throat tightening again.

“Y- yes” I choked.

Jason tapped his fingers on his empty glass. “So you know- you know what happened to her? And how everything started after, that?”

I nodded, completely unable to speak.

“The thing is, she may have left town, but I don’t think she ever really left that house.”