Quiltwork Ch. 03

Crossing through the living room, I went to find the stairs a second time, only it wasn't to climb them. Tucked underneath the first 10 steps was the main closet, and as I grasped the handle, I hesitated before--

Thunk, crash, whoooompf

I skirted around the destruction, pausing to gather my thoughts, and said--

"Precariously placed poles perched against an aperture will be prone to plunging to the floor."

Or at least I would have, but someone beat me to it. Looking around, I couldn't see Molly nearby, and Helen seemed to be...otherwise occupied at the moment.

"Of course you can't see me, I don't have enough strength for that just yet."

Again, a vaguely-female voice appeared out of nowhere, but it seemed to have originated from the closet.

"Tut-tut. And I thought the Claimant would have a bit more wits this time around."

Releasing the doorknob from my left hand, I raised it after feeling a slight tingling sensation that was foreign, but similar to the pins and needles that I'd felt after my foot fell asleep. Focusing on that, I could almost imagine a lantern popping into--

"Eureka! Sorry, I thought I'd steal your thunder and explain, but--" yawn "--maintaining this form is a bit more tiresome than expected, so I think I'll take a nap."

And with that, the lantern and slight sensation disappeared without a trace. I wanted to call out, but the logical side of me didn't want to disturb... whatever this creature was, for risk of a greater 'sensation' upon its awakening.

That, and I still needed a plunger to fix the toilet.

And clean up the mess.

After reorganizing the closet, I settled on an industrial dustpan and a squeegee shaped and sized like a broom. With a mask to keep out some of the more offensive odors, I trudged out to the outhouse once more.

I cleaned it.

Throughout the ordeal, a faint thrumming kept resonating through my left hand, to the point where I removed my glove (I remembered as soon as I got to the outhouse) and checked to see if any stray debris had been lurking around since the last time the gloves were in use.

Satisfied, I put on the glove only to immediately feel the vibrations once more. Strangely, it seemed to restrict its steady beat to when I was fully inside the outhouse, which made securing the sewage seem a little more interesting, albeit tedious.

For the second phase of cleaning, the scrubbing became much easier as the thrumming softened to a hum that cleared the tougher spots with little help on my part. Although the humming differed from the thrumming, since it seemed to have more variations, and an almost musical tone and pitch to its vibrations, to which I hummed along before finding myself off-key and off-beat.

Dropping my sponge into its bucket (I had to go back to the closet to get them) and wiping the sweat off my brow, I stood up to look at my work.

"It's the same as before I came."

With the thoughts of futility pushed aside, I drained the bucket for the last time before faltering at the door. It felt as though something wanted me here, some force that attracted me to this place.

Wait, not all of me...just my left hand.

Wrenching my hand free of whatever force withheld it without falling over proved more difficult than expected, which is how Molly found me flanked by the cleaning supplies I had so meticulously organized.

"At least your mess is clean," she stated as she promptly turned around and stormed off.

I did notice, however, that she was holding a sponge and dish detergent in her hands, and smiled inwardly as I picked myself up for the third time today.

"To get the tough stains out, huh?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Almost as soon as I flopped onto my bed, the sound of a car pulling into the driveway signalled that dinner was nearly ready. That and the savory aroma wafting from the kitchen upstairs.

I would normally guess which dish Helen had scrounged up from the bizarre assortment of snacks, a big bag of rice, and the frostbitten hunks of meat that remained to this day and my Dad and I made a game of it to which I'm certain I had a slight lead in points. But, ever since she married my Dad, she ensured his grocery trips would include 'proper food' such as fruits, vegetables, and fresh meat. Following that small increase in taste (this is purely my opinion) and texture, I begrudgingly began to appreciate the finer cuisine of home-cooked meals.

"Mom's making spaghetti, with her signature sauce," Molly reported, before pausing to say "If you don't finish your plate soon, someone might just finish it for you." I bolted upright, yanked the bedroom door open, flew down the stairs and into the living room in time to see my Dad closing and locking the front door before locking the car with his key fob.

Eyeing the dinner table from my position on the couch, I realized that I'd been had when the lack of silverware, plates, and cups meant that I'd have to set the table.

Sighing, I marched over to the table to receive my instructions.