Kate rolled her eyes and tuned out her mother’s atrocious poetry. Bare trees reached up to the heavy February sky. It looked as dreary as she felt.
No one cared what she thought; no one ever paid attention to the teenager, the middle child, the girl.
But honestly, why should she be excited about moving half-way across the world to live in some ramshackle sea-side town so her mother could be inspired?!
Her little brother Charlie was practically peeing his pants he was so excited, but what did a six-year-old know about a dilapidated old – what did the estate agent call it? Oh, right, a fixer-upper.
A disaster was more like.
And her older brother Matthew didn’t even have to live with them full time – he was still in the States, at college. What right did he have to give the tumble-down rat motel his stamp of approval?!
A sloppy splat of snow and rain slapped the window.
Oh, that’s just great. Kate slumped lower in her seat and closed her eyes.
“Katy-Batey, we’re here!” Charlie sang out, rocking her back and forth until her forehead hit the window.
“Ow! Don’t call me that, Charlie.”
“Sorry! We’re here, Mom says to wake up! We’re here!”
Kate resisted the urge to snarl and let her little brother drag her from the car. There it was. Her nightmare. She stood in the drive and stared at it.
Something winked at her from the window.
“What’s that? Is there someone in there? Mom!”
“What, Honey? In there? It’s been boarded up for years – no one has been in there except the estate agent.”
Oh, that’s right, because Mother-Dear bought the place sight-unseen. God, so many things . . .
“But I saw someone in there.”
“Just a trick of the light, Kate. Now, come on, help me unload the car. Charlie!”
Kate trailed behind as Charlie raced her mother into the house. She stared at the window, daring whatever was inside to show itself again.
Kate knew she wasn’t imagining things. Maybe this house – this move – wasn’t going to be so bad after all.
D: Do you call this editing, A?
D: Do you have any idea where Carrick Close is?
A: No, but I suspect it may be in Northern Ireland. That wasn’t my intention, but it was a quick write-up.
D: Shoddy shoddy shoddy.
A: Thanks, D. I’ll be sure to do extensive historical research the next time I respond to a writing prompt.
D: As well you should. Meanwhile, I sense a preoccupation with ghosts . . .
A: I grew up with ghosts, D. Couple that with a fertile imagination and you have some fun stories.
D: I’ll not quibble with your use of the word ‘fun,’ but I am wondering about the ‘Kate’ in the story?
A: She’s not autobiographical, D – my mother’s not a poet and I’m the one who did the trans-Atlantic move because I was inspired. Kate is my vision of what my reaction would be if I had me as a parent.
D: That is the most convoluted sentence I’ve had the misfortune to read, A. Also, I weep for TC.
A: You and TC both!