Written by: Amelia Chavez, Staff Writer
MYSTERY: A pause in the usual spine-chilling series “Poison in Death”, just in time for the holidays.
It’s been two days since her death. No one else bothered to come to the funeral, they were too busy with Christmas. Of course I get stuck with the sucky job. My art can wait, it’s important to know one.
The attic was the last part to clean, the worst part. Dust was everywhere no one had been up here in years. At the end of the hallway was a large object covered with a thick brown towel. What is that? He thought while walking towards it.
With a swift motion he removed it to reveal a painting. It was painted in dark tones with hues of light from street lamps. In the back was a beautifully decorated arch covered in perfectly white snow. People in 19th century clothing were walking, the scene was full of life. It looks so real, like I could just…
He stretched his hand out to touch the bumps and creases the paint formed on the canvas. Except instead of feeling paint he felt nothing. His hand had gone through it. What the hell! With all his strength he pulled and pulled. His hand remained firmly there, it even started pulling him closer. Within seconds his whole arm was consumed by the canvas. It pulled him deeper; his strength meant nothing. After a minute all that was left was the painting of a quaint London scene.
The ground was hard and cold beneath him. Horses and people shouted all around him as soft little snowflakes kissed his cheek.
His eyes fluttered open to reveal the scene he had just been staring at. The only difference was he was sitting in it. He quickly pushed himself up to avoid being trampled.
Horses sighed as they carried along bitter looking passengers. People rushed by knocking into strangers. It wasn’t the cheerful scene he had thought it was.
He began to walk, still dazed. How? Why? What is all this? Maybe I just inhaled too many dust particles.
People walked by quickly grunting of the pain this time of year brings. The gifts and pressure of obligations. Tradition is just peer pressure from the dead. There was a younger lady who looked worn from pain. A little child was cradled into her arms while a young girl stood just beside her. He stared intrigued. There was nothing particularly special about them yet he continued to watch.
The little girl tugged at her mothers sleeve incessantly. The woman patiently waited as she stopped.
“What’s the matter dear?”
“Mommy can’t we have turkey for dinner this Christmas?” she whined
“I’m sorry but money is tight and we couldn’t afford one.” She looked down and patted the girl’s matted brown hair. “Maybe next year sweetie.”
The family continued to walk sullenly down the road. The mother looked straight ahead while the girl stared at the ground.
A feeling of hopelessness washed over him. I can’t help them. She looked so sad. Why can’t I help? I want to help!
He decided to follow them. Something about them had struck his curiosity. He walked a short distance behind them through alleys.
Eventually the mother stopped into a butcher shop. He didn’t follow, afraid of being seen. Instead he leaned himself against a wall, letting his tired and worn feet rest.
This quick stop took but a few short minutes, and quickly they were once again on their merry way. The only difference was a small brown package was added to the party.
The streets soon got shorter and twistier. The woman’s face soon lit up at every passerby she saw, cheerfully said a “Merry Christmas” to all. This must be their neighborhood.
He positioned himself across the street on a quaint little bench. They walked into a two room house with little furniture. A pitiful shriveled tree stood in their main room no decoration hung from it except a garland. The fireplace was bare and no stockings were placed upon it.
This is not what they told us Christmas is like? Where are the presents and decorations? The lavish celebrations?
Even though the scene was simple, something was magical about it. The soft fire glow from the window hit his face as he surveyed the land outside. Snow glistened and hit the ground perfectly to collide with its compatriots.
So this is what those cheesy mall songs were talking about.
He faced back towards the window watching the mother prepare the table. The daughter was sitting on the floor making flower crowns. Three places were set at the table. They soon set down but no one came to claim the third spot. It can’t be the baby he’s off to sleep. Whose it for?
They ate a tiny portion of goose yet no one came. It remained empty as if honoring someone. Honoring the fallen or lost?
That wasn’t so important to him though. He watched the mother talk to her daughter as if telling her a story. Their faces lit up with smiles, he could hear their laughter and good cheer even outside.
Maybe our modern day celebration has become too commercialized? If Christmas was like this I think we’d all be better people. Simple but something to share. A time to show love.
He felt a sharp pain in his head and his body collapsed. He didn’t feel the icy hard floor, instead he felt wood. Soft smooth rounded wood with layers of dust.
Quickly his eyes fluttered open and he was back in the attic. What in the Christmas Story just happened? He got up and saw the painting was there fully intact, nothing had changed. It was as if it was all a hallucination. I think I should call the family, maybe wish them a happy Christmas.