Ring for Service

In streamed the morning sunlight from the reading room’s large bay window. As the light filtered through the dust floating in the air, iridescent as the light caught onto the small forms, it created a scene that was almost spectral. Tiny particles dancing along, moving throughout the room of their own accord. The dust made its way around, landing on the books which lined the room of ceiling to floor shelves with moving ladders clinging to the sides for the top shelves. Dust landing on the armchair sitting contently in the corner, and the old rolltop oak writing desk with its roll stop open with a smattering of papers scattered all around.

The dust found its way into the small nooks and crannies, boxes and holes, cups and saucers, bins and curtains. The room was vast and rather large as was the rest of the house. Used as a boarding house for travelers coming in from out of town to stop by quickly; many entered with a sigh of the wonder which such a building held. It was older and held the usual qualities which come with old and antique houses, but this building had a unique quality of its own. One could not simply quite explain what this certain quality was, but it was almost as though the building contained a life of its own. As though pictures would move in their frames when turned away, or a creaking sound emanating from the hallway on the third floor. The birds on the plastered wallpaper moving about and flying away, or the way some small trinkets appeared to go missing, only to return in a different spot than they were originally located. Most people assured themselve s this was merely a trick of the light or the wind blowing the curtains back. But what many people did not know was that the house truly did possess its own quality of being. If only one could imagine the secrets the old boarding house of Picket Lane really did contain.