While exploring the storage shack at the back of the rental, Charles found an unusual pencil which he now was using to scrawl lines on a piece of paper. It was hardly what you would think of as a writing instrument, it's length -- a foot or more -- and its elongated teardrop shape spoke otherwise. But the small boy saw it that way and so it was. The pencil tapered ever so gently and fit his hand most comfortably. The thin delicate wood feel in his child's hand soothed him; it felt safe like his rubberband-powered airplane. Caught up in the moment, he noticed that its exceptionally smooth black surface lacked hardness and seemed to shimmer in the sunlight.
The faint rush of distant sea over rough sand intruded irregularly on the deep quiet of his room, salt smell wafting through worn shutters, its tang unmistakable. He tried not to listen to its lonely calling. That's how it felt, pulling, like a forlorn entreaty to come and play, to keep it company.
Though wanting to draw something real, he instead concentrated on the pencil's point. Intrigued by the tearing sound it made as it ran over the coarse paper, he failed to notice when his aimless squiggles changed to recognizable patterns. At first, straight, angled, but gradually taking on lives of their own, curving and swirling, floating and detached, animals and people emerging from the depths unbidden. He giggled at some, surprising himself, enjoying the unexpected.
The paper filled, he searched the attic for more. Copies of his fathers shipping logs and typed lists of unknown purpose, long forgotten, he turned over to find the other sides blank. Inspired, he sought the wide porch and sprawled on its planked deck. But its weathered surface, moonscaped with paint peelings, made drawing impossible. Scrabbling under the porch he found a piece of plywood about two-feet square. Excited, he brushed the sand off and returned to his favorite spot by the bench-swing. He remembered that night when Uncle Joe and Aunt Mary had come to visit, they favored the bench, swinging ever so slightly, secretively. He'd sat close on the floor by the railing pretending to be playing with toy cars, the tone of his uncle's low deep gentle voice tranquilizing, soothing in a way he seldom knew. Even the air would feel more pleasant, at ease, drifty.
He laid the scrap of plywood down with his stack of old paper and felt annoyed, irritated. Finally, he muttered. His mood had been tampered with so he sat very still, listening to the muffled sound of waves scouring the beach. A playful breeze tousled his uncombed hair and ruffled the beach grass at the top of the berm in front. He thought of Uncle Joe. The seashell mobile he made last summer clicked dryly. Its shells proved to be too heavy for much movement, he quickly discovered, but it pleased him the way it looked, like the sun-bleached bones of some alien creature.
He opened his eyes and began to draw once again. Remembering his cat who vanished one day he drew him, long white hair, black on the forehead and tail, a single large spot on his chest, and a ruffle about his neck, like a lion. He loved his cat and was heartbroken for what seemed a very long time. The pain of that loss returned as he finished the eyes, so intelligent and understanding they were, changing color from black to yellow in a flash. His pencil did likewise, going from black to yellow as if it held knowledge of its own. It startled him but he quickly accepted it as children often do, still of the age to believe in magic. He paused to listen to the cries of a seagull, far off over the sea, calling as though for help or company. He put that sheet aside, not wanting to share it with another thing.
He then began to draw the outline of his father, his father who so often was away on business. Away to places he'd never heard of and only knew through pictures and stories his father would tell him by the fire on winter nights. Then one day he too was gone, that is, he never returned. Charles would look through the window for hours, waiting, hoping to see him coming up the walk. Eventually, he gave up. He drew as he remembered the happy times of play on the beach. He was tall with shaggy hair and wore glasses that kept slipping down his nose. When he finished he put that piece on top the cat, carefully.
He leaned against the banister and sighed deeply. Another gust threatened to scatter his papers, he put his hand over them and waited for its passing, his mobile once again thudding heavily. He stared hard at the direction from which the wind had come, trying to force it to stop by will alone. It worked, or so he believed. Quiet once again, he returned to drawing. This time, his mother. He remembered her as being very pretty, beautiful, in fact, as a boy will often do. He clothed her in a fine summer dress of large flowers, trim at the sides, her hair billowy brown, curling at the ends, her eyes deep blue like the color of the sky on a hot summer day. Once more the pencil changed color from black to blue as he circled in the eyes. He smiled, certain now that the pencil he'd found had once belonged to a wizard.
Placing that drawing on top of his father's, he stood to study the sea, its waves gently cascading at the edge where it met the sand, a good hundred meters distant. With the sun so high in the sky, it appeared dark blue with a hint of greenish gold beneath the surface. Like his mother's eyes, he thought. As he did so he glanced at her drawing and it too altered to show that gold tint. Could he be just imagining it? He'd not touched it with the magic pencil? He knelt down and taking pencil in hand began to draw himself.
Disturbing emotions filtered through his calm. He stopped and sat back on his heels. Only the barest of outline had he completed. He tried to continue but the pencil would not make its mark, as though it had run out of lead. He stared at the tip, examining it, wondering, and then began anew. Still, it would not work. He placed his ear close to the paper as he ran the pencil over it, listening for the scratchy sound he first heard, that slight tearing of the surface that captivated him in the beginning. But all was quiet save the muffled wash of waves on sand. Suddenly afraid, he stood to stare at the wide beach looking for anyone, someone, other people. But it was empty, not even birds wandered its horizon.
Fiercely, a strange anger welling up, he shot a look at the drawing of himself that would not come. As he confronted the partially finished drawing, it abruptly vanished, leaving only the blank white sheet. Angry and hurt, tears blurring his vision, he grabbed the stack of paper and threw it over the railing, the breeze scattering it in all directions. Tears running down his cheeks, he picked up the pieces that held his mother and father and cat and, with pencil in hand, shuffled down the porch stairs and circled the house heading towards the storage shed where he'd found the pencil. He placed it back in the exact spot, pausing to give it an accusatory glare. At once, it too disappeared.
The caretaker arrived late that afternoon. He was going to visit relatives in the next town and wanted to make sure all was secure in the abandoned house. He didn't visit often, he was a kind old man and the sadness of it overwhelmed him. But, he was being payed to care for it and so he would, even if the chore was difficult. But it was almost unnecessary, he thought, rumors it was haunted had kept the locals, including teenagers looking for a place to drink and party, at a safe distance. In fact, they avoided it like the plague, would not even sun themselves on the beach out front.
After checking the front and back doors of the main house, he crossed what was left of the tiny garden, now fallow and covered by everencroahing sand, its bench and round table worn and falling apart, to see about the storage shed. Oddly, he found the door unlocked. He was certain he had secured it, but the lock was gone. Thinking robbers bold enough to ignore the stories had broken in, safe from sight by the cover of the large two-story house, he grew angry at the disrespect. He went inside to see if anything had been taken or damaged.
Tools hanging from the wall behind the workbench and those lying on it were covered with cobwebs and the intrusive sand, impossible to keep out. With the help of the wind, splits and crannies were all it needed, which were aplenty in the cracked weathered walls, traceries of long neglect. The caretaker examined the remains, not much to begin with, broken bits of machinery and electrical devices, shovels and rakes, gardening tools, tarps and a small tent, and a few toys in a large box over in the far corner. Satisfied nothing had been taken and mildly convinced that he was somehow at fault, he turned to leave.
As he did so, a brightness amongst the otherwise dank and grey surroundings caught his eye. Sitting in a tiny box with nails and screws and other indeterminate objects he spotted what appeared to him as a wand of some kind. Why he thought of a wand, he didn't know. Perhaps from a childhood story, he mused. He picked it up, its tapered shape, over a foot long and shining with the boldest black, almost jewel-like, held no purpose he could fathom. But, its dust-free cleanness led him to think it'd been recently used. But for what and by whom?
Curiosity overcame him and, not believing anyone would now miss it, he placed it in his jacket pocket and left, locking the door with a spare lock he carried for just such occasions. Walking around to the front of the house, he paused for a long time, musing at its aloneness and feeling the sadness of the tragedy that had taken the entire family in a boating accident. They were good people, he recollected, especially the little boy; Charlie, he called him.
Wishing to deflect the inevitable emotions that always clutched at his heart when he came here, he strode up the beach-stairs to his pick-up sitting on the gravel road. While the old truck warmed up, he gave the house and grounds one last lingering inspection. The stillness and emptiness of the tableau held a sadness all its own, as though the house itself mourned for company.
Suddenly, an undulation, a ripple of space moving through the garden from shed to house brought him out of his reverie, chilling his blood. From his distance and angle and because of the sun's position, the motion was a shadowy blur of light and gray, hazy, inexpressible. He wasn't a superstitious man, he knew, that's why he took this job in the first place; even though, at other times, a feeling of being watched would get under his skin. But this time was different; it wasn't just a feeling. He was certain he'd actually seen something, and it wasn't a rat or bird or some such. It seemed to reach out to him like a vibration cutting across the interval separating him from the garden. Nonetheless, for the sake of sanity if nothing else, he dismissed it as the play of light on scraps of paper billowing about. Annoyed, he made a mental note to police the area next time; trash was collecting, perhaps from the road, he thought; no other houses were nearby.
Maybe it was time to quit this job, he considered, smiling to himself.
He removed the wand from his pocket and placed it gingerly beside him, at first examining it, but then watching it, observing from a distance, half-expecting it to act strangely, unpredictably, grow appendages or shimmer or turn into another thing entirely, something. Glancing at the garden again, then at the wand, he caught himself and shook his head at his foolishness.
Time to let go.
The sun beginning to set over the azure sea, he put the truck in gear and drove on down the road.