A New Story
By: Willow


“This is incredible!  I can’t believe we’re finally here!”
Vehicles of all shapes and sizes rushed around the streets of downtown New York City amidst the sounds of beeping car horns, yelling voices, and the general commotion of a busy American city.  The smell of hot dog stands mixed with motor oil wafted down the crowded streets and a light fog blurred pedestrians’ vision as they pushed through crowds on the sidewalks and ran in between cars at intersections.  Contrary to this general hustle and bustle two young women strolled sedately along the sidewalk admiring everything around them.
“Look at this vase, Elizabeth!” One of the girls cried, her English accent betraying her as a tourists if her actions did not.  “Isn’t this the most beautiful vase you’ve ever seen?  It must have been hand painted.”  The vase in question caught the girl’s attention from a large shop window facing onto the street.  The object was short and squat although it’s weightless appearance and thin painted decorations gave it a demure sense of elegance.
The shop owner, a short, squat man who keenly resembled the vase minus the demure sense of elegance, glanced up as the young women entered the building.  His skilled eyes followed the red-head’s gaze as she cautiously neared a beautiful vase placed in the shop window.  He smiled to himself as she pronounced her wonder at its beauty to her companion who seemed much more interested in studying her reflection in the various mirrors positioned around the shop. 
“May I help you ma’am?” He inquired of the red-head in a brisk New York accent.
“Oh,” she seemed startled.  “I just thought you could tell me how much this cost?”
Smiling he answered quietly, “I can part with it for fifty dollars.”
“Fifty dollars?  How much would that be in pounds by any chance?” When the shop owner only smiled broader at her and shrugged his shoulders she turned to her companion.  “Elizabeth, is fifty dollars quite expensive?”
“I wouldn’t know, Mel,” she replied distractedly, gazing at old pictures on the wall.  “Have I been here any longer than you?”  Elizabeth detected the sounds of Melanie completing the purchase with the shop owner as she continued to examine the old pictures.
“Sir,” she questioned turning to face the shop keeper.  “Are these of New York?”
“Why yes,” he answered strolling closer to her.  “Those are my grandparent’s pictures from when they emigrated here from Russia.  You see this factory here?  That’s where my grandfather worked to raise enough money to pay for my grandmother’s passage over.”
“Is this them?” Elizabeth asked, indicating a black and white picture of a man smiling broadly next to woman with a baby on her hip.
“Yes.”  Obviously exceptionally proud to show off his family, the shopkeeper pointed to the baby.  “That’s my father.  He was born soon after my grandfather came to America.”
“What’s this building?”  Melanie asked, pointing to a large tenement building that appeared relatively well-kept up compared to the buildings surrounding it.
“That’s where my grandparents lived until they made enough money to move further out of the city.  My grandmother even started her own business in their room there.  She was a seamstress.” 
The shopkeeper gazed at the two British women who appeared fascinated by the old pictures.  “That was in the 1920s, but in October of 1931, a few years after my grandparents moved out, they boarded up the place.”
“Why?” Elizabeth questioned.
“Why?  Well, the official reason is that it was getting so run down, the city was afraid for the safety of the residents.  But it all happened so quicklyÖ.” The shopkeeper stared intently at them for a minute and then started laughing.  “Oh well, you wouldn’t believe it anyway.”
“What?  Wouldn’t believe what?”
“No, I shouldn’t tell you.  You look too sensible to believe the tale.”  The shop keeper shrugged.
“We’re not sensible, honest!  I swear it, we’re the two most insensible girls you’re bound to meet!”  Melanie looked so serious in a child like sort of way that Elizabeth couldn’t help but laugh.
“Well,” the shopkeeper continued.  “They say the place is haunted.”
“Haunted!”  Melanie screwed up her face and laughed.  “What nonsense!”
“I thought you just said you weren’t sensible.”  Elizabeth indicated for the man to go on.  “Why do they say it’s haunted?”
“According to the story as I heard it, the city boarded up the tenement house on such short notice that the inhabitants in it didn’t have a chance to move out.  They were all trapped in their rooms, unable to escape.  They’re still there ëtil this day.  It’s said that if you visit the house late at night, you can hear them going about their daily chores, cooking, cleaning, playing music, and the like ñ almost like nothing happened and it is still 1931.  Mostly you can just hear murmurs, you know, like eavesdropping on a conversation from another room.  You can tell they’re talking but you can’t make out what they’re saying.”
The girls nodded and listened intently.  The shopkeeper leaned in closer to them, “I heard that sometimes though, if you get close enough, you can actually hear them talking.”
“About what?”
“Oh, they just talk about everyday things - work, kids and whatnot.  I heard that if you look through a crack in one of the boarded windows, you can even see them moving around and eating dinner. What’s really strange is that they say the same things and eat the same things every night.  No variation ñ ever.  It’s almost like they live the same moment in time over and overÖ..”  The store was completely silent as the three occupants focused intently on the legend.  Only the faint sound of passing cars was heard over the air conditioner and ticking of clocks.  The shopkeeper let a quiet minute tick by and then straightened up and laughed.  “Of course, I don’t believe any of it.  Bunch of bologna if you ask me.”
Elizabeth turned to run her fingers over the picture on the wall. 
"Yes," she whispered.  "Bunch of bologna."