It was as if my thoughts had followed Frieda. Together they had left Bell Springs in the dust, the town growing smaller in their bus’s rear-view window. Without them, I had begun to see the town Frieda had despised slowly inverted like the negative of a photo.

BY CAROLINE TUCCINARDI

IMAGE BY CAMEO VENCHIARUTTI

Content Warning: Mentions of physical abuse.

My mother did not believe in ghosts, but she did believe in postcards. She loved the pictures on the back. The ones with faraway places she had never visited, where celebrities lived in cities whose skylines shone as bright as stars. She stared at them often and would draw her fingers across the postcards' surface as if touching them could bring each scene to life.

It was like Bell Springs had been made for her. The continuous subject for photographers, her hometown featured in hundreds of stills coveted by dozens of publishers. Its green countryside, laid with rows of colourful houses separated by neatly paved roads, was the ideal scene for picturesque postcards.

As summer came around each year to the town, the residents went into a frenzy to upkeep the portrait. The tall hedges were pruned, and the green grass trimmed close to the earth. Flowers did not grow freely, but in square beds where rabbits could not reach them. Most animals were loathed, and the townspeople cleared the streets of vermin and litter until the roads were spotless.

My mother took part by dotting the lawn with little garden gnomes, placing them in elaborate dioramas and tilting them until they were just so. I was told to paint away scratches that tarnished their plastic shells. When the photographers came around, our house and its front lawn were perfect for their photos. If any made it to the back of a postcard, my mother would frame it in our living room to immortalize it forever. She didn’t seem to care much about the words written on the back, or in any book for that matter. She still felt obliged to read stories to my sister and me, though.

The three of us sat on the hard floor in Maggie’s room by the small shelf lined with picture books, each sorted by its title, author, and publishing date. My mother selected a book with care and poised it open in one hand. While Maggie leaned back in my lap, Mother sat with her back straight and legs crossed. As she read the words aloud, her posture remained perfectly still. For a moment, I wondered if a photographer would appear to capture her with their camera.

I soon left the thought behind as the story unfolded. Its words took the shape of a great dragon whose orange fire seemed to burst from the page, setting the room aflame. I wrapped my arms around Maggie like she was my teddy bear. As the story ended, I shivered at the thought of claws and teeth crawling on my back.

Maggie only pouted as she wriggled free from my arms. “But dragons are good, not bad! Why did he eat them? Why didn’t the knight come sooner? Why didn’t the princess do anything?”

“That was how it was written,” Mother said as she lifted Maggie and tucked her into bed. She smoothed her hair back into place. “I couldn’t change the ending even if I wanted to.”

Maggie frowned, looking as if she wanted to say more, but her eyelids fluttered closed and her breath became even. She looked peaceful sleeping there and I knew her dreams would remain free of monsters.

I walked into the dark hall while my mother shut off the bedroom light. I tried not to tremble, but my mother must’ve seen as she brought a cold hand to my cheek. I leaned against it for some comfort.

“I don’t know why you still listen to the stories if they bother you so much, Amelie,” Mother mused. “You’re too old for such things now. Best not to think about them. They’re not real anyway.”

I startled against her hand.

“But aren’t they?” I blurted. I had not meant to, but the thought of no longer reading with my sister and mother was alien to me. How could the strange echoes of the pages press against my mind if I wasn’t there to hear them? How could the creatures of the night come to life if there were no words to set them free?

My mother gave my cheek a pat and smiled. “No.” I blinked at her words, but she turned away and walked to her bedroom. “Goodnight. Go to bed soon.”

I nodded, though she did not see. My body felt slack as I stood in the hallway surrounded by shadows and their whispers. I intended to turn in and ignore them as my mother would’ve wished, but instead I stayed and listened.

****

I later shared this story with my friend Frieda, who I often told of my overactive imagination and the books I liked to read.

“Your mom’s too high-strung like everyone else,” Frieda said, rolling her eyes. “It’s why I can’t wait to get out of Bell Springs.”

“She isn’t that bad,” I said as we sat on our spot by the river, “but where would you go?”

“I’d take a bus to the next town. Find a job. Then I’d leave and take the bus to the next town, again, and the town after that. I’d go all the way to the end of the line or until it goes over the ocean.”

Frieda always talked about leaving Bell Springs and her whims were familiar to me. I laughed, “How would a bus do that?”

“I don’t know,” Frieda shrugged, “but I like the thought. Where would you go?”

I was about to respond with a surefire answer, but none came to my tongue. I rested my chin on my tucked knees while my mind stretched for any words. I had never thought about leaving our hometown and I did not hate it as much as Frieda did. Yet, she had always seen something beyond Bell Springs and her free attitude encouraged my own imagination to consider the strange possibility.

It had been the same the first time we met.

I had gone to the nearby woods to wash my arms and hands in the shallow river. They were caked in dirt after I’d scrubbed the front porch spotless for a photo session the next day. With sweat clinging to my frizzy hair, I went to the stream for a break, content to be alone, when I heard a voice behind me.

“You seem like a ghost.” I whirled around and saw Frieda leaning against a tree. Her eyes ran over me as she spoke, “Or is this what all the mindless workers of Bell Springs look like these days?”

I tried to wipe the dirt off my clothes but gave up when she raised an eyebrow. Why should I have cared about the opinion of the local troublemaker?

I crossed my arms. “Maybe you’re the ghost sneaking up on me.”

“Maybe I am,” she laughed. “But I was here first.”

“Doing what exactly?”

“Getting away from my aunt,” Frieda said simply. “Threatened to beat me a bit for not helping out, but here I am.”

“Oh.” My arms fell as the river gurgled, the only sound in the forest. I hadn’t known about her home life, and I didn’t think a comment would be welcome. The silence grew between us, and I wouldn’t have known how to fill it except her first words fluttered back into my mind.

“So, you believe in ghosts, then?”

Frieda tilted her head at me before smiling. “Oh yeah, I see them everywhere.”

My eyes widened. “Not just in books?”

“In those too.” Her smile grew larger. “Everywhere in this whole town actually.”

Frieda pushed herself from the tree and began walking back to Bell Springs. She stopped and turned to peer at me as if daring me to follow. “You just have to look.”

My mother would’ve disliked her, a strange girl with mud on her boots and tales of ghosts. I shouldn’t have gone to who knows where with Frieda that day, but I began to walk beside her. We had been friends ever since.

I mulled over our history as I considered her question in the present. There were places I could name from the books I read and the postcards my mother had, but I knew nothing beyond that. I had lived in Bell Springs all my life. I’d have to do some thinking to come up with a good answer.

I felt a welcome shiver at the idea. “I’ll have to tell you tomorrow.”

Frieda grinned before elbowing me. “Make up something good.”

“I will,” I smiled, intending to keep my promise, but I never had the chance.

****

Frieda disappeared the next morning.

I looked by the river and searched the streets calling her name to no response. At school, I kept an eye out in case she came to class, but she never did. The other students whispered her aunt had kicked her out and she had left without a care. I thought about her on the bus dreaming of a newfound freedom.

I took to walking around town, listless like I was blown about by a cold breeze. I spent hours outside with no destination in mind, only wandering as my feet took one step after another. The dark fingers of evening would spindle their shadows as I returned home to my mother’s frown.

She had found out about my friendship with Frieda after I reluctantly told her why I’d been wandering so much. Her lips would draw thin at my comings and goings, but she only said, “Why did you ever spend time with that troublesome girl?”

I did not answer and went up the stairs to bed to repeat my walk again in the morning.

The rows of colourful houses no longer lay in the countryside, but now stood at rigid attention. Their hedges boxed them in, obscuring from my view their dull siding and split shutters, which groaned if you listened. The flowers wilted in their beds, lamenting as their petals fluttered to join the litter on the broken asphalt. If I looked, I saw a mouse scurrying across the road, sniffing at the rancid garbage the disposal had failed to pick up. I even saw a fox one night peering from the bushes. Its matted fur was like a shawl over its thin body, unable to obscure where its ribs poked out. The fox held my gaze for a moment before sinking further into the brush.

Had Frieda made the same discoveries about Bell Springs? Did she too think garden gnomes were watching her every move? Or was there something else I had missed? I wanted to ask her, but I walked alone down the street wondering why I hadn’t seen it all sooner.

I was lost in my thoughts when I saw a man walking down the driveway of a nearby house. A camera dangled around his neck, and he swung his car keys on his fingers. His appearance was familiar, and I recognized him as Tom, who had photographed our house for postcards several times over the years.

He spotted me and waved hello. It had been some time since Tom visited town. He told me he had just finished a photo session and was headed back to his car before it got dark. As I had already decided to go home, we ended up walking together, as we were going the same way. After polite conversation about how my family was and if I was enjoying school, we fell into silence. As the sun was setting, I felt my eyes linger on his camera.

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

Tom glanced towards me, but only stuck his hands in his pockets. “Not really, kid, but I guess it depends on how you look at it.”

I looked at the neighbourhood before kicking a rock. It clattered down the road. “You know none of the houses look the same from behind. Their paint’s peeling and it’s a little ugly, but I don’t think anyone cares as long as no one sees. Those are like ghosts.”

“I know, kid, I know.”

I almost stopped walking as I turned my head towards him. “So, you’ll keep taking pictures of the ‘perfect’ town anyway?”

Tom shrugged as we came to his car parked close to the bus stop. “It’s my job to make it look good, even if it doesn’t. That's my story.” He climbed into the driver’s seat and stored his camera in its bag.

“I’m tired of stories.”

It was like my words had struck him. He glanced at me again, but more closely than before. “Sometimes they’re all we have,” Tom said slowly. “Stories let you live in the world.”

I remained silent. At my lack of response, Tom waved and shut the door to start the car. As the engine sputtered, my gaze turned to the town, the houses bare in the fading light. My eyes settled on the bus stop. It may have been the one Frieda took only a few short weeks ago; it was close to her old house.

I remembered how she wanted to ride the bus all the way to the ocean and over it if she could. It was not, I realized, unlike how my mother loved Bell Springs in her postcards. Both were dreams, but Frieda had seen the town for what it was. She saw their story and told herself a better one.

The car started and I blinked at the rumble as if I had fallen asleep. In a daze, I rushed to the car and knocked on the glass before it could leave.

Tom jumped and rolled down his window. “What is it? Something happen?”

“No. It’s just—” I shook my head. “You’re right. About stories. It just depends on which ones you believe.”

The photographer paused before shaking his head with a smile. “See you next year, kid.”

Tom rolled up the window and drove the car away. I waved until it disappeared and stood in the street where shadows grew long as the summer night grew near, their whispers like a gentle murmur between the hedges and the houses. I listened as I made my way home.

I had to hurry.

Maggie would be going to bed shortly and I’d decided I wanted to read her a book about a dragon. A book where the knights would come sooner and the princesses fought back with the great dragon overhead, soaring alongside them.

Caroline Tuccinardi is a student at Humber College who is interested in the impact of stories on people and the world. When she isn't busy writing, she can be found watching corny movies with her family or gazing at the constellations from her bedroom window.

Image: Micro Terrain (Cameo Venchiarutti, 2024)

Edited for publication by Patricia Arhinson, as part of the Bachelor of Creative and Professional Writing Program.

HLR Spotlight is a collaboration between the Faculty of Media & Creative Arts and the Faculty of Liberal Arts & Sciences and Innovative Learning at Humber College in Toronto, Ontario. This project is funded by Humber’s Office of Research & Innovation.

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