The Ghosts of Autumn

A very short story

“Mr. West … are you alright?” She was staring at him, turned half-around on her office chair. She had dark hair and eyes and red lips and wore a burnt-yellow office dress.

“I’m sorry… I guess I spaced out.” He looked around. He wasn’t spaced out; he was genuinely confused. A dim fear crept over him as he felt around blindly in the darkness of his own mind. He had no idea where he was exactly. The room was paneled in old wood, like the parlor of some Victorian mansion, but there were work desks and computers, like the ones in front of the woman. The machines were older models, like the ones he recalled from when he was a kid. It felt strange that only those random memories remained, associations made in a past no longer at his command. Who was she?

“Do you need a minute?” She held her fingers over the keyboard with an air of anticipation.

“No… yes, actually.” He took a deep breath. Can I ask you something and you not think it’s weird?”

She gave a barely perceptible smile. “Of course, Mr. West.”

“Where am I, exactly?”

“You’re at work, of course.” She said it like it was obvious.

“How long have I been here?”

“You’ve always been here.” Her smile stayed the same.

“Always been here … no, I don’t remember that. I was somewhere else before I was here.”

“There is no 'before’ and there’s nowhere else, sir. When you’re here, you’ve always been here. That’s how it’s always been.” She turned back to her keyboard and hit a few strokes. “Isn’t it a lovely autumn day today?”

He glanced out the window. There were trees in the yard outside, and a forest beyond them. The particolored leaves still clung in spots to their dry branches; here and there several blew off and floated listlessly to the ground. “I guess it’s always been autumn, too, huh?”

“Naturally.” She struck the keyboard, tap-tap-tap-tap.

“What are you typing?”

She stopped and turned more fully around in her chair. “Mr. West, we’ve been working all day on your story. Have you really forgotten again?”

“All day … I guess I have. I can’t really remember anything to be honest, and I don’t understand what you’re telling me. What story? Who are you?”

She stood up and walked over to him. “I’m your assistant. I help you with your stories. Don’t you remember?”

“I think I’m going nuts. I seriously don’t remember anything and-” She placed her finger over his mouth.

“I’ll be honest with you sir. Your stories are getting a bit dull lately. I’ve done what I can but there isn’t a whole lot I can do with the material you’re giving me. Editing can only get you so far.”

“Dull?” He still didn’t understand what was going on but somehow the word repulsed him.

“Dull. Derivative. Stale. Decadent. Lifeless, even. I’d go so far as to say I no longer especially enjoy reading your work.” The smile disappeared and she seemed a bit disappointed.

“Look, I’m really sorry. I don’t know what’s going on, but … you’re saying I’m an author?”

“When I first started working with you in the spring you were great. Not the most disciplined, but full of energy- willing to take risks. It was exciting. Passionate! Then summer came and the stuff we put out, it was glorious! She practically beamed as she turned and faced the window. “But then fall hit and everything just ground to a halt. I shouldn’t be surprised of course. It’s what always happens.”

“You said it was always autumn!”

“When it was spring, it was always spring. Then it was always summer. Now it’s always autumn. It’s how it’s always been; why are you acting surprised?”

“That doesn’t make any sense!”

Winter is what I really dread though …”

“What happens in winter!?”

She turned back to face him. “It doesn’t need to come to that, you know. There’s a way to avoid the winter altogether.”

“I DON’T UNDERSTAND ANY OF THIS!” He shouted and stomped over to the window. “Where the hell am I! What is going on!? Just tell me! What is wrong with you?”

She spoke from behind him. “I can’t explain things any more clearly than I have. I really don’t know why all this isn’t obvious to you. If you don’t want my help I can leave, but I really don’t think you want to be here for the winter without me.”

He was still completely at a loss, but what could he do? He didn’t know where he was- who he was- but she was the only other person in the universe. Speaking with resignation, he could only ask, “what do I do?”

She approached him and put her hand on the base of his neck. Her chin nearly rested on his shoulder as she looked past him, indicating the space beyond the window with her finger extended. “Out there, past the forest, there’s a fountain that runs between two streams. One stream flows past it, the other into it. If you drink from the first stream, you’ll forget you were ever here. If you drink from the well, you’ll remember.”

“Remember what?”

“Everything.” She whispered that promise into his ear.

“Ok, so I just walk through the woods and drink from the fountain? That doesn’t sound hard.” It still felt bizarre, but at least it was something, some tangible action.

“There are dangers. It’s not a short trip. Some say there are monsters, some fear the cold and the hunger. But if you ask me, I’d have to say it’s the tedium of it that defeats most people. You’ll get quite bored before the end.”

“Bored? That doesn’t seem that bad.” He turned to face her again.

“You must understand that powerful forces will concentrate their energies on you to force you from your task. The strain of focusing on getting to that well will become unbearable without a total commitment. There are so many things that will seem more appealing along the way. It’s why, when they get there, so many people just drink out of the first stream. They want to forget they ever bothered with the trip.”

“I won’t. I don’t want to forget. I want to remember. I want to write like I used to.” He felt a strange confidence as he spoke those words, as though the path she’d outlined were the most obvious thing. As he could recall nothing else, there was no other course of action that could seem more plausible, after all.

“Spring can come again. It can always be spring again.” She looked at him with great fondness, longingly even.

“Where is the door?”

“Where it has always been.” She pointed, and he turned back toward the windows, and his eyes fell upon a doorway between them he hadn’t noticed before. He reached down and turned the knob, then looked at her once more.

“What is your name? You didn’t tell me.”

“It would be better if you remembered. Remember that you’ve always known. Good luck, Mr. West.”

He opened the door and stepped out into the cool autumn air.