The Ghosts of Spaces Occupied

Hot and Cold

11:15 am, Tuesday May 11, 1971

It had looked to be an ordinary house alright. Coral tiled rooftop, European style paneled windows, multicoloured lilies adorning the front lawn. Walk in and I’m surrounded by lightly yellowed walls, leading way to an otherwise ordinary dining room. The smell of roasted meat oppressively blankets the kitchen space.

“Mmmm. Almost makes me want to check the oven first.” Officer Wedgewood echoes what I’ve been secretly thinking. There is something sinister about the aroma, a hint of oily pungency that I can’t quite pinpoint.

I nod at the appliance of interest. “You want to do the honours?” I ask.

“Nope, your family's from Canada. You are better with the cold. Glory's all yours." Wedgewood backs a few steps out but leans his head closer, piqued by interest.

My gloved fingers wrap firmly around the freezer door handle. I take a moment to mentally prepare for what lies beyond the door to this mystery box. Having been a police officer for the past 15 years, I’ve seen more than what people hope not to see in multiple lifetimes. But the moment before the reveal still triggers a tiny flame of terror in my spine.

I slowly pull the freezer door open. The smell of frozen sinewy meat streams into my nostrils. Wedegewood and I take a minute to visually take in the contents. A round tub of vanilla ice-cream, ice crystals crusted on the package. Boxes of frozen dinner stacked on top of each other, for those lazy days when you are too tired to cook. Packs of beef and pork. Then we see it.

Round, pudgy with skin coloured yellowish-grey like concrete. It is a little bigger than the size of an adult palm and Saran wrapped in its original fetal position. Its eyes, though shut, seem to be squeezing tears out of their life unlived. Its legs wrapped awkwardly around its trunk. For some reason they look more like flimsy belts and less like legs. My body turns cold and blood drains from my face. Wedgewood does not seem to be faring any better.

But something is missing. I probe around the freezer with my gloved fingers, careful not to disrupt the scene of the horror.

My partner catches on. “The twin?” I nod and try to feel around with my fingers.

Then we both hear it. A string of cries to our left, muffled by the oven door. I turn to Wedgewood and a look of recognition forms on both our faces.

After a moment of quietly listening to the haunted howls coming from the oven, I still found it in me to nudge him. "You're Texan. The hot one is on you."