Over the Invisible Bridge by C.F. Ross
For awhile last year, it was a custom of mine to stealthily enter strangers’ homes. It was always early morning when breakfast things were in a sticky muddle in the sink. Pyjamas were left in a heap where the owners had stood, and toothpaste was splattered all round the sink. I assessed what miracles I would perform, and it made me happy if the shower hadn’t been wiped, the dishwasher packed or the laundry put in the washing machine. Their neglect gave me my new job as a Fairy Godmother, and, more to the point, a wage. The more mess, the longer I took, and the bigger my wage!
I was entrusted with a sacred key to cross the invisible bridge from my world into some one else’s untidy domain. Trust is a strong, abstract noun which is an essential attribute for any Fairy Godmother. Trust is something people feel but can not see, but when you’re handed your keys, then you know you’ve negotiated an invisible trust bridge.
I had never experienced such a phenomenon until I was employed as a Fairy Godmother. It allowed me to creep in and out of various homes round our town, and I was proud that I could liberally wave my magic wand feather duster; and scatter, willy nilly, my rainbow dust spray polish.
The more homes I cleaned, the more I realised each empty house had its very own aura, or presence. It had a soul and personality which was enhanced by the aesthetic choices, possessions, smells and sounds of the absent owner. It gave me a code to decipher the type of person I worked for. As I dusted in silence, I would hear a gurgling ogre’s stomach from behind a closed door, creaks down a wooden stairwell which were the foot steps of some ghoul, or the scratching of some fiendish beast in the loft. Week by week, I got accustomed to the peculiarities of each home and knew exactly how to deal with them.
My new job went like clockwork and suited everyone fine, until Tuesday December 11th, 2007 when I was at Mrs Pegg’s house. I remember it well because it was exactly 2 weeks before Christmas. I still felt the weighty responsibility of working with other folks’ prized possessions, so I manoeuvred gingerly with the cleaner. But, low and behold, the vac gremlins sucked an ear-ring up the vac pipe.
On Mrs Pegg’s sideboard, her beloved china ornaments became skittles which nearly toppled as I poked them with my feather duster. It made me so nervous I scrubbed the passage floor in an utter frenzy. Then OUCH! I pricked my finger on a skirting board splinter. I felt really tired, and could have quite easily sneaked into a bed.
It was then, as I squatted on the floor, and nursed my sore finger, that I first saw BOGLE. The apparition flashed to my right side. I caught it out the corner of my eye. I turned and stopped but nothing was there. I opened the kitchen door, and there was a stain right in the middle of the carpet. Oh Lord, the rotten poltergeist had made a mess because it certainly wasn’t me! I attempted to clean it with my J-Cloth but to no avail.
I stared in disbelief, sweating profusely, and to my amazement, the stain vanished. That’s when it dawned on me. I had tried to clean up a chink of sun light which had hit the carpet through the blinds. My embarrassment was such I’m certain the curtains rustled and units rumbled in amusement.
Mrs Pegg’s house breathed, sighed, chuckled, coughed and sneezed. It slept, snored and woke up with a start when I switched on a light or machine.
I thought I was alone over her invisible bridge of trust but now her BOGLE had somehow crossed to be with me.
I wouldn’t mention about BOGLE to Mrs Pegg or my boss because people are rather uppity about their homes, and I didn’t want either to think I was being too nosy or cheeky. So, I forgot about it, and took the vac upstairs to tackle the bedrooms. A large clock ticked with a demented heart beat, and I searched for any clues about the apparition without luck.
I had been at Mrs Pegg’s for nearly 3 hours, and was kneeling on the front steps when BOGLE, the size of a guinea pig, shot across the floor behind me again. I shrieked with fright. But I was alone, so I just laughed it off. If Mrs Pegg’s apparition wanted to play, then I didn’t mind. I’d appreciate its company, and if it lingered, then I certainly would speak to it or even pet it. I put a small crust under the fridge for BOGLE, finished off my chores, and as I left Mrs Pegg’s I croaked:-
‘Cheerio, BOGLE, enjoy your crust and I’ll see you next week.’
I got home from Mrs Pegg’s feeling rather tired and sweaty, and I slumped in a heap on my stairs. I’d crossed the invisible trust bridge back to my own mess. I felt guilty my own house was a tip. I stared dejectedly at my dishevelled reflection in a mirror, and knew no Fairy Godmother ever looked like this! Then from the corner of my eye, I caught a fleeting glimpse of a dark shape. I smiled and said:-
‘BOGLE! You little scallywag, you shouldn’t be here.’
I bent down to stroke it, but of course, it vanished. I suddenly realised, the new glasses I wore had been moving down my nose when I bent over. Also moisture coated the lenses making all kinds of distortions. I wasn’t sure but I suspected the two together had created the BOGLE phenomenon. But that night I put a crust under my fridge, and the next morning it had gone. I knew BOGLE would come to me again across the invisible trust bridge. I just knew it.
