For as far back as the old man could remember, he had always been a person who followed structured routines and that was a habit which he never varied. These reoccurring cycles were well suited for him since senile dementia had meticulously robbed him of his earlier existence. A few scattered memories remained like fading photographs which he clung to desperately; lest he lose his sanity.
The vast majority however, had been lost long before in the murky past. Confusion was the worst part because he didn’t know just how much he had forgotten. With morose feelings he realized that soon he wouldn’t even know who he was.
Ironically, this realization no longer disturbed him. It was actually a source of distorted comfort. He anxiously
awaited the end of the helpless agony of being aware of his mental deterioration but not being able to stop it. Soon it would all be over.

    Time seemed to stand still for him in the large, shadowy house. He had no past that he could remember, nor was there anything for him to do but moan over his woes and venture down into the basement in search of lost memories; as if in a trance. He was sure that the answers he sought were to be found in the workshop but exactly what that "truth" was; he had no idea. All he had to rely on was a feeling that ate at his consciousness
which reminded him that even his recent memories were being lost. His name was now swept away forever by the winds of time. There was no one else around to remind him except the specters he occasionally saw which
haunted the house and they never spoke, and rarely even acknowledged his presence!

    Oddly enough, he was never frightened or concerned about their presence there, nor annoyed by their  mischief. Often he witnessed lights switch on and off by themselves or doors open and close occasionally by their disembodied hands. Sometimes he could even see them! To the contrary, their presence was strangely comforting for him to not be completely  alone. In times past, ghosts and apparitions were accepted by most
people as being very real but nothing to be concerned about. In modern times people were sceptical about anything intangible to the 5 senses but it was convenient for him to believe.

    Once again the all consuming impulse beckoned him. Just how many times he had been down those dark steps the old man couldn’t fathom but it was the main part of the routine and he couldn’t deny it. He could never explain his need to visit the workshop because he couldn’t ever remember what he found when he went down there. He knew the answers to his existence was down in the workshop and sooner or later he would come away with a complete understanding of it’s importance to him from the fragmented pieces of memory that led him there routinely. Perhaps it was a cure or a treatment for his memory loss, or some other salvation but regardless, he would continue on each time his compulsion demanded until the mystery was solved. It was his only hope.

    Ironically, the family of spirits;  father, mother, boy and girl usually appeared on his excursion down to the
basement when he was too preoccupied to try to communicate with them. It was about the only time
that they even seemed to take notice of him at all. He would have enjoyed discussing the nature of their
plights if his destiny hadn’t been calling him to the workshop. They seemed so happy together and he
wondered what the event had been that had led to their passing into the spirit realm. It occurred to him that he had probably pondered the same thing before, perhaps even hundreds of times. He had no way of knowing
with his failing memory. Time stood still.

    His observations of "the family" were limited between trips to the basement and their periods of inactivity.
The old man was amazed to see them periodically leave the sanctuary of the house. He had almost forgotten that there was an outside world beyond the boundaries of the house’s four walls! For all he knew, he had
never even been outside. More likely he realized, he just couldn’t remember. When he did try to follow them out the front door he was seized with an intense panic that would not subside until he turned away from
the doorway. Whatever was causing his phobia of the outside world was enough to keep him inside
indefinitely, he realized. Again he visited the workshop only to return without finding the answers he sought. 

    An old black and white wedding photograph that he found in the attic caused a fragment of some lost memory to flicker in his mind. He anxiously remained on the edge of retrieving the circumstances surrounding it for a great while and then finally surrendered to hopeless frustration.
;He had all but given up any hope of remembering the event when the name "Cora" flashed in his mind! Excitedly he knew that the bride in the photograph was Cora but "who was the man in the picture and why was their photograph in his attic?" "Had they lived in the house before?"; he wondered. The old man knew that the other facts were unlikely to be uncovered anytime soon at the rate of his mental deterioration but at least the small discovery had given him hope. A surge of fear overtook him. "What was her name again?" He searched his thoughts in bewilderment. It was at the very edge of his consciousness. "Carrie? Cathy? Karen?" He raced to resurrect the fading memory from only moments before. "Care..? Cor...? CORA! That was her name, Cora!"; He thought to himself. There wasn’t any need of saying it out loud because there wasn’t anyone to hear him but "them" and "they" didn’t listen. The old man placed her name on the back of the picture in case
he forgot again.

    The time had come again. He could feel it. The mysterious allure of the unknown was pulling him down; down to the cellar again. He made his way down the hallway; as if gliding on a cloud in a dream. Past several
vacant doorways on the way to the last door at the end of the hall. The door to the basement. The ritual never
changed for him except for an occasional appearance from one of the house’s other "inhabitants". When they materialized from one of the rooms they would usually point and silently speak, as if to tell him something
he was unable to hear. It was of little consequence to him as the obsession pushed him to open the basement door.

    His next recollection was always seeing his hand close the basement door back behind him as the search for answers had ended again. He looked for more links to the past he was missing in the attic and  studied the photograph again in desperation. The groom in the picture was very familiar to him but try as he might, the old man could not place him. Somehow he knew that the picture’s unidentified subject was the key to his mystery. He wondered if the young couple had been members of his own family and then the realization dawned upon him that he was never visited by anyone! Had they forsaken  him and left him to wander the house in  confusion until he died? Maybe he just couldn’t remember their visits. For all he knew he didn’t even
have a family.

    The old man’s next trip to the workshop didn’t answer the questions either but at least this time he didn’t  come away empty handed. As he closed the door he noticed he held in his hand a rusty knife! He hadn’t a clue as to it’s significance but it was the first thing he had ever brought back with him from the workshop.
Little by little the endless cycle was beginning to draw to a close.

    In the attic he held the only 2 links to the past that he had in his possession; one in each hand. He glanced out the octagon shaped attic window at the outside world. "If only..."; he thought. Sounds within the house alerted him to their presence. He temporarily forgot about his own worries when he considered their plight.
Theirs was truly hopeless. Then it dawned on him that his situation wasn’t much better.

    This time when fate summoned him, he was armed with his 2 remnants of hope. He opened the basement door with an indescribably mixed sense of anticipation and dread. This time he knew things would turn out 
differently. He was on the edge of remembering who he was and what his life had entailed. This was it! 

    On the other side of the door the old man’s true destiny beckoned. Little bits of his memory began to flood back into his consciousness. Down the steps he descended slowly. Closer and closer to the unknown
that obscured his memory. It was all coming back to him now. He had built the house with his own two hands after the war to end all wars; World War I was over. The same two hands now held the photograph and the
rusty knife. Then he realized that the groom in the picture was himself! He was married to Cora! "But what is MY name and where is she?" He wondered. Perhaps it would come back to him later.

    He reached the bottom step of the stairs and was bathed in darkness. He felt around for the chain that switched on the light above the workbench. For what seemed like an eternity he waived blindly in the air
until he connected with the chain. With a snapping click, the workshop was slightly illuminated by the dim rays of the single light bulb. The darkness in the corners of the room seemed to devour the light. While
glancing down at the photograph he couldn’t help but admire how dashing he had been when he was young. He could even remember their wedding day when Cora had told him that he was very handsome. Dozens of memories came drifting back to him in the order in which they had happened, so much that he was having trouble absorbing the literally thousands of experiences that he had lived through from his childhood to his marriage to Cora, his High School sweetheart. He was excited to remember that he had a son named Robert. "A son!"; he proudly thought; and then he wondered why his son or his family never visited him. "Had they died, or where they too far away to come and see him?" When the old man attempted to remember past the boy’s birth and first spoken word; "Da da"; the haze in his memory was completely impenetrateable.

    The workshop was just as would be expected for one. There were benches with vices and pegboards full of tools. It could have been found in any basement or tool shed but for the first time in a great while the old
man could remember that it was located at his house at 1746 Taylor Street. He; Mathew Mills had built the house in 1919 from the ground up.  Matt felt as if a huge burden had been removed from his shoulders as he
finally had large portions of his memory back; not the least of which was his name! That alone was a great relief
but all of the clouds hadn’t dissipated from his mind and it was the still missing knowledge that he needed to know even more than his distant past.

    Several pieces of furniture, boxes, and broken toys had been put down in the basement for storage. Over in one corner was the truth that he sought. The old man surveyed the workshop’s contents for a clue to the
mystery that still partially censored his consciousness. He wondered how kind the years had been to him since the wedding picture. At that instant he sensed a dark presence in the room with him. He slowly lifted his eyes to see what held him in it’s freezing gaze. Starring directly into his eyes from the corner was a vision of unspeakable horror!

    The last mental block was gone now and he could remember every single detail of his life. Coming home early from work one day when he had felt ill, he was surprised to find his beloved Cora in the arms of another
man. It was more than he could bear.

    Painfully he removed a thick layer of dirt from a worn out dresser’s mirror. There before him was the previously unrealized truth that had "haunted" him. It was himself! His eyes were cold and lifeless and his
skin was pale white and without human warmth. The slit under his chin that went across his neck perfectly fit the rusty knife in his hand that had made the unnatural incision so many years before. Now the final cloud had been lifted and he understood  completely. The others he saw in the house were not ghosts; he was; after his
suicide! This bitter truth was more than he could swallow. He turned to head back up the stairs.
Soon the cycle would begin again.