The Scent of Old Summer

The invitation had come out of nowhere, an email from a documentary crew that had heard about my childhood connection to the Cinder House. I hadn’t thought about that place in decades, not since my father took me there when I was nine, but the memory of the little girl I’d played with on the balcony had never truly faded. When I arrived at the sprawling, dilapidated hotel, nestled in the fog-laden pines of the Cascade foothills, I felt a pull I couldn’t explain. The crew was already set up in the grand dining room, their cameras and lights casting eerie shadows across the ornate, peeling ceiling. I stood by the fireplace, trying to reconcile the space with my memories. It was smaller, the staircase narrower, the balcony more precarious. But the scent of old wood and dust was the same, and I could almost hear the ghost of a child’s laugh.

On the second night, a medium on the team, a sharp-eyed woman named Lena, found me by the creek behind the hotel. She had been wandering, she said, guided by a presence. She described a little girl with pigtails and a patched dress, which matched my memory perfectly. When I told her about the girl I’d played with, Lena’s face went pale. She asked the presence, her voice low and even, ‘Are you the one who played with him all those years ago?’ The air around us grew still, and the creek seemed to hold its breath. Then, clear as a bell, a child’s voice answered from the trees: ‘Yes.’

Later that evening, Lena and I found ourselves in the old pool room, a cavernous space with a blackened hearth and a faded mural of sylvan scenes. We were discussing the impossibility of what we’d heard when the scent of bananas hit us—not just a hint, but a suffocating wave, as if someone had cracked open a bunch and thrust it under our noses. We both froze. There were no bananas in the hotel; the kitchen was stocked with canned goods and dried staples for the crew. The odor was so vivid, so out of place, that my skin prickled with a primal fear. Lena’s eyes met mine, and I knew she was thinking the same thing: this was a message, a calling card from the past.

I started to remember more vividly. My father, the trip, the girl. She had been shy but insistent, pulling me by the hand to a winding staircase that led to a tower room I’d never seen again. She called it her ‘special place,’ and we had snuck up there one afternoon, past a door that was always kept locked. The room was filled with old trunks and a single window that looked out over the forest. She had been quiet then, almost sad, and she’d held my hand and said, ‘Don’t forget me.’ I hadn’t, but I’d buried the memory so deep that it had become a blur.

On the final day, I was alone in the dining room, the crew packing their equipment. A draft swept through the room, and the scent of bananas returned, stronger than ever. I turned to the balcony, and there she was—the girl, translucent and smiling, her pigtails bobbing as she lifted a hand to wave. I waved back, and then she faded. But as she disappeared, I felt a cold touch on my cheek, and I heard her whisper, ‘You came back.’ I nodded, tears stinging my eyes. The scent of bananas lingered for a moment longer, and then it was gone, leaving me with a profound sense of loss—and gratitude. The Cinder House had kept her, and now it had kept a piece of me too.