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It began with the perfunctory “To Whom It May Concern:” and continued on in the fashion of a typical reply to an advertisement.
“I’m writing in answer to your advertisement of January 12th earlier this year. If one Mrs. Smith is still in need of a music teacher for her five daughters, varying in ages from twelve through twenty, I have enclosed a copy of my resume forthwith. As to references, I can offer none but myself, Madam, as I know no one yet in this town. I am new and seeking employment. If Mrs. Smith finds this acceptable, I may be found staying at the Crown Inn on Doughty Lane. I have instructed the messenger of this letter to wait for your reply at your convenience. I hope that I will soon have the pleasure of making your acquaintance as well as the acquaintance of my future pupils.
Yours, etc.
Mr. Jacob Trotter.”
The letter was then folded, sealed with the typical red wax, and handed to the courier, who was given instructions that he should wait for a reply at the leisure of the lady of the house, to which the courier nodded in agreement and left the old inn in search of the letter’s destination. The letter made its way into the hands of the middle-aged widow, and a reply to the letter was then dispatched to the original writer.
The messenger then made his way back through the winding lanes of the countryside until he reached the Crown Inn at 122 Doughty Lane. He ran up the steep staircase and knocked on the writer’s apartment at number 12. Before the young man could knock on the old walnut door, it flew open to reveal the eager Mr. Jacob Trotter.
“Well, do you have it? Do you have the reply?” came the trembling voice of the young music teacher.
“Yes, Sir.” Was the only reply that the breathless, ruddy messenger said before excusing himself to return below stairs and take a glass of brandy for his troubles.
Mr. Trotter took no notice of the boy’s leave; he was too anxious to open Mrs. Smith’s reply.
“Dear Mr. Trotter:
Thank you for your inquiry about tutoring my darling girls. However, a teacher without any recommendations whatsoever strikes me as curious. Therefore, I shall not provide my reply to your inquiry until I have met you in person. Please, therefore, come to this address written on the stationery above on Saturday, around noon. If you are late, I will assume you are uninterested in this position. I do have a few stipulations to discuss with you; however, I cannot convey them by correspondence. Until Saturday, I remain respectfully,
~Mrs. Cornelia Smith…”
“What an odd response,” thought the young man. “No matter, I shall find out soon enough what stipulations the old girl has for me.”
It was now Thursday afternoon, and Jacob Trotter decided it was time that he began to gather some of his belongings to bring with him to Mrs. Smith’s country cottage. He organized not only his sheet music and music stands but also his thoughts on how he would approach his potential employer. He had never directly worked for a lady before, especially a lady who seemed so mysterious even to the townspeople. Neither she nor her daughters had been seen in town for the past five years and had become somewhat reclusive. All that the butcher, the baker, or even the dressmaker could tell him was that Mrs. Smith would send a list of things needed at the old cottage and that it was the same exact list each week, asking for the same items. The stationery also always had the exact same date: January 12th, 1909. Jacob thought the discovery was indeed a curiosity, as he noticed the precise date on his own letters sent to him as well.
“Can you tell me what is written on those lists, pretty darlin’?” Jacob asked a particularly giggly dressmaking assistant.
“Buy me a rose, and tomorrow at noon, I will give you a copy of the list.” Replied the girl, coquettishly pushing a wispy strand of hair off her forehead.
“A rose? Why a rose?”
“I do not know; maybe because no one has ever bought me flowers before.”
“Ah, I see,” was the young man’s somewhat saddened reply. “Any particular color rose?”
“Hmm, a yellow rose. After all, it is the symbol of friendship.”
“Well, fair maiden, a yellow rose it is. I will see you here at the dressmaker’s shop at noon tomorrow.”
“Oh no, you can’t meet me here. I will send you an address by messenger tomorrow, around 11:30, where you are to meet me. Don’t be late.”
Before Jacob was able to reply, he heard the voice of the head seamstress calling for the little assistant.
“Little miss, where have you gotten to now?”
“I’ll be right in, Ms. Molly.” Replied the girl.
“Well, hurry it up, child. I haven’t all day.” Came the warning call of Ms. Molly.
Jacob, knowing this as his cue to leave, bowed graciously and set about finding a florist who sold yellow roses. The sandy-haired music teacher thought that this was an impossible task. It was already the end of September, and autumn’s cold breath had begun to touch all of nature. The trees were quickly ripening, showing brilliant crimsons and golds. Even on his walk from the dressmakers back to the Crown Inn, one of these brilliant red leaves broke itself free from the branch that previously held it tightly. It floated gently downward and landed at the feet of the young man. Suddenly and in an absent-minded state, he bent down, looked at the leaf, smiled at it, and with more gentility than is his nature, he placed it in his pocket. As though the gesture meant he was saving it for some very particular reason. That reason was unknown to him. Nor did he think twice about his sudden impulse to collect leaves. For as quickly as the young man picked up the leaf, he promptly began the rest of his walk back to his lodgings at 122 Doughty Lane.
The music teacher did not sleep well that night, for his mind was filled with the hope and promise of the next day. With constant tossing and turning, wondering and praying that his efforts would secure him a paying job and unveil the ever-growing mystery around his potential employer, he finally exhausted himself enough that he fell asleep. No sooner did the young man fall into a deep sleep than the night slipped back behind the sun, which slowly stretched itself across the sleeping man. With all its warmth and brilliance, the light touched the man’s cheek, crept down his shoulder, and gently shook him awake. After a moment or two of grumbling due to his restless sleep, Jacob finally forced himself out of bed and made himself ready for the day.
Jacob began pacing the floor back and forth when he realized that it was nearly eleven-thirty and the promised courier had not yet arrived. He looked from the door back to his pocket watch numerous times, scratching his head and nervously checking and rechecking to make sure that his baggage was ready for that afternoon. The assistant to the dressmaker knew he had to be at his potential new employers by noon. He was not sure that he would have time to see her and give her the long-awaited rose.
“Where is the blasted messenger with my address?” grumbled the man. No sooner did he utter these thoughts aloud than a firm; steady knock was heard on the door to his apartment.
“Finally.” He thought and ran to throw open the door. Much to the young music teacher’s surprise, it was not the usual small, nervous, ruddy messenger who stood on the opposite side of the door. Indeed, the two men couldn’t look any more dissimilar. This new messenger was rather tall and dark, with a very peculiar sense of confidence. This confidence was something our music teacher had not known before, and he could not put his finger on precisely what it was. All he knew was that he didn’t like him. The two men stood and stared at each other for a moment before the messenger thrust the letter into the music teacher’s hand. Jacob read and reread the note. It was simple; it didn’t have an address. All it said was, “Go with the bearer of this letter.” ~ Hortensia”
Jacob looked down at the message and back at the bearer. At first, he was a little suspicious if this did indeed come from his new friend Hortensia, but then, as he held it, he noticed a strong smell of apple blossoms. The day before, at the dressmaker’s shop, he couldn’t help but notice that every time Hortensia came near him, he smelled a strong smell of apple blossoms. The young man decided the scent was enough to trust the stranger, and without another word, he picked up his belongings and motioned for the man to lead onward. Upon arriving at the street, the tall man gestured towards a carriage, signaling the music teacher to board so he could transport him to meet Hortensia. The drive was long, silent, and wearying. Jacob soon began to fall asleep as he leaned his head against the door, lulled by the drive. The heavy-handed messenger-turned-driver jolted him awake, leaving him unsure of how long he had slept or where he was.
“Alright, lad,” came the gruff voice of the stranger. “We are here, and I believe the Lady Hortensia is there in the lane to meet you.”
“Where? I don’t see her?”
“There, where the fog is dissipating.”
“I still don’t see her, man.” Replied Jacob, whose back was turned away from the driver.
There was no answer. The music teacher turned around to see why the driver was not responding, but when he did, he saw nothing—no driver, no carriage; he did not hear the driver pull away; it was as if they had never existed at all. He contemplated in astonishment all that he had just observed and encountered, as well as all that he had not experienced. Perhaps it was the depth of thought, or maybe this silence seemed to prevail in his ears, but nonetheless, suddenly, there was a tug at his elbow. It was Hortensia who had come upon him without making a sound. It was as though her feet were so light that wherever she trod, it was silent, as if she were walking through a blanket of snow.
“There you are silly boy; I have been waiting for you for ages. Did you bring my rose?”
“Yes, of course. However, Hortensia, did you see what happened to the carriage and the driver? Where did you come from? Where am I? Am I anywhere near Mrs. Smith’s?”
“Silly boy, what a lot of questions you ask this morning. Come, I will bring you to Mrs. Smith’s house; it’s just over there. First things first, my rose for your list.”
She stuck out her small hand and waited for her new friend to give her the long-awaited rose, and in exchange, she handed him the list.
The impish girl exchanged the list for the rose. When the girl touched the delicate flower, its smell became even more pungent. Closing her eyes, she drank in the fragrant aroma, letting every sweet note fill her, before slowly exhaling. Jacob observed her intently, forgetting all about the paper that he clutched tightly with his fingers. He watched her closely as he took in the cold afternoon air. Everything she did was a curiosity to him—the way she twirled her hair, her laugh, and this afternoon she did something so curious it defied the nature of the day. She breathed; that is to say, when he breathed in and exhaled, he could see his own breath; however, when she breathed, he could not see her breath. Nor could he see the house that she insisted only sat a few hundred yards away.
“Come,” she said. “If we do not hurry, you will be late for your appointment, and I do so want you to get this job.”
The girl grabbed his warm hand, and when she did, he noticed just how cold hers felt. Her long fingers felt as though he was holding icicles instead of human flesh. Not only did her hands sting to the touch, but they also felt wet. As if she had just finished washing them in a basin filled with ice water. He did not have much time to dwell on this for long; he suddenly felt her pulling into a clearing, and in its center stood a rather large stone cottage. It was surrounded by all of the customary cottage accessories, including ivy and roses climbing the trellis, a stone wall that matched the home, and an iron gate leading to the front door. However, there was something peculiar about this cottage that set it apart from the others; it also appeared to be encircled by a dense fog. It was as intense and strange as the fog that appeared when Hortensia met him in the lane. Visualizing the house was difficult for the young man. When he made mention of it to his companion, she merely shrugged it off and insisted that it was nothing more than the morning dew still rising off the grass. They walked up the short walkway, and Mr. Jacob Trotter knocked on the door, listening intently to see if he could hear footsteps approaching from within. He looked to speak to his new friend, but she vanished. It was as if she, just like the messenger, had never been there.
The cottage door opened, revealing a rather tall, middle-aged woman with gray at her temples and fine, worried lines around her eyes. It was apparent that she once was a great beauty and, in truth, still would be if the look of profound tragedy didn’t steal the glimmer of light that all those who are truly happy bear.
“Are you Mr. Jacob Trotter?” asked the woman.
“Yes, Madam, and am I to presume that you are Mrs. Cornelia Smith?”
“You are correct. Please come in so we may speak about our business in the parlor like civilized individuals and not peasants.”
Mrs. Smith directed Mr. Trotter into the sitting room, pointed to an overstuffed white-and-floral chair, and bade him be seated. Doing as he was told, he did his best to mask his uneasiness as he waited to hear what Mrs. Cornelius Smith would say. It was a relatively warm and welcoming room. A cheery fire blazed in the hearth, while a cat, a yellow and white tabby, curled itself in front of the fireplace, purring steadily as it made itself into the shape of a bread loaf. The room, the cat, and the lady who sat across from him created a scene of perfect domestic bliss. What then was causing such discomfort? Why did he feel as though he wanted to bolt from the living room?
“Mr. Trotter, I must say that you came highly recommended to me by Lady Fitzgerald. She said that you taught her son to play the piano. Is this true?”
“Yes, Madam, indeed it is true. I also give voice lessons. In fact, if your girls would like to learn to sing, I can promise you that in three months, they will be singing as sweetly as nightingales. I have taught even the worst singers…”
Here, Mrs. Smith waved her hand as if to say, “Enough, I will hear no more.”
“Mr. Trotter, you do not need to sell yourself to me, for, as I said before, your reputation precedes you. However, I have some stipulations surrounding your potential employment. Will you hear me out thoroughly before you give an answer?”
“Why, of course, Madam.”
“Very good. First, you must live here on the property. I do not want people seeing you coming and going at any time of day or night. People in this village are quite the gossips, not to mention it is a far drive to make from the Crown Inn to here. Secondly, I know I promised you five pupils; however, you must first teach me. I am very protective of the girls and their progress, and before I let you see any of my angels—for by now they are angels—I need to be assured that you meet my standards. Lastly, there is one thing that you must take into account before you can accept this post. No one must know that you are in my employment. The reason for this is something I cannot disclose to you, but it is of the utmost importance. If these terms are acceptable to you, then I will provide you with room and board as well as a handsome salary. Since you say you can work miracles even with the most tone-deaf of people in three months, let us say you will be on trial for the next three months. At the end of that time, we shall come to another arrangement. Although you may be sick of me by then. What do you say? Do we have an understanding?”
Mr. Trotter didn’t know how to respond. These were odd restrictions, to say the least, and at first, he was inclined to say no. However, when he looked into the woman’s eyes and saw the silent pleading, all he could say was, “Mrs. Smith, I happily and readily accept the position.”
As soon as the young music teacher agreed, the rest of his stuff was delivered from the Crown Inn to Mrs. Cornelia Smith’s residence. He was led into a pleasant room, much like the rest of the house, which appeared bright and spacious but had a sorrowful atmosphere. The stillness of the home made it seem impossible that somewhere within these walls were five daughters as well as their mother and father. When Mr. Jacob Trotter later asked about his future pupils and where they were. Mrs. Smith simply answered, “They’re all quite pleasant girls, beautiful in their own way. Right now, they’re staying abroad with their father and their aunt. They are all expected home any day now.”
Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and still no sign of the five pupils. Mrs. Smith proved to be quite a musical talent, and she seemed to shine under his tutelage. When she sang or played piano, she seemed to transform into the woman she must have been before whatever tragedy took hold of her heart. There was a lightness about her, a whimsical, playful brightness. However, every time Mr. Trotter asked Mrs. Smith about his pupils, she said the same thing over and over: “They’re all quite pleasant girls, beautiful in their own way. Right now, they’re staying abroad with their father and their aunt. They are all expected home any day now.”
The three months were quickly coming to a close, and there was still no sign of the girl coming home. One afternoon, Jacob Trotter waited for Mrs. Smith in the front parlor. He was determined to find out where his students were and whether he was allowed to teach them. For as much as he enjoyed Mrs. Smith’s company and the pay was adequate and the food delicious, he, like most young men in his position, was growing restless. He was housebound, day after day, in a never-ending sea of lessons. The only time he would find some rest was when he would take a walk through the wooded countryside. Every day at three in the afternoon, precisely, Hortensia, much like a ghost, would come out of nowhere to chat and walk with the young man. Jacob, in turn, began looking forward to seeing her every day, and despite the weather now turning quite cold, he continued his walks just to see her. He became so infatuated with his new friend that he began to ask her to see her more often; however, she usually replied in riddles.
“You see me more than you think you do, Jacob. I am in the walls; you cannot see me. I hear your lessons. I see the sad expression on your face as you try to understand the cause of Mrs. Smith’s plight. I see your smiles and your longing to be free of whatever is tying you to this house. I see more than you think. I am closer than you know, and I am with you more often than you could ever feel. So please don’t long for me; it must be how it is. I can never offer you more, nor can I offer you less. For as long as you are in this house, our relationship will be just as it is. If you leave this house, then everything you have come to know and see of me will change completely. Truthfully, my darling, I do not know if you would like the change. Although it will free you.”
“Hortensia, you say this to me constantly, every time I ask to see you more. The only thing you reply with is this confounded riddle. Don’t you ever get tired of it? Don’t you ever want to start a new life? I am not; I am just a poor music teacher, but I cannot stand this inconsistency a moment longer. You only let me see you on the same day at 3:00. Sometimes I feel as though I am walking beside a ghost.”
Here, our frustrated music teacher reached out to touch his friend’s hand. Before she could pull back, he felt the icy cold fingers he had felt before. He looked into her eyes, which made the motion of tears.
“I wish you could understand; I wish I could tell you, but I have been forbidden to tell you more than the riddles I speak in. I can only tell you this: go, go to Mrs. Cornelia Smith, tell her of me, demand the reason, and bring her this so that she will know you are telling the truth.”
From her pocket, she pulled out a small white envelope and inside was a white lacy ribbon with a small gold locket at its center.
“If you show her this, she will know that you are telling the truth.”
He looked down at the envelope, which had the same icy, wet, cold feeling as the girl’s hand. He raised his head one last time to ask her another question, but, as usual, she had disappeared, with no sign of his beloved friend anywhere. Slowly and dejectedly, he walked back to the home of Mrs. Cornelia Smith. There he sat waiting for her in the parlor. He was determined that today he would hear no more riddles from either her or Hortencia; someone would give him the truth. The truth of where the five daughters and her husband were, and who Hortensia was. For on the rare occasion when he was able to sneak back into town, he visited the dressmaker shop where he first met his little friend.
The dressmaker simply said, “I saw her once, and I never saw her again. However, the girl you speak of did not tell me her name was Hortensia. She told me her name was Adelaide.
The door to the front parlor opened, and in came a cheerful Mrs. Smith, carrying a stack of sheet music that was locked away in the attic. She placed it on the table rather solemnly when she saw her new friend, still dripping wet in his overcoat and shoes, looking quite dejected and confused.
“Jacob Trotter, whatever is the matter with you? You still have your overcoat, galoshes, and hat on, getting my clean floor dripping wet and looking like the saddest man I ever saw.”
“Madam,” came the hushed, controlled tone of the music teacher. “Have I not been a good teacher, dare I say friend, to you?”
“Yes…”
“Have I not done everything you asked of me?”
“Yes…”
“Then why do you deny me the one thing I want more than anything in this world?”
“What is that, Jacob?”
“Answers. I want answers. Where are your children? What happened to your husband, and…”
Here, Mrs. Smith cut him off by beginning with her perfunctory answer, “They’re all quite pleasant girls, beautiful in their own way. Right now, they’re staying abroad with their father and their aunt. They are all expected home any day now, and…”
Jacob could not stand to hear her usual evasive answer, and in a fit of rage, he threw the sheet music that was so carefully placed on the table next to him.
Yelling at the top of his voice, “No more lies; tell me the truth. Where are your children? What happened to your husband, and who is Hortensia?” Here, he pulled the white-laced necklace with the golden locket from his pocket.
Mrs. Smith’s face turned a deadly pale. The whiteness of her skin made Jacob believe that she would die right there in the parlor.
“How do you know about Hortensia?” Came the nearly breathless reply.
“I met her in the dressmaker’s shop; she led me here, and I meet with her every day on my walks, and she talks with me for hours. And just like you, when I ask her a serious question, she speaks to me in riddles.”
“Tell me what she says to you, and I will tell you all that I know.”
“She says, ‘You see me more than you think you do, Jacob. I am in the walls; you cannot see me. I hear your lessons. I see the sad expression on your face as you try to understand the cause of Mrs. Smith’s plight. I see your smiles and your longing to be free of whatever is tying you to this house. I see more than you think. I am closer than you know, and I am with you more often than you could ever feel. So please don’t long for me; it must be how it is. I can never offer you more, nor can I offer you less. For as long as you are in this house, our relationship will be just as it is. If you leave this house, then everything you have come to know and see of me will change completely. Truthfully, my darling, I do not know if you would like the change. Although it will free you.'”
The two stared at each other in utter silence. Tears streamed down the woman’s face as she half collapsed into the nearest chair. Jacob did not take his eyes off of her as he waited for her reply.
“They are dead. All of them are dead. My husband and my children—they are gone, taken from me, ripped away. I have nothing left. Hortensia was my oldest child, and I gave her this locket on her sixteenth birthday. She never took it off. I buried her in this locket. Do you understand me? I buried them all!”
Jacob’s face was white, too, now. “How can this be? I have seen her; I felt her icy…” And here he stopped speaking as fear gripped his throat. He thought to himself, “Is this why she is always icy and wet to the touch?”
“My husband, Hortensia, and my other four girls were at their aunt’s house. The girls’ aunt was my husband’s sister. That wasn’t a lie. I couldn’t go; I was ill, and the doctor said that it was best if I didn’t travel. I was to join them when I got better, but instead, I got worse, and the nurse who was taking care of me sent for my family. They said I only had weeks to live, and, given that they were traveling by boat, it was best to start for home immediately. They did not delay, however, as they were traveling home, a bad storm came, and the boat capsized, killing all on board except for Hortensia. She was in bad shape but seeing her so ill somehow helped rouse me from my sickbed. Perhaps it was because I knew she needed her mother. I nursed her and did everything I could. The doctors were in the house around the clock, taking care of each of us. It did not matter, for she died in my arms. Before she died, two curious things happened. The first was that she said, “Don’t worry, Mommy, in five years from now I will make a new friend, and he will come to stay with us; he will teach you music, and then I will come back to visit you. You will find rest.” Which was a curious thing, but at that point, I thought it was just delirium. The second thing I noticed was that her skin suddenly became very icy, wet, and cold to the touch, as if she had just been pulled from the water, not two weeks prior. You see, Mr. Trotter, I lost them all. However, I got to see her one last time. When the five-year mark came, I decided to advertise. I didn’t expect to see my children or husband again, but I did it to honor their memory. They were all very musical and always wanted me to be a part of it. Though, since my secret is out, I will tell you that part of me keeps hoping that they will come knocking on my door and I will wake from this nightmare. That is why I never leave the house. I have been waiting for Hortensia’s promise to come true.”
They sat in silence as both tried to process everything that had just happened. There was no denying what Jacob Trotter saw. He had the proof in his hand. An icy wind suddenly filled the room, so strong it caused the fire in the fireplace to sway, and in the remains of the fire and the embers, six faces seemed to form within the flames. Hortensia smiled outward from the blaze in such a way that seemed to beg Jacob’s pardon and say, “See, Mama, we came home, and we are safe.”
Jacob closed the door to the cottage that day. Leaving behind a love that could never be and a woman who was now at peace. Years later, rumors about the old cottage, Mrs. Smith, and the young music teacher began to surface. Some say that Jacob Trotter moved far away, started a school for gifted children, and married a fine wife. Some say he took Mrs. Smith with him and cared for her as his mother. No one can say what became of Mr. Trotter or Mrs. Smith, for fact is stranger than fiction.
Until Next time until I return to more story telling.
I remain respectfully,
Cheyenne E. Mitchell
]]>Where is my joy?
Is it gone forever?
I cry out to you in the middle of the darkness.
I am in need of rescuing.
My eyes are heavy from tears, and my heart is weary of pain.
A pain, not mine to bear;
Help me as I call out to you.
Where am I?
Will I forever feel as though I walk in darkness?
To walk only believing, holding on to hope alone.
Tears carry silent screams.
Where is my joy?
Is it gone forever?
Whispers in momentary stillness;
Prospect renews my spirit.
They stay for but a moment before the pain renews.
My eyes are weary from tears.
My heart is tired.
Weary from the pain.
Soothe my soul, take my fear.
Where is my joy?
Is it gone forever?
I cry out to you in the middle of the darkness.
I am in need of rescuing.
Until next time when we return to more storytelling, I remain respectfully,
Cheyenne E. Mitchell
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I in no way own the above image I found it on the Internet all rights belong to the owner – Gustave Courbet, The Desperate Man, 1843–45
It drove me into madness. I paced ceaselessly. The sleepless nights, the thinking—ah, the constant thinking. My mind is a reckless place; it seldom leaves me free to go about my business. It causes great fixations. What is the cause of such fixations? It is a logical question after all. It can be a little thing—a look, a word—the hum from the bumblebee passing through the flowers in the garden. Regardless of the trigger, it is there. They tell me that it is caused by trauma such as abandonment, rejection, isolation, etc. This is what they tell me. My latest fixation, they say, is unintelligible scribbling endlessly on a page. “Trauma,” “Fixation,” ah, what wondrous words were created in this modern world. When I look at the pages, they claim they are mere scribbles that do not resemble any word formation; I see words on a page. I see lucid thoughts spelled as clearly as you see written here, filled with hope and promise for tomorrow. These monsters who call themselves doctors say they are scribbles of a madman. However, since you are still reading what may indeed be my last memoir written down if these doctors have their way, you must be able to read my words. Therefore, I will tell my tale.
Perhaps then you may tell me if I am descending into madness. Everyone around me is a foolish ghoul who fabricates lies against my, until now impeccable and unbesmirched character. I do not know who may pick up this letter and read it after I am gone, but I pray that when you do, you will have some compassion left in your otherwise cold hearts and spread my story of social injustice. An injustice that if my dear Hazel was still here, she could have prevented. Alas, where is Hazel? They say she is the cause of my imprisonment. This cannot be, for she loved me more than I loved myself. Ah, Hazel, she only saw and still does, for all I know, only sees, or saw, as the case may be, the beauty in life. She did not have the perspicacity to see evil. They insist that she is dead and by my hand. How could I take the life of someone whom I loved more than my own life? But I digress. I must first tell you how I have come to be in this awful, uncheery place. The service is horrible, the food terrible, and whom they referred to as nurses—well, these nurses are quite homely indeed, not nearly as comely as my Hazel.
The current year, as I am to repeat daily, is eighteen hundred and ninety-nine. The month, well, I have forgotten the month, and it is something that they use against me to hold me captive behind these iron bars. They insist that any sane man can recite the day and month at any given time. Whoever sat around and mindlessly looked at a pocket calendar all day is beyond my comprehension. I certainly never did when I was free from this prison. When I still had the freedom to move about freely at my own will, I would spend my days walking along the Thames or sailing off to Paris, or some other place that every worldly gentleman such as myself would go.
My mind is beginning to grow fuzzy and weary as I write these last lines, but if I do not write them now, I may never be able to. To expedite the process, I shall attempt to leave my personal feelings and praises to my character, of which there are many, out of my narrative. For though I would very much like the person reading this to know of my great intellect, wit, and keen mind, I must keep this about the injustice done to me. So, I will, I suppose, begin at the beginning. The day that I met my dear Hazel.
She had flaxen hair so golden that when the sun shone upon it, it looked like it was shimmering brighter than the sun. No jewel or gem could compare the sparkle and color of my Hazel’s eyes, coincidentally just that hazel. I have never seen a wider, more magical smile than hers. Her laughter was like the tinkling of piano keys. Her eyes—oh her eyes—the way they gleamed for me and me alone. The recollection of those eyes brings me back from the wary retreat of my thoughts. Her memories hang about me in such a way that it gives me the strength to keep writing.
The sky was a perfect blue, with clarity I had never seen before. This much I remember quite clearly. This is one of the few things that I do not seem to recall with confusion. I came across the lawn after having secured my rowboat at the dock. It was a small dock that sat upon a small river. Just big enough to sail from one end to the other, producing some small enjoyment out of it, and solitude enough to write. I am a writer, you see, or at least once was. I write small exposés on the human condition, and if I am lucky, my editors permit me to write a satire here or there. Editors like to pigeonhole you into one genre of writing, and that is all you are permitted to do and nothing more. They think that Oscar Wilde is the only one who can write in such a way that produces humor and apathy in the same breath. Forgive me, my unknown friend reading this; like most artists, I can get wordy and often topic when provoked. It was very much in this state of mind the day I met Hazel. I was in a tirade while tying up the small skiff after a fruitless day of writing. After the vessel was securely fastened to the dock, I walked across the lawn. My anger toward my editor left me in a blind rage that day, and I almost missed seeing the love of my life. There she was, in a tight-fitting frock and blond curls falling about her very naked shoulders. I find nothing more alluring than seeing such a rare beauty, and upon making her acquaintance, I found myself completely enamored. How could any creature such as she not enthrall me? She quickly went from holding my attention to my entire heart. Women have an uncanny knack for stealing a man’s heart. They are quite crafty. I am convinced that it has something to do with the way they hold their shoulders and smirk in such a beseeching manner.
Much to my annoyance, I am not the only one to notice Hazel’s wit and beauty. Suitors swarm about her like bees to a flower. One bee in particular was quite the nuisance. I say nuisance now because I said that of him then. However, if I met Freddie McPherson now, I would have called him a villain. Nothing less than a villain. Freddie was not only vying for the heart of every girl in town, but he followed Hazel around like a puppy. Doting on her to the point of nausea on her side and furious rage on mine. It is this rage that Freddie used at the trial to incite that I was guilty of harming my beloved. No man, not even Freddie McPherson, had the right to breathe the same air as my sweetheart.
Jealousy and I met the same day I met Freddie. It has been my newest companion ever since. It drove a passion in me like I had never known before. My hatred for him fills up my being even as I scribble these words.
Like most fathers, Hazel’s father did not approve of me or my occupation. He felt someone like McPherson would have been better suited to his daughter. He is wealthy and a man about town. Though I possessed a small fortune in my own right, it was not enough to entice Hazel’s father to think well of me. He felt that his precious flower should marry someone higher standing in society. A man of fortune. A man such as Freddie McPherson.
My heart felt as cold as stone and ice. When I heard the words of her father,
“You are not good enough for my daughter. Leave now and do not bother her with your attention again.”
I doted on her. Even now, though my mind is plagued by thoughts of death and confusion, I still only think of her. Praying that she is alive and that I will awaken to find all of this a horrible nightmare. I am not good enough. Loyalty to her has no beginning or end for me. Where Hazel is concerned, loyalty comes as naturally as breathing. Freddie stands in every darkened corner, licking his lips, staring at every woman that passes by, chasing after every widow with a sizable fortune.
McPherson, who it was said, struck his wife, the now-late Mrs. McPherson, with such a blow that it killed her instantly. Yes, my beloved’s father trusted her safety to a man like McPherson over me. The thought was insurmountable. I could not stand idly by. I loved her, and she loved me. That was enough for me. Hours turned into days, and days into weeks, weeks into months, and finally, after obsessing over Hazel, after constantly thinking about her, after analyzing every scenario and possible outcome, I came up with a plan to get Hazel away from the wretched Freddie McPherson. We were to leave that night hidden safely in the darkness and take my little boat across the river to a friend’s house, where he would keep us safe for the night. We would travel in the morning and be properly married before anyone could find out. Then, once we were safely married, I would return and tell her father all that was done.
I thought of every detail, and seemingly everything was going according to plan. Ah, every detail, every detail but one. That one lack of thought, that momentary misstep, took my breath and life from me. I had just put Hazel into the boat with her luggage, and I was about to climb in when I heard her scream. I turned around to see what she was looking at. I hardly saw him before he struck the side of my head. What a terrible blow. All I could remember was seeing the blood drip over my eyes, feeling the heat rise to my face, and the cold water as I fell forward. The last thing I remember was hearing the terrified moans and screams of the woman I loved. When I awoke, I saw nothing. Nothing except my blood pooling around me. Seeing the inside of the boat, I saw more smears of the wretched red liquid; my first thought was that it was Hazel’s.
I did not have much time to think about these things; the next thing that I knew was being dragged up out of the riverbed and placed in handcuffs charged with the murder of my beloved. The despicable Freddie McPherson claimed to have seen her body floating down the river. Hatred and confusion flashed in my eyes as I stared deeply into my accuser’s face. Did my ears deceive me? A murderer was accusing me of murder.
“No one believes the story of a fantastical writer who writes poorly written articles for a ridiculous newspaper. We all know who killed my daughter,” her father was quoted as saying.
I was unable to get the usual courtesies due to being a prisoner. A solicitor nor anyone else helped me through this trial. I was alone. I was quickly put on the witness stand and condemned within a moment. I was thrown into jail. Hour after ungodly hour, I heard the relentless screams and the cries of the prisoners. I listened to the beatings, crying moans, and pleading men just like myself terrorized. Some belong there; some, like me, were wrongly accused. I went over and over every detail in my mind. Every word and every detail from the days leading up to this fateful day resonated in my ears, shook my vision, and screeched through every cavity of my mind. I paced the floors back and forth each night, each morning, and each day. Suddenly, I understood Lady MacBeth’s tortured, restless soul. Contrarily to myself, she was a tortured demon for crimes that she committed. I never raised my hand to anyone, let alone my sweet Hazel, who was now undoubtedly friendless, alone, and unprotected, that is, if she was still alive. Rest was no longer my friend; I did not know sleep’s restorative properties. I grieved over a crime I did not commit. Even in my seeming insanity, I know as sure as I breathe that I hurt no one.
I made friends while in prison. Prisoners told me about their previous lives when they were still free. They were in a completely different class than my own. They were tramps, murderers, thieves, but here, sitting amongst them, I was their equal. I was no longer in a class above them. I did not belong, but yet I did. Each story they told me triggered a memory of my beloved. The memories began destroying my mind. Slowly at first, so I would not notice, they crept in, rendering it impossible to think of anything else. It became my obsession. I no longer thought like a man; my thoughts reduced me to the state of a creature. I felt as though I was morphing into someone or something else. Something so terrifying that should I be in my right mind, I would never have dreamt that these thoughts were possible.
What was I to do? My mind did not rest. My heart did not have peace. I was torn apart in unspeakable, unimaginable, and inhuman ways. I was captive, much like a character in a child’s fairy book; perhaps I was now a troll? Yes, I had become a troll captured in a dark, dank, musty, wet cell. I pleaded for pen and paper to write down my story just as it happened. Or should I say, as I remember it happening, before my mind descended any further into madness? The jailer who found me witty and charming would often sit with me for hours, and occasionally he would sneak me a little extra crust of bread and water and procure for me writing instruments.
He often reads my narratives. Perhaps that is what gave him cause for concern for my well-being. For the last ten stories I wrote, he proclaimed that there was nothing written on the pages at all and that they were merely blank, empty pages. “Blank indeed!” I said to him, snatching the parchment from his hand. “This is one of the finest pieces I ever wrote! How dare you, sir? You wouldn’t know a good satire if it bit you in your large ass.” My beratement of him continued for quite some time before he lowered his head and slowly walked away. My fate was sealed when he found me trembling in the corner, picking off the crumbling paint on the cell wall and laughing as I watched it fall to the floor. The jailer immediately sent for Dr. Bog.
Dr. Bog is a tall man with white hair, a curiously long beard, and feverish eyes. I was, even in my maddened state, fascinated by this beard when they came in to take me away. It was terribly lush and luxuriously long, and it, to me at least, presented quite a quandary. The quandary is thus, “How did he take care of it? Wouldn’t it get in the way of taking care of his patients? Would he braid it to keep it from getting into things?” I was so focused on these thoughts that I hardly noticed when they removed me from jail and brought me to my current location, this so-called hospital.
Much like my cell, it is a mere room, but instead of peeling paint on the cell walls, this has peeling wallpaper. Bars were on these windows as well. It was as if the doctors were saying,
“Yes, we want to get you well, but we still want to remind you that you are and forevermore will be a prisoner.” Ah, a prisoner for life, unless, of course somehow, I am vindicated, or death’s sweet release comes to take me. There is only one blanket on the bed. At home, I would sleep with two blankets during these chilly months. It is a very uncomfortable room. It is winter now; it is cold, and there is no fire to warm me. I shake with chills, yet I also sweat from heat. I am told that I have a fever that plagues me. They tell me further that I am guilty of murdering my fiancé. Dr. Bog says my thoughts have driven me into madness, and that is why I cannot remember committing this heinous crime. Even if I can’t remember these things, wouldn’t my heart tell me that I have killed the only woman I ever knew and loved? No, it cannot, for I did not. My heart may get carried away at times with fanciful notions, but it is not a liar. It would not conceal from me the truth. Therefore, I will hold on to hope and maintain my innocence.
As I think back to the day of the trial, the day I stood up and received the verdict of “guilty” from a jury of my peers. I looked over at the real murderer, Freddie McPherson. There he stood, playacting, pretending to mourn the death of my dearest Hazel. Suddenly he turned toward me, smirking with his heinous grin.
“Ah, villain!” I cried, “What more proof do you need, honorable people of the jury?” Therein lies the true murderer.” I stretched out my hand during this pointed and dramatic cry at McPherson.
“His smirk proves it all. You are an excellent actor indeed, sir.”
With this outburst, I was quickly quieted down. McPherson was unaffected by the stir I created. Instead, he was comforted by his next supposed victim. No, he did not care, for he was just trying to cover up the murder. He already murdered his first wife. Imagine not yet six and twenty and already a murderer of not one but two innocent women. The rest of that day is either a blur or I cannot remember, for I collapsed after hearing the verdict of “life imprisonment.”
My old friend, the jailer, still visits me daily and persists that the words I have written and have been telling you are nothing more than mere scribbles.
He jokingly adds, “That is an improvement from a few months ago when you would hand me blank parchment insisting that something was written upon it.”
I do not see the humor in this, for even as I look at what I have just jotted down, I see the words written there. Dr. Bog came in while the jailer was here, and I showed him my semi-completed manuscript, parroting the jailer’s sentiments. The jailer before he leaves conveys, as he always does, that he is “sorry for my current state,” but today when he says this, there is something different in his countenance. Then he did something completely out of character; he winked at me and said, “All hope is not lost.” I, however, do not share his opinion, for I feel hopeless in ever regaining sanity, finding Hazel, and being vindicated.
I feel the fever returning, as I can hardly see the pages on which I am scribbling these words.
Please, my friend reading this, if you find me, if you find my words, tell my story in case I do not live till morning. Do not let my death go unpunished. The room is darkening and spinning about me now as I sit in the only chair, they allow me to have. I don’t even know if words are forming on this page as my eyes are starting to fade, and I feel like I am tumbling to the floor.
It now appears to be morning. I do not know what has happened to me since my eyes faded last night until now. My eyes just fluttered open, and I cannot remember much of the previous night’s visions. A nurse came in to press a cool compress onto my forehead; apparently, I had awoken to some kind of fever. They permitted me to spend a few minutes alone so that I could continue to write in my journal. The truth is, I can read nothing the nights before work. It looks like mindless scribbles. They are insisting on bringing in someone to speak to me, probably yet another doctor. Ah, I hear people in the corridor. There is a murmur of voices in the corridor; the only one I can hear is the nurse. If I were not slowly being convinced of my madness, I would swear that those footsteps were Hazel’s. She always did have a particular walk.
I will close my eyes for a moment so that I may once again relive that joyous noise.
Many hours have passed since I wrote that last sentence, and now I will tell you all.
When I opened my eyes, I saw a woman in front of me—a woman so like Hazel that I yelled out in fear. A nurse ran into the room and began checking my vitals.
“Do you see her?” I asked the nurse, “Or is it an apparition that stands before me? Has the fever returned?”
The nurse smiled and placed my hands back beneath the cover of my sheets.
“No,” she said, “not a ghost, but someone to save you.” Then, turning to my visitor, the nurse said to the veiled woman, “I will be right outside this door if you need me, Miss. For now, I will give you privacy. Try not to excite him, for though his fever is broken, he is still incredibly weak.”
Upon saying this, the nurse left the room. Still staring in amazement, I saw my ghost of Hazel pick up the chair I knocked on the floor the night before while in my feverish fancy, dust it off, and sit beside me in it.
“Hazel, is that you?”
“Yes, dear. It is me.’
“Where have you been? Have you come to collect me? They say that you are dead. Am I seeing a ghost? Have you come to take me home, that is to ask, my heavenly home?”
“No, dear, it is not time to go to heaven yet. I am very real.”
“Well then blasted Hazel, what was all this about? Was this some cruel joke? How could you play with my heart like this?”
“How would you even ask me such a thing? And if you bother to calm down and listen to me for a moment, you will find out the “cruel joke” was played not just on you but also on me. You have my father to thank for saving both of us.” These words fell from my beloved’s lips like a cascade.
“Your father? What does he have to do with this? How come you keep putting your hand on your cheek? Why are you wearing a veil? Hazel, what are you hiding?”
My dear girl, with eyes that shimmer in the night and a smile that puts sunlight to shame, lifted her veil. I was aghast. Her face, which once held the purest joy, was quite altered. She was covered in bruises; her face and arms bore fingerprint marks and cuts.
For once in my life, I could say nothing. We sat silently for a while, her with her eyes, looking down at the floor. I had my eyes fixated on her face. After what felt like an eternity, she broke the silence.
“After he hit you, he begged me to marry him. I refused. He then told me that “I would pay for refusing him.” I was held captive long enough to make it look like you killed me and was sent to prison. He hoped to be rid of you forever, that you would then instead be sent to the hangman’s noose. McPherson had no idea that the Judge would take pity on you. I fought and struggled to get away, but it did no good. He has friends who work in the police station, and he was able to bribe them into faking my death. He thought it was a perfect crime. However, my father was suspicious and would stop at nothing to find out what happened. Then something miraculous occurred: a servant who looked after me and attended to my wounds after being harmed bravely snuck away to seek help. Freddie’s servant came forward and told my father everything—your innocence, Freddie’s plan, the beatings, everything. I guess the guilt was beginning to eat away at him. Father and the servant planned my escape and got me out to safety. I went in front of the Judge to prove that I was alive and, consequently, your innocence. Freddie was taken into custody not only for my attempted murder but for the murder of his first wife as well. You are free, my darling. Now we only have to make you well.”
“I am mad; my thoughts have eaten up my mind, and I don’t think there is anything left of me,” I said, my eyes welling with tears. Tears of relief, anger, unrest, hope, and confusion.
“The doctor said it was only temporary; once you were home and healed, your mind would return to its previous state. It will just take time. I promise all will be well.”
Maybe it was the way she looked at me when she said these last words, but something told me that she was right. There was still hope for me.
It has been many months since I have attempted to rewrite this manuscript. As I pen these last words, I will tell you truthfully. My beloved was right, for after a very tearful reunion I was released from the hospital into her care. Thank heavens, I recovered, and I am rewriting this manuscript with more clarity than when I pleaded for help in that hospital bed. Now all will know the evil foiled plans of Freddie McPherson and the power of love, healing, and perseverance. I hope you hold this manuscript in your hand not by chance but by purpose to share my story with the world, and let it serve as a warning.
Until next time when we return to more storytelling, I remain respectfully,
Cheyenne E. Mitchell
]]>A funny thing: time measures the minutes and hours, letting us know when it is time to rise or retire. It awakens the flowers of spring, tells the butterflies when to flit upon a summer’s wind, and heralds the colors of autumn before the winter winds breathe its icy breath, eliminating anything in its path. Time does all this with its measuring hand, yet it cannot hold the feelings of the memories that accompany these moments. For as faithful as time is, as predictable and telling, it feels as though lifetimes pass before a promise comes to fruition. The return of a loved one can feel as though years have passed before we see them again when in reality it was only an hour. While you wait, you have only to think of the touch of their hand, their warm embrace, or the gleam in their eye when it lights on something they love. This begs the question: What became of those moments encapsulated in the framework of time? Were they filled with laughter as airy and warm as the tinkling of chimes swaying in the warm breeze? Perhaps they teetered between love, despair, or hate. Did the passing hours rise and fall with tumultuous tempers, or did they toil pleasurably beneath a sun-filled sky, watching each beautiful creation of nature? Time indeed cannot hold on to a feeling that lingers through the tendrils of the mind. What, then, was it designed for? The poets say time heals all wounds, which in that case would suggest that it was designed to cause you to forget. Time also possesses yet another curious power. This thing of measurement wields the power of destroying or glorifying memories, either demonizing or elevating our persecutors to new and greater depths. Like a creature, it creeps its way, weaving deception into the fabric of memories, piecemealing fragments of facts, weaving something wondrous and fanciful.
There is a faded book. It sits on the top shelf, covered in dust, the pages slowly yellowing and decaying, neglected and forgotten. The outer garments of the book, whether at one time they were adorned in red silken fabric or perhaps even a green shimmering brocade, are of little importance. What is important to note is that it exists, yearning to be opened. This object was once a treasured possession. Time ravaged it. Tearing and tugging at the fragile little pages, it was all but forgotten. That is, except for every December 31st.
He would position himself in the library facing the great glass windows at 10:00 a.m. every December 30th, just as he did thirty years prior. It was a beautiful room; a golden sun flooded the chamber through the leaded glass. The beams shone through so brightly that the reflective colors and patterns made the room come alive, dancing joyfully amongst the glittering light. As the now gray-haired man stared dreamily out the window, he thought of her. How this was her favorite room, how her bright face would meet him as she walked up the paths from the garden in summer, her arms ladened with flowers. He thought of her laugh as she told him of all the “friends” she made amongst the flowers that morning.
“The peonies were chatty this morning.” She would say, “Oh, those roses insist on scratching my arms while I cut away their canes. Sometimes, I think they are a very spiteful bunch.”
Then, lifting her arm to show him her scars from the morning’s battle, he would brush away the dirt and debris of the garden and kiss away the pain of each scratch. With this, she would laugh as her dark eyes sparkled in the light and teasingly say,
“Oh, George, forever patching my wounds.”
He missed that smile, those sparkling eyes, and that delicate laugh. George sighed heavily. He longed to hold her on for more time in the gentle sunlight that danced about the study. Tears nestled in the eyes of the old gentleman; his thoughts were immediately taken to their final Christmas together. He felt as though one moment he held her in his arms, and the next, without warning, she was gone. All that was left of her was a photograph of her in her best dress, tucked in between the pages of her silken book. A book that his rough old hands grasp tightly now. Tears dropped on the dusty cover, and he quickly began to scrub them away before they stained the last thing that she ever wrote. Each year, she would write a new story as a Christmas gift dedicated to her dear George. Some were funny, some sad, and others truthful. Letters to him about why he angered her that day by hiding her favorite sweet treats out of impish delight and letters of her unwavering affection. Each December 30th. They would sit together every year at 10:00 a.m., with her at his desk and he in an overstuffed chair facing her. There she would sit in this study and write a new story for him, and George, with eyes filled with pure love and adoration for his “little lady,” watched her intently. With each stroke of the pen, he would admire her creativity and brilliance. She had a knack for crafting tales. No one, not even his favorite writer, held a candle to what she would write for him.
Clearing her throat, she would then announce that she was finished and teasingly not allow him to read a word.
“Oh, no, George, dear, you mustn’t read a word until the clock strikes midnight on December 31st, for this marks the story of another year ending and the beginning of a new one.”
George, impatient to read his wife’s latest tale, reluctantly agreed. Though when she wasn’t looking, he would sneak into the study to try and “get a head start” on his story. However, it never worked every time she caught him.
George, smiling as he lingered on these memories, put the little book back on the desk, patted it twice, took his usual chair, and faced the desk where she once sat.
“Now, Delia, old girl, you can write me that next story.” He said this to the vacant chair.
“Oh, I know you hate being called “old girl,” but after all these years, you should know I only tease you because I love you.”
His voice cracked and broke, and a deep moan and full sob poured from his lips over her overwhelming memory. He could no longer pretend that her small form would burst into the room. He stared blankly through his cascading tears at the door, his eyes filled with hope, beckoning the doorknob to turn and with the turn of the knob her cheery sing-song voice would enter. The gray-haired gentleman longed for the room to be flooded with her laughter.
A shadow from a little robin outside the window caught his attention, and George removed his steady gaze from the untouched doorknob. Rising, he walked to the window to feed the little, chirping newcomer. This sudden action was somehow enough to jar the coveted little book from the desk, and it tumbled to the floor. Hearing the small thud, George quickly abandoned the occupation of feeding the little Robin to retrieve the coveted book. As he did so, he noticed that it opened to her last entry, dated twenty years earlier. Picking up the little book, a folded piece of paper fell from the pages.
“Ah, what’s this?” George asked his feathered companion, who now hopped off the windowsill and flew to the old man to see what was delaying his breakfast.
The pretty robin flew to the old man’s wrist and pecked at the envelope in his hand.
“All right, Robin, we will open it. Have patience.”
George picked up his pipe and re-positioned himself in the overstuffed chair. Smoke billowed from the pipe as he looked at the letter and saw the handwriting he knew so well. Suddenly, the smell of perfume rose from the little parchment; it was her scent. George breathed in deeply as the smell of violets filled his senses. The old man began to read to himself until a little chirp from his guest tickled his ear.
“Forgive me, little fellow; I forgot you cannot read the language of us humans. I will read it aloud, shall I?”
The feather companion let out a series of chirps as if to say, “Oh, yes, and please hurry.”
George cleared his throat and began to read. With each letter, he heard her voice echoing in his mind.
“December 31, 1946
Dearest,
This, as you undoubtedly know, is my last little letter to you. I do not have much to say other than thank you for a life filled with laughter and love, for your patience, protection, fighting, and remaining still. Thank you for being my friend and partner. Knowing you, you did not wait until midnight to read this, as I am not around to scold you. Let tonight end the pain of missing me, my darling, and let tomorrow bring a new dawn, a new day, and life. Carry my memory, but don’t let time cause you to become bitter and disheartened. You have much to give in this life, so go out and live. Remember, if you give up you’re cruising and rebel rousing, this will only be a temporary separation. Here, I kid you, for I well know where your heart lies and know that this is merely a separation of time and not of eternity. I will always wait for you, my love. Until we meet again, I will be waiting for you.
Love Yours Forever,
Delia”
The two companions—the man and the bird—sat in silence after her last words. They remained silent as the day passed into the evening and the sun yet again circled. Several more days passed, and neither the man nor the bird stirred. They would forever be frozen in this scene until they were gently lifted and laid to rest next to his precious Delia. It was said that her ghost came to collect the two companions as they sat clutching her letter in the study.
Much like winter’s frost, all eventually die back to earth, as did the owner of this little book. Only the bird and the letter rested with the poor, forgotten George. What happened then to the book—the book that carried those precious stories and words of its sparkling author? It remained on the floor of the study, for it was not ready to give up its teachings to the ways of the past. It longed to be praised for the words held beneath its cover, shrouded in dust. Generations would come and go into the study, yet none would notice the book hidden in plain sight. However, it would not remain shut forever; the hand of a little girl would eventually find the writings. It was often said that when she opened the book, she would always hear sweet laughter.
Until next time when we return to more storytelling, I remain respectfully,
Cheyenne E. Mitchell
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I in no way own the above image, it was found on the internet. All rights belong to the owner.
There is a certain bakery in a certain town, much like every bakery in every town across the world. The air swelled with the smells of sugar caramelizing and the zests of oranges, lemons, and blueberries being carefully crafted into a compote. With each whiff of the sugary and fruity mixtures, the stomach growls, and the mouth is tantalized with the expectation of something delectable crossing the gateway of the mouth. If the gatekeeper, namely the tongue, is satisfied with the sweet notes of flour, sugar, and butter that dance across it, then this sweet mixture is permitted entrance into the ever-guarded and revered stomach. Each bite of a flaky pastry leaves you wanting more and more until the stomach lets out a warning that one more bite could leave disastrous results. Everyone is invited into this bakery filled with delight for one and all; however, not everyone who enters leaves satisfied or able to purchase.
The holidays have come to this little town. There is nothing so nostalgic and inviting as the smell and taste of a warm delight as it is at Christmas. Countless men, women, and children enter the patisserie throughout the day. One child is standing near the counter, clapping her hands enthusiastically as her mother purchases the coveted gingerbread. Another child impatiently kicks his father, as he has lost all patience and hope of getting what he wants. A set of twins are rolling around on the floor crying because they cannot agree on what they want. The frazzled mother has bought them everything they could hope for or want, but nothing will satisfy their greedy appetites. The bakery is filled with hustle and bustle, so much so that another little person who longed to delight in a freshly baked turnover is overlooked. His clothes, though clean, were worn, and holes lined the edges of his little coat.
The boy was a frail child, about five years old. In one hand, he clutched his teddy bear tightly so as not to lose the prized possession. With his other hand, he held on to his sister. Though he held her hand in a far less tense manner than he did his teddy bear, his sister, he reasoned, could always find him if he lost sight of her. Teddy would never be able to find his way home again. The two children stood outside the bakery with their little noses pressed tightly against the glass, looking on in amazement at all the goodies lying about the store. With each opening and closing of the bakery door, the children jerked their heads back off the glass, deeply breathing in the warm, delightful-smelling air bursting out of the bakery. They watched the other children file in and out with their bags of treats. The twins, Janice and Henry, were forcibly picked up off the bakery floor while being pushed out of the door by their mother. The twin children saw William clutching his teddy bear with one hand and Catherine’s hand with the other. Henry stared red-faced and blankly at William for a moment before dashing away as hard as he could out of his mother’s grasp. A sinister smile came across the young ruffian’s face as he bent down to form a snowball. This was not a harmless snowball; the sneaky Henry carefully and quickly placed some pebbles inside the ball. Then, with all of his might, the boy threw the seemingly fluffy ball of snow against William’s head. The poor, innocent little boy was stunned for a moment before the realization of the pain from the impact of the snowball set in. Then, as suddenly as the snowball was thrown, William suddenly burst into tears, feeling his head. Taking his hand away from his temple, he looked down, horrified to see it covered in his blood. Catherine, being a protective older sister, let go of her brother’s hand and threw herself upon Henry, knocking him to the ground as she did so.
“Get him, Catie!” screamed the wounded William. “Don’t be a sissy,” continued the boy. “Sock him one!”
The other children came running out of the bakery to watch the mean Henry McLeary get a beating. Cheers were sent up when they realized that Henry was bruised and crying. Catherine was winning the fight.
“That will teach you to pick on a Sweeney,” said the seven-year-old Catherine.
The blonde, curly-haired girl was about to wallop the boy once more when suddenly Mr. Sweeney, better known as “Papa,” limped around the corner and spotted his darling daughter brawling.
The two fighters were pulled apart and sent to neutral corners. Sofie, the little girl who just received her gingerbread, offered it to Catherine as a reward for “punching out the bully Henry McLeary.” Sofie was often the target of Henry’s prodding and pushing.
The bully’s mother and sister meandered toward the scene when they saw Mr. Sweeney putting an end to the scraping.
There was a brief scolding by the father, and many apologies were made to the apathetic mother of Henry.
“Come on, you little bruiser. Come, William.”
Catherine and William quickly obeyed. Their father’s brogue was thicker than usual. The two youngsters knew that the thicker it got, the angrier their father was. No one said a word until Catherine stopped to look at a doll in Macy’s window. It was the loveliest doll that she had ever seen. Covered in a red velvet dress, bows of white and black stripes accented the fabric, and the doll’s cinnamon-colored curls tumbled down her back.
“Catherine Sweeney, you might as well stop looking at that doll right now. Why would Santa bring a naughty imp like you a doll after beating the tar out of that boy?”
Catherine, who was silently brimming over with a team of emotions the whole walk home, burst into tears.
“I… haaa…ddd to sock him, Daddy. He hurt Willy. Whattt was I supposed to do?” whaled the little girl.
Mr. Sweeney’s stern exterior melted immediately, as he could never stay cross at his little “Catie” for long.
“Oh, my little Catie, I know why you did it. Yet, do you think the baby Jesus would be happy with you for punching that little McLeary boy in the mouth? And so close to his birthday, to boot? Ah, lassie, I know you wanted to defend your brother, but our Lord wants you to turn the other cheek and not engage in mortal combat. Furthermore, you’re a lady, and I want you to act like one. Your mother would be disappointed if she had seen your behavior.”
Catherine lowered her head, thoroughly ashamed of herself.
“But he started it! Why does he have to be so mean to Willy and poor Sofie?” asked the little girl, wiping away her tears.
“Sometimes people can’t help it, lassie. I happened to hear that Mr. McLeary isn’t a very good father. He beats Henry, Janice, and their mother. Which naturally makes Henry very angry. I am not saying what he did was right, but when people are hurting, getting angry at them will not change their behavior. The best way to help them is to teach them. Teach Henry not to be mean by showing him love.”
Catherine once again hung her head down, kicking the snow as she listened.
“I do have to say,” continued their father with a twinkle in his eye. “You do have a powerful, good right cross, you little bruiser.”
With this, they laughed and continued their walk home before Catherine spoke again.
“Pa, maybe when we go home, we can think of something nice to do for the McLeary’s? I don’t want Henry to be mean like his father.”
“Now that is my little Catie! Certainly child. What do you have in mind?”
“Well, maybe Willy and I can make some gingerbread. We could bring them some oranges, and the kids from school could come with us and give him a little Christmas party. Maybe we could bring him a pony too! Who doesn’t love ponies after all?”
“A pony!” exclaimed Mr. Sweeney. “Child, I am not Mr. Rockefeller; it will be all I can do to scrape up money for oranges and ingredients for gingerbread! But seeing how it is a good cause, I will give you some money for oranges and flour. Have your sister and your brothers take you both to the market tomorrow and work on throwing a gingerbread party. Take Sofie and some of the other girls too and give this boy a real Christmas treat. You never know, maybe Santa will bring you that doll after all.” He winked at his daughter with this last remark.
The little family walked up the steps to their old house, taking care not to fall into the crack of the crumbling porch as they went. Mr. Sweeney alighted at the top of the steps last; he was missing a leg and had to pull his fake leg up behind him.
“What happened to you three?” called Mrs. O’Conner upon seeing the three latecomers. “Catie Sweeney, what are you doing with bloody knuckles? Have you been fighting?”
“Oh, yes,” squealed the little girl with delight, “and it has given me the best idea! Where is Jeannie?”
“In the kitchen, but…”
Catherine heard all she needed to hear; she pushed past her neighbor, Mrs. O’Connor, who minded the children until their father came home from the ice factory.
“Oh, Jeannie, wait until I tell you what happened! We need to make gingerbread—lots and lots of it!” screamed Catherine as she ran towards the kitchen.
“Wait for me!” called William, also running to the kitchen, still with his teddy bear in hand.
The two youngest told their older sibling all that had happened and their plan. Before anyone could change their minds, all five children set to work in the kitchen, making gingerbread and collecting money for oranges. Alex, the eldest, found each child in the neighborhood to get their contributions. The neighborhood was suddenly alive, collecting what they could from their kitchens to help make a basket of goodies for the McLeary’s. It was to be an early Christmas present and hopefully a way to sway the class bully to give up his mean ways.
The baskets were ready, gingerbread filled the kitchen, and little Sofie pulled out the penny from her father’s loafers to give as a contribution for the oranges. All that was left was for Alex to read the letter that he had written.
Alex put on his most “grown-up face” and cleared his throat as he prepared to read what he felt was quite an elegant speech:
“Dear Henry,
We hope that this present from your classmates will serve as a reminder that you have friends with us. The Christ child reminds us at this special time of year how he gave us the best present of all: love. We thought you should know how much we love you.
Your friends,”
Alex finished reading his speech and said, “I figured here we should all sign our names.”
The children clapped and lined up to scribble their names on the letter. Each of the schoolmates bundled themselves in their coats and joyfully sang carols as they paraded down the street to McLeary’s house. As they approached, they saw Henry outside beating a snowman with a stick and crying violently. Alex instructed the others to continue singing while he ran to comfort the little boy. The words that were exchanged between the two boys were never told to the other children. Whatever Alex told the bereaved child caused his countenance to change unexpectedly. Tears of joy were shed by all of the children as old hurts were put aside and new friendships were forged. Even William, who until this moment was secretly still holding a grudge, extended both his hand and Teddy’s stuffed hand in the way of a truce.
Not all of life’s ills can be solved with gingerbread alone. Knowing there is something and someone in this life who will stand by your side in love, patience, and kindness to help you through life’s trials is one of life’s most tremendous blessings and most treasured Christmas presents.
Until next time when we return to more storytelling, I remain respectfully,
Cheyenne E. Mitchell
]]>“Death is a curious fascination. When the soul abandons the body, shedding its mortal coil, where does its essence flee to? Does it dissipate, becoming more than metaphorical atoms in the atmosphere? By all accounts, a soul should leave its physical shell and rest in the heavens. It awaits to hear the words we all long for: “Well done, good and faithful servant.”
However, not all living souls are good or faithful. Are they condemned to pay their penitence in the fiery pit of hell? Alternatively, as implied by Mr. Dickens’ writings, are they allowed to assist the living, making good on their enormous debt to society?
The question of what happens to people such as these is a quandary. These questions fascinate and frighten those among the living. We will never truly know the answers until we embark on such a journey. Unfortunately, when we are able to discover the truth, it will be too late to warn our fellow creatures. Or can we?”
Ruth watched the orator’s gray beard bounce up and down with each impassioned cry. The stout old speaker was none other than H.W. Cosgrove, a well-known “doctor” of metaphysics and the supernatural.
“Today,” continued Dr. Cosgrove, “we are going to delve into the very basics of the branch of this philosophy that deals with the principles of things, including abstract concepts such as being, knowing, substance, cause, identity, time, and space. Mind you, I am not trying to convert you to my thinking but merely to expand the horizons of your mind. In the most basic terms, metaphysics is the study of reality and existence. It studies what we are and what our purpose is. Of course, in today’s lecture, we shall also cover the supernatural aspect that some say overlaps realms.”
“This better start getting interesting,” hissed Ruth in her companion’s ear.
“It will, I promise,” said the smart-looking redhead. “I have to know if what we saw was real and what it was.”
“Melody, are you insane? Of course, what we saw was real! I don’t need some quack philosopher to explain away the fact that we saw a ghost.”
Ruth raised her voice with this last statement so loudly that it turned the heads of the other audience members as well as the great H.W. Cosgrove himself.
The poor girl was at first oblivious to the intensity of her outburst. When she was speaking, the thought never entered her mind that anyone other than her sister could hear her. The heads of other audience members swiveled furiously around to stare at the two girls. Melody and Ruth quickly rose to leave the auditorium as the grumbles, mumbles, and whispering of fellow listeners grew louder. They assumed that if they left immediately, the majority of the crowd would not suspect them of being the culprits. Mentally, Ruth pleaded that H.W. would be unable to identify her indiscreet outburst. Much to the girls’ chagrin, their plan did not work. For instance, they heard Mr. H.W. Cosgrove’s booming voice coming through the speakers.
“Ah, I see we have unbelievers in our midst. I assure you, Madams, that if you both return to your chairs, not only will I prove the legitimacy of my speech, but I will conduct a private interview with you both. Maybe then we will be able to come to the root of your problem.”
What could they do, the girls? They returned to their abandoned chairs, trying to disguise the mortification of Ruth’s loud, unfiltered comments. The crowd began settling back into their previous state of deep concentration on the speaker. Soon, everyone forgot about the unseemly outburst. All forgot, except the disrupter herself. Ruth squirmed in her seat for the rest of the lecture, paying no attention to the keywords like time and space continuum and the phenomenon of quantum entanglement. The lecture was soon over, and under the instruction of H.W. Cosgrove, the crowd began to file out of the auditorium one by one in complete silence. All except Melody and Ruth. They sat still, stone-faced, in their original chairs, holding their breaths as Mr. Cosgrove approached them.
“Hello, ladies,” came his booming voice. “I think we better go to my office to speak in private, for if my instincts are correct, you have a fantastical story to tell me.”
The two nodded, rose, and silently obeyed. Following his gesture, which led them out of the lecture hall, the three walked in silence. They walked, unnoticed, in the opposite direction from the others. The silence was deafening. Ruth could feel her heart thudding harder and faster as they approached the elderly man’s office. Mr. Cosgrove swung open the glass and steel door and waited for the girls to enter. Once more, they sat silently in the chairs that were offered to them, obeying in silence.
“Now,” began the old gentleman addressing Ruth, “why don’t you begin?”
“Oh, sir,” stammered the nervous girl. “I am so sorry for interrupting your lecture; it was quite interesting; it’s just…”
H.W. raised his hand to stop her fretful speech.
“Nonsense, child. You came here on a mission to find the truth about something you undoubtedly witnessed. If you did not make such an outburst to this young lady, who I presume is your sister,” stopping for a moment to look at Melody. “Then I may never have taken notice of you at all. I’m assuming that at this point you’re trying to find a logical hypothesis to explain what you observed. Are my presumptions correct?”
“Yes, Mr. Cosgrove, sir,” said Melody.
“Now, let’s stop this ‘Mr.’ business immediately. If we are to trust one another with stories and theories, we must begin with some familiarity. You may call me H.W. Only my mother called me by my proper name. Would you like to know what it is?” Both girls nodded in agreement. “It is Henry Wilfred, which is my Christian name. As you can tell, this is a silly name, and all my friends naturally call me H.W. instead. Seeing as to how we are going to be friends, I insist upon it. May I have your names?”
“Yes Sir… I mean H.W. I am Melody, and this is my little sister Ruth.”
“Very good. Now, Ruth, Melody, what brings you here?”
“We saw a ghost,” began Melody.
“But not just any ghost,” interrupted the younger girl. “She was a mean, horrible ghost, and she tortured us for an entire weekend.”
“She? Hmm, now that is very interesting. Why is it that you identify her as a she? Let me rephrase this: Why do you think the ghost is a “she”? How do you know it wasn’t a man? Did you see her?”
The girls looked at each other for a moment before Ruth nudged her sister to answer H.W.
“We saw her as clearly as we see you sitting behind your desk. She was a tall woman dressed in a high-collar blouse, a long skirt with a small bustle, and a striped apron. Her hair was tied in a tight bun, and she carried keys in her hands.”
“How do you know what she looks like so clearly?”
“What do you mean, “how?” sputtered Ruth. “She was standing in front of us. She locked us in the room and turned off the lights.”
Ruth stopped speaking for a moment to catch her breath. H.W. had a queer smile on his face before saying, “I think it is important that you tell me from the beginning what happened. Spare no detail. As insignificant and trivial as it may seem to you, it may be just the key to deciphering if what you saw was real or a preemptive hallucination from previously given information. This type of suggestion or information has the potential to infiltrate our subconscious and prejudice our perceptions when we use our minds to determine whether or not we perceive anything significant. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” stammered Ruth.
Realizing by the frown that H.W. had on his face that she did not use her new ‘friend’s’ requested name, she quickly corrected herself.
“I mean, yes, H.W.” then turning to her sister, “I think you better tell the story.”
“Ok,” began Melody after taking a deep breath. “Should I begin with “Once upon a time? I’m not used to telling these types of stories.”
“Tell the story with as many facts and as little ‘fluff’ as you can muster. I know most girls try to fluff up their stories to keep their audience interested. However, there is no need for that here. Just do your best to present the facts. You will forgive me, I trust, if I take notes while you speak.”
H.W. did not wait for a reply to this last question; he merely took out his notebook and began writing as Melody collected her thoughts.
“About six months ago, our father received a phone call from a church in Massachusetts asking him to preach a sermon.”
“I take it your father is a minister?” interrupted the bearded gentleman.
“Yes,” replied Ruth.
“I see,” he said, pointing to Melody, “please continue.”
“Our dad accepted. He told us he was going to be speaking at this church, that we were making a weekend of it, and that Ruth was leaving school early that Friday to head to Massachusetts.”
“Where was this town or city in Massachusetts?” Interrupted H.W. again.
“Blackwell, si… I mean H.W.” replied Melody nervously as she watched him jot notes in his brown leather-bound book.
Without looking up, he said, “Continue, my dear; you are doing fine.”
“Dad then told us that we would be staying in a fancy bed and breakfast, but he would not tell us where it was. He wanted it to be a surprise. Mom sent Ruth to school with a note for her teacher to let her out of school early.”
“But not you?”
“No, I am in my first year of college. I didn’t have any classes that afternoon. Ruth is only in junior high school.”
Ruth silently nodded in agreement.
“I see, Melody, you are following my instructions explicitly. However, to make this interview go a little faster, I suppose it would be okay for you to tell the story with all of your own “fluff,” if you will.”
Melody visibly relaxed with this last remark and continued.
“It was a beautiful day. Dad took the scenic route from New York to Massachusetts, and the sun made the trees look as though they glittered.”
“Pft the scenic route. It felt like we would never get there.” Interrupted Ruth.
“Shh, be quiet,” snapped Melody. “Well, after one million coffee and bathroom breaks, we finally reached the bed and breakfast. It was beautiful-looking. The appearance was exquisite. With rose gardens encircling the Victorian mansion on both sides. The foliage was now turning from the summer greens to glorious autumn crimson reds and glittering golds. The leaves gently fell to the ground and had a wonderful crunch when you walked on them. It truly was a beautiful sight to behold. We got out of the car, and Mom and Dad got the bags and went inside. A sign hung outside of the house; it read, “Welcome to the Cranberry Inn.” The innkeeper and his wife were pleasant, and they gave us free reign in the house. Each room was decorated in a different year, starting with most rooms in 1840 and moving through to the Deco era. The house consisted of ten bedrooms, five bathrooms, and three kitchens. The owners, when they gave us a brief tour of Cranberry Inn, explained that currently, no one else was staying in the house. Ruth and I thought it was strange; if there was no one else staying there, why have us all stay in one large room with four beds in it? Why would we not each have our own rooms? Those thoughts didn’t last long; however, we were so excited to be there and explore. I had a photography project due the following week and thought that this would be the perfect place to take some photos.
Ruth was so thrilled that the moment we put our luggage down, she ran out of our bedroom and started sticking her nose into every room on our floor. Our room was at the foot of the second-floor stairs. The staircase was one of those large brown spiral staircases typical of the Victorian era. It began on the first floor, naturally, and led up to the third floor. When we first arrived, we saw the first level and went through and toured most of the second level’s rooms. Ruth thought it was time for us to investigate the third floor. Mom joined us, and together we ascended the staircase.
When we reached the landing, we noticed many more rooms. We opened all the doors and looked in each room except for the last three. The third-to-last door upstairs was the only one with clouded glass, so we could see in but not clearly. There were objects in the room, but we couldn’t tell what they were. Ruth, determined to find out what was in there, knelt in front of the brass doorknob and looked through the keyhole. You know how thirteen-year-olds are. Strewn across the floor was antique pottery, shattered; cobwebs hung over the shards. No one has entered this inner sanctum in years.
“I wonder what happened here,” Ruth asked.
“I don’t know.”
Just then, the door began shaking violently. Mother, so as not to scare us, said it was the wind, and we continued down the hall. The next room, to our pleasant surprise, was opened. It was a lovely room. Light poured in from the only window. In front of the window was a rocking chair with a pink cushion. My sister, unable to stay away from anything pink, ran to the little rocker and daintily sat down. Then, just as before, we heard the shaking of that terrible wind. Only this time we felt it too.”
“Do you mean to say,” began the old man, “that you did not feel the wind the first time when you peered in the locked door?”
“No,” said Ruth “come to think of it, we didn’t”.
“Very interesting. Continue, ladies. Ruth, why don’t you pick up where your sister left off?”
“Ok!” replied the thirteen-year-old enthusiastically, for now she was beginning to relax and like their interviewer.
“I was seated in the rocking chair when the wind shook so forcefully that I tumbled out! I scrambled to my feet. Together, the three of us bolted from the room. Mommy was unable to use the wind as an excuse to ignore what had occurred in this room. The same wind that pushed me slammed the door shut behind us. We had a quick peek inside the third room, which the innkeeper had turned into a game area for the visitors. Feeling unnerved, we didn’t linger for more than a moment. It was getting late and nearing dinner time. The people who invited Dad to speak at their church arranged supper reservations for us. Dinner went quickly, and we returned to our rooms at the old mansion. That night, when we were all tucked in our beds, no one could fall asleep. Ballroom music thumping from below our bedroom and the clanging of keys in our room kept us awake. Too afraid of what we might see, we held our eyes tightly shut.
When the morning light, at long last, shone through the cracks in the blinds, we rose from bed and dressed in inexplicable hurriedness. The trip was not over. We had another night and morning to come, staying in this mansion, which by all accounts seemed to be haunted. Our parents took us around to explore the town of Blackwell. We met a few local people, and when they inquired as to where we were staying, they gave each other knowing looks. After these looks were exchanged, they would walk away. That night, when we returned to the B&B, Melody and I decided once more to climb the winding stairs to the game room and work on her photography project. Everything was quiet upstairs—no wind, no shaking, just calm. We looked around the room, and I took note of a candle placed in the window. It was lit through the use of a battery, for it was not a wax candle. As we alluded to earlier, everything in the house was strategically placed. On our first day, when we were given a tour of the home, the innkeeper’s wife explained how she painstakingly placed everything in the home. Leaving no detail overlooked. Melody tried to distract me by taking pictures, but I seemed to be fixated on that candle. I was not sure why. Perhaps because I was thinking of a book we had just finished reading, “Wuthering Heights,” and I fancied that this must be ‘Cathy’s candle’. And I said as much.
“Melody,” I said. “Melody, do you think that’s Cathy’s candle?”
“Ruth, how could you think of such a thing? That was only a story that wasn’t real at all.”
“What do you mean it wasn’t real? There are such things as ghosts. There is one in the room with us now.”
That was a very silly thing for me to say because after I spoke these words, Melody replied, “No. There is not. You read too much.”
The lights flickered and suddenly turned off. The room was now pitch black, for even Cathy’s candle went out. The windless wind blew through the room, the door slammed shut, and then we heard the brass key that was hanging out of the old door turn and lock us in. Next, footsteps were heard walking toward us. An icy breath blew on our necks, causing our hair to stand on end. A faint laugh was heard as we started screaming for our father to come rescue us. No sooner did you hear the pounding of footsteps up the stairs than we heard a gasp. A gasp that came from neither of us. Our father started banging and shaking the door, but it would not open until he yelled, “Unlock this door!” Then the key in the door immediately turned, unlocking the door, and it swung open as the lights simultaneously turned back on. The three of us ran out of the room and fled back downstairs. Somehow, even in all that confusion, when I looked back, I saw the brass key on the floor on the inside of the door. As if it were unlocked from the inside. Daddy told us later that when he tried opening the door, there was no key on the outside. This was curious; we definitely saw it hanging out of the lock before we entered. Mommy made us hot cocoa to try and calm us down, but nothing would do. Later that night, when we were once again back in our beds, we heard the loud ballroom music playing from a phonograph in the rooms below. Again, we heard the rattle of the keys, but this time something else happened.
The room to the bedroom door, which again all four of us slept in, turned and opened. I opened my eyes slightly as I saw the booted, see-through feet of a woman enter. She walked quietly to each of our beds, carrying a ring of keys from her pocket that seemed to open all of the doors. She wore a white high-collar blouse and a white pin-striped apron, and her skirt had a small bustle. Seeing her turn around to approach my bed, for at that very moment her back was turned to me as she was tucking in our parents, I tightly shut my eyes again. I felt her approach my bed and tuck me in.
Then I watched as she approached Melody, for the specter’s back was once again facing me. As she tucked in my sister, who was also awake and too frightened to scream, the specter drew her hand forward, reaching toward my sister’s neck. I couldn’t contain my horror. I started to cry out but stifled it as the specter whipped around to look at me. Quickly, I shut my eyes and pretended to sleep.
The woman dressed in white ran from the room and bolted us in as she did so. I was too frightened to scream or call for help. So, I laid perfectly still, not moving even the smallest of muscles. The next morning, with almost a whisper, we spoke of our sleep. We each had the same tales to tell, even our father, who is completely lacking in knowledge of ghostly activity. Not wanting to stay in the house a moment longer, we gathered our things and prepared to leave. As our parents went to speak with the innkeeper and load our luggage in the car, my sister and I searched for evidence of an old phonograph. We hoped that if we found one, maybe we could reason that this was all one cruel joke. After a fruitless search, we prepared to join our parents. Remembering we had forgotten something, I ran back to the bedroom, doing my best not to look at the stairs as I ran past them.
Suddenly, it was back. I heard that wind and felt the chilling breath on my neck. Looking up at the mirror, I saw my face and the face of a translucent brown-haired woman standing just behind me. She couldn’t have been more than thirty-six. She stared at me with demonic rage burning in her black eyes. Suddenly, bending down close to my ear, she whispered to me. I couldn’t make out the words she spoke, but it was terrifying. Finding my voice, I screamed for my father, both my earthly father and my heavenly one. At the mention of his name, the translucent figure picked up her skirts, ran back up the stairs, and slammed the door. I stood breathless for a moment. I heard my sister’s footsteps running into the hall where I now stood. We looked at each other, then back toward the door at the top of the stairs. This creature, who we assumed once was a worker of sorts in the house, came out again from the game room. She looked back at us in defiance. That is, until I pointed my finger and threatened to scream. Her reply was to slam the door shut once more. After we saw that she was gone, we grabbed our things and descended another set of stairs as quickly as we could. There, we ran into our parents talking with the owners of the bed and breakfast.
“Girls, there you are,” said our mother. “They were just telling us of the nanny that haunts this house.”
“Yes, we are quite surprised by what your parents told us. She hardly ever appears when guests arrive, and certainly, we have never known her to be harmful. Matilda, for that is what I call her, usually just stays in that locked room at the top of the stairs. She likes throwing that antique pottery a bit to let out her frustration, so we let her. The only time she gets angry with us is when we try to snoop inside the door. She has her own set of keys to each room of the house. Whenever we change locks, we always find that the spare goes missing, and then when Matilda appears, we see her with the key around her key ring. I can’t tell you what a ghost needs a key for. I will have to speak to her about being kinder in the future.”
Then he and his wife turned around and went inside. They acted as if nothing strange or frightening had happened.”
Ruth abruptly ended her portion of the story here and asked, “Did I forget to tell him anything, Melody?”
“Not really,” answered Melody. “Well, except we saw the nanny watch us get in the car and leave. Presumably, she stood in the game room. H.W., do you have any scientific theories that could explain what happened here? Are we crazy?”
“Crazy?” repeated H.W. “My dear young friends, nothing you told me was crazy at all. By all accounts, you witnessed a demonic ghost. I could stand here and give you theories from the lecturer René Descartes, who was known as the father of modern philosophy. I could explain a thousand stories to you about how most ghosts never stay in a sea town, but they would all be a waste of time. To be true and simple, you both interacted with a ghost. You had confirmation from your skeptic father, the owners of the bed and breakfast, whom you have termed innkeepers, as well as accounts from people in that town. Sometimes the only plausible explanation for a seemingly unexplainable, fantastic phenomenon is just that. It is unexplainable; it is something that we can never truly understand. When we give into the concept that we have no control in this life and that sometimes things just happen to us, it makes living and enjoying our lives more pleasant. I am afraid, children, that this is what you must do. Accept the frightening experience as just that. Also, if I were you, I would keep away from that house, for she may not let you escape so easily the next time. If you do not believe me, then you should read the short story “Number Ninety” by B. M. Croker; it will set you straight.”
The three chatted a while longer, and the two girls left the company of their new ‘friend’ to return home. In the words of H.W., “Some things are better left unexplained and just accepted.”
Until next time, when we return to more storytelling, I remain respectfully,
Cheyenne E. Mitchell
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