Short Story - The Ghost
By Lisa Clarkson
"Now, I know I didn’t put you there," she said to the fork. It lay, innocently enough, among the pots of powder and bottles of honey-coloured scent on her dressing-table. She lifted this new piece of evidence close to her face so that she could see it clearly; pick out the spaces between its prongs. It shone cleanly, and she slipped it into the pocket of her nightdress. She would replace it in the drawer when she was next downstairs.
She looked around her bedroom for a tell-tale blur, but if he was here he was hiding still.
"You don’t scare me," she told the room, "no ghost or goblin is going to make me afraid in my own home. I’ve lived here twenty years, and have a greater claim on it than you!"
She opened the curtains with a quick jerk of her bony arms, and smiled, squinting into the light. Her window was too stiff to open, but she fancied she could taste the day already, memories of the scents of spring fluttering over her along with the disturbed motes of dust. She made her bed slowly, smoothing out the blankets with her shaking, brittle hands. The sun warmed her back through the window. The strong light bleached the stains on her blankets, making them appear fresh and white. Her smile widened, thinning her lips, and she reached for the empty tea-cup on the bed-side table, ready to head downstairs.
But just as her fingers found the cold, glazed surface something moved it, and the cup flew from her hand to smash musically on the floor.
"Oh, you cheeky devil," she muttered, "making more work for me, as if I didn’t have enough to do!"
She would have to get the dustpan and brush from downstairs. She held the banister with one hand as she went, the other lifting her nightdress so that she wouldn’t trip.
As she entered the kitchen her nose wrinkled, and she looked around for the source of the smell. It was acrid and nauseating, making her think of something lying dead and rotting on the beach. Bent like a hunter, she moved around the little kitchen, peering into cupboards and drawers.
Eventually she found it: an untouched plate of fish and chips. Lifting the plate by the rim she held it away from herself. There was something unnatural about the colour of it and she didn’t want to investigate too closely. She groaned, and shook the contents into the bin without looking, before she had a chance to become squeamish. She put the plate into the sink and ran hot water over it, watching the grey smears shake in the current before breaking lose and spiralling away.
"Dirty, dirty creature." Her voice grated in her throat.
She had always looked forward to the chip-van that came round on Fridays, sparing her from cooking once a week. Now she wasn’t sure that she’d be able to face it next time. She wondered if he’d miss her, the man with the long blond hair tied back, his face red from standing over the fryer. He was very friendly, and made her laugh.
Once satisfied that the plate looked clean at least, she turned off the tap. The hot steam and the smell of fish must have got to her, for a wave of fizzing air seemed to sweep over her face, leaving her clammy and disorientated. She could feel the black things wriggling on the edges of her vision, her cheeks reddening, nose flaring like an overworked horse.
She held onto the side until it passed, then decided that it was worth struggling back upstairs for a lie-down. It was early yet anyway; she always rose early. There would be plenty of day left.
Her skull felt empty, as though someone had pricked it and let all the air out. She leant on the banister again, but her hands were strangely numb and the wood didn’t feel solid under them. After climbing each step she paused to gather herself, and by the time she’d reached the top she felt sure of her legs again.
She stepped into the room, and shrieked. Something had bitten her, and she fell onto the bed, sticking the afflicted foot into the air.
"You evil, evil thing! Why do you torment me?"
She twisted her leg painfully to see the damage. Luckily, there wasn’t a lot of blood, but she winced at the sight of it. A single trickle trailed onto the bedclothes before she could wipe it away. Something pointed protruded from her heel and she tugged it angrily from her flesh. It was white, like a shard of bone.
Despite her heavy coat, the wind crept in and chilled her as she walked. She’d have moved faster, but was hobbling slightly from the niggling of the minor wound. She had decided that she’d put up with his pranks long enough. Harmless or not, he was making life very difficult. She needed some peace.
The church loomed satisfyingly, the dark spire rising nobly above the plain, new houses that crowded round. She let herself through the iron gate and made her way between the graves, familiar as friends, tightening her coat around her.
There was scarcely more warmth within the church, but at least she was no longer a victim of the wind. She crossed herself and headed towards the chapel. She always lit a candle there for her husband when she visited on a weekday. But a cough rose in her chest and she had to pause to bark it out, wincing at the violent echoes she caused.
"Edith! How good to see you!" The deep, jolly tones of the priest resounded through the church.
"Ah, there you are, Father. I was hoping to find you today."
He came briskly up the aisle, his hands clasped over his belly. She always recognised him initially by his generous mop of black hair.
"No problems, I hope?" he said, leaning towards her with a smile. His face was rosy, healthy-looking. His chin, she noticed, seemed always to be in shadow.
"Just one…"
He took her arm and led her to a pew, where they sat side-by-side. She pushed the fingers of one hand between those of the other, glancing at him sideways. She still wasn’t accustomed to his familiar ways. The old priest had been far more traditional.
"How can I help you, Edith?" he asked, in a softer voice.
"I’ve a spirit loose in my house, father. Drives me mad, night and day. I didn’t want to be a bother, but I’ve tried to live with it, and I can't cope any more. Do you think you could…" He cut her off with a deep laugh. "Now, Edith, are you sure? Is there any reason there should be a spirit in your house? You’ve been there fifty years, it seems strange that one should bother you now…"
"You don’t believe me?"
"It’s not that, I just think that maybe now the nights are drawing in… and you know how noises travel through walls. Perhaps whatever’s frightened you can be explained…"
"I’m not frightened! The dead don’t scare me. But this one’s moving things, tricksing me, making a right nuisance of himself! Please, Father."
"Well, I’ll come and visit tomorrow, have a look for you. If a soul needs to be put to rest, I can help. If it’s something else, I’ll do my best." He patted her shoulder, but that set her coughing off again. She folded over, gripping her knees in frustration. Something fell to the floor and clattered loudly on the tiles. The priest bent and lifted the fork, slightly misshapen now, and handed it to her as she sat back.
When she got home she looked carefully about in case he’d left her some other nasty surprise. Everything in the living room seemed to be where it should, but she looked suspiciously at the cabinet before she approached it, in case he’d seen this coming. It had a glass door, but the glass had taken on a smoky look, and she couldn’t see through it anymore. She turned the little key, and pulled the door open. Inside were the statues and trinkets she’d collected over the years: a little pyramid of sand her granddaughter had brought back from a school trip; a porcelain ballerina her mother had left her; a tin box of thimbles, neatly lined with tissue paper. In the corner sat the figure of a man fishing, a dreamy expression on his face. A tiny green fish hung on the end of his line, and swung as she moved him to reveal the little bottle behind. The bottle was made of clear plastic, and marked on the front with a cross.
"It’s your own fault," she said, pulling off the top, "you shouldn’t go around terrorising honest women."
She turned to face the room, and shook the bottle at it so that droplets flew out over her furniture and carpet, creating dark specks, which spread and faded slowly on the magnolia. She repeated the process in the kitchen, then dribbled the bottle slightly as she creaked up the stairs. In the bedroom she made sure to bless the floor around her bed, noticing the fragments of unwashed cup still waiting to be swept away. Then she went through into her cold little bathroom.
She held the bottle aloft, then she saw what watched her from the mirror. The drooping, pasty face of an ancient woman, with cobwebs of dust-coloured hair and red-rimmed beetle eyes blinked at her in fear.
