Paula R C Readman
Chilli Chocolate and Red Wine
I cross the
wide expanse of the lawn at the front of Crowhurst Hall; a journey I’ve
made many times before. However, this time it feels different.
High above me the hunter’s moon casts its lengthy shadows as the first
flurries of the season snowfall, swirling around me, whipped up by the
bitter wind. Tugging at the fabric of my skirt it seems to sweep me up
and carries me over the threshold of my home.
In the cold
hallway I stand dressed in what was once my finery before the old
long-case clock, studying its delicate, ornate hands. In the past, as a
child, I found them fascinating too, but then they marked the passing of
a happier time. Now as I watch the seconds tick away, I wait for its
hourly chime, but they do not come.
Evoking some half-remembered remark, I recall the past and the present
like the sweeping hands of a clock run together. Yet, it seems like only
yesterday when I heard it ring out its melancholy chimes to mark my
passing. They resonated around my ice-cold body before the soil fell
clattering upon my coffin lid as the mourners left me beneath the frosty
ground.
Now the only sound I hear is the ticking of the clock as I wonder what has disturbed the tranquillity of my eternal slumber.
I
know I cannot remain for long within these walls for I’m no longer
welcome. He who robbed me of everything I held so dear would be outraged
to know I’ve returned once more.
My faded, black taffeta skirt rustles on the stone tiled floors as I
move aimlessly around. For a moment I linger in the library as wisps of
tenebrous memories comes flooding back.
Suddenly I’m aware of some unfinished business, which may account for my
homecoming. Climbing the marble staircase I pause; resting my hand
lightly on its carved banister. Glancing up I see the gentle smiling
faces of my beloved parents whom, with vacant, painted eyes stare back
at me.
As I reminisce about their untimely passing, something cold creeps
across the back of my bony neck and shoulders making me shudder. I brush
my fingertips across my icy cheek longing to feel unshed tears washing
my face with warmth as I cry for what was once mine.
I enter my
old dressing room and find that the chilling night air fills it with
dampness. Prior to my death my servant, Annie, would’ve made sure a
welcoming fire filled it with warmth and light, but now it’s as
welcoming as a cold, empty grave.
In the past, I would’ve sat before the large ornate mirror, with its
exquisite carvings of cherubs, love hearts, and doves, combing my
glossy, golden tresses while dreaming of my darling Henry’s return from
London.
I
recall too how my heart leapt with pleasure on hearing the sound of his
carriage on the cobbles outside my window, knowing soon in his embrace I
would hear his sweet, whispered words of love.
Now seated before it all I see is bone-dry, cadaverous skin stretching
across my emaciated face as I brush dirt and worms from all that remain
of my hair.
Has time passed me by so quickly that I’m nothing, but bones?
The sound of
the door catch lifting brings me out of my reverie and I dissolve into
the shadows as a young girl, just ripening into womanhood glides into
the room. Crossing the pool of moonlight she heads in my
direction.
Her beauty astounds me.
With raven-black hair, she’s clothed only in a long, white nightgown,
her bare feet blue with cold. She moves around the room with exaggerated
movements while opening and closing the drawers and cupboard doors. In
her dream-like state, she seems to be searching for something.
‘How could he betray me so?’ she mutters.
Stepping out of the shadows, I whisper, ‘Hello, young beauty, I wonder, did I disturb your slumber?’
Though her tear-stained eyes are unblinking, something flickers across
her forlorn face makes me realise that, unlike me, death has no claim on
her, but something disturbs the noctambulist’s sleep.
I follow her, but she shows no signs that she’s conscious of me.
‘Please, do not be afraid. I mean you no harm. What disturbs your sleep?’ I ask.
She turns, her golden eyes dart back and forth as though seeking out a sound.
Aah, she does not see me, but hears me.
She lifts her left hand to brush a strand of her raven hair from her lips when something shimmers in the moonlight.
‘What’s this you’re wearing?’ I raise my bony, dust-dry hand before her
face so she can see what hangs on my fleshless finger, ‘It’s a ring? So
he’s wed another, making us three?’ I say as my heart breaks, knowing
I’ve failed again.
Bewilderment settles on her face as her eyes begin to dilate, I realise
then she sees me as a dream. Her soft voice carries neither weight nor
sound, like a child’s sleeping breath, she asks, ‘Who are you?’
‘I’m Eleanor,’ I say “I’m back from whence I slept so peacefully to warn
you. Though I’ve failed another I once tried to save. Fate was so
cruel.’
Her young brow creases as she stares right through me, then, as if she’s suddenly aware that I’m standing there.
She steps back. Her hand flies to her mouth to stifle a cry. With
trembling lips, she utters, ‘Incubus, Succubus, be gone!’
In contempt, I shake my shrunken head as dirt, worms, and hair falls from me scattering around my bony feet.
‘I am neither. You may have youth and beauty on your side, but your days
are numbered. As you see me standing before you, so you shall be one
day. For there’s no escaping from the hands of time. I wish only to see
you grow old and not die before time has lined your face.’
Suddenly the sound of the tolling clock echoes with the passing of another hour.
‘At last,’ I cry, holding out my fleshless arms as the mournful chimes
resound through the sleeping house, and the ravages of time are undone.
I stand
clothed once more, flesh upon flesh, muscle, and sinew. Time restores my
golden blonde tresses, but I cannot linger. Vanity is a weakness for
living as time isn’t mine.
She too wakes into half-sleep and whispers, ‘You’re Lady Eleanor. I’ve
seen your portrait, and your tomb in the cemetery. Five years have
passed since you were murdered by an unknown intruder while your husband
was away.’
‘What tale is this? Come; let me show you the truth, for it too will be your fate, if you aren’t careful.’
‘Not the truth!’ with a shudder, she hurries to her bedroom.
I follow her in fear she’ll wake him.
In my haste I step into her bedroom. I’m surprised to find how little
has changed. All that we selected together for our love nest he now
shares with another.
Wiping her tears, the noctambulist stares down at her sleeping husband.
‘Fear not, he sleeps,’ say I.
She glances in my direction, her lower lip trembles as she whispers,
‘When I see him sleeping so peacefully, my heart is full of love. The
way the curls of his black hair fall lightly on his ruddy cheek. See how
his lips part as he breathes gently. See the line of his jaw, so
strong. How could you not fall for such a man?’
I
laugh, ‘Sweet nightwalker, if you heart is full of so much love for
this sleeping man, then what makes you roam alone while he sleeps so
serenely?’
A
questioning look flickers across her innocent face, ‘Should I not fear
you, Lady Eleanor, for am I not talking in my disturbed sleep with a
ghost?’
‘I’m not here to do you harm. The living should not fear us who’ve
passed over. We can do you no injury, sweet child. There’s one who is
living that you need to fear far more.’
‘How can I trust you, you who have no right to be here?’
‘Let me join you in your nocturnal amble through my home. For I was a child here . . .’
‘This much I know,’ say she.
‘What troubles you so?’
She gestures to the room, ‘There was another who called this house her home, but unlike you, she’s not a ghost.’
‘Come; let’s go where we can talk more freely.’
As the noctambulist leaves, her husband rolls over. I feel the darkness
within the room rearrange itself as I wait for him to awake so I can
peer into his dark, soulless green eyes once more, but he sleeps on.
In the
hallway, apart from the steady ticking of the clock, the only other
sound is that of the noctambulist’s bare feet on the stone floor as we
enter the library.
As though she’s fully awake, she crosses to the fireplace and adds
another log to the dying embers. With a crackle, the fresh dry wood
ignites throwing its warmth and light around the room, but although its
heat cannot warm my dry bones, I still shudder as the shadows of my past
gathered in every corner waiting for me to tell my tale of betrayal.
‘Please can you tell me about the other woman?’ I ask, though I fear the
worst. For I had visited her on such a night, at least three years ago,
to warn her the best I could that death would be at her door. Unlike
this noctambulist, the second wife did not have a strong constitution.
On that night before the clock struck the hour to restore me, I had
stepped out of the shadows too early and she had gazed upon my worm
eaten face. Her pitiful screams woke what was left of her household.
Standing at the French windows, the sleepwalker has her back to me, staring at the moon through the lightly falling snow.
She turns and with a heavy sigh saying, ‘My husband has no right to
marry me when he has a wife who lives in a mental asylum. I uncovered
Lady Helen’s journal in the library and read about her fear of
destitution. Her fears slowly descended her into madness. Unlike me, she
was not strong, when Henry left her alone for days to travel to London.
She feared he wouldn’t return. All too soon, the servants deserted her.
With no money to pay them their wages, she roamed the icy corridors
alone.
Now you appeared, haunting me in my dreams . . . Oh, why do I doubt the man I love so true?’
‘Do you not believe her?’ I ask, on hearing the hesitation in her voice.
‘Once I was like you believing every word he uttered. Now I am, but a
ghost belonging to the borderland. Like Lady Helen and you, he deceived
me too. Not for love he married me, but my father’s money. The day he
drove the knife into my beating heart, he took pleasure in telling me
so.’
‘Were you not killed by an unknown hand?’ she asks, puzzlement lining her clear complexion.
‘No. The hand that took my life was none other than that of my husband,
Henry. In this very room, he drove in his knife taking such delight in
telling me how he’d taken my parents’ lives too, by having their
carriage driven off the road. He’d discovered that my father had made
inquiries in London’s high society, finding out that among the gambling
set Henry was notorious for being in debt.
With my dying breath, I cursed him. That’s why I’m not free to sleep for eternity, until he has paid his debts in full to me.’
‘Oh, it’s all true,’ she sobs, ‘he married me for my money too. While he
has been away, I uncovered his secrets here in the library. I found
Lady Helen’s journal and a bloodied knife. I wanted so much to know the
truth,’ Noctambulist whispers with a heavy-heart.
She crosses to a shelf. Half-hidden in shadows, pulls out a jewelled handled knife, and lays it before me.
‘It’s the knife,’ I utter, ‘with which he took my life.’
Suddenly, the
library door bursts open and Henry steps in. On seeing the noctambulist
sitting alone, he booms, ‘Oh, I do declare, my new wife betrays me not
with another, but I feel madness fills the air yet again.’ Laughing, he
continued, ‘Am I so cursed to find that another I took to be my bride
suffering from lunacy too.’
I
whisper to the noctambulist, ‘Dear lady, pray take your leave. The time
has come to set us free. Take Lady Helen’s journal and keep it safe.
Sleep deeply now until daybreaks.’
Picking up the book, the noctambulist turns her back on Henry, and takes her leave without a word.
He goes to follow, but the door slams shut. Watching in horror, he sees the key spin in the lock and vanishes.
‘What trickery is this?’ he cries in surprise.
Then out of the shadows, I appear still beautiful in a dark unnatural way, as
I was on the day he took my life.
‘None that I can see, my Lord, but revenge for those you’ve betrayed
with your lies.’ Laughing, I lift the knife, ‘An eye for an eye.’
His eyes widen with fear as the cold of the grave radiates from me. His
face pales as he raises his trembling hands as if to protect himself.
‘This cannot be; you’re a ghost that I should not see. Dear God, help me
and send this devil back to the ground where she should be.’
The French windows burst open as the fire goes out. Shadows draw around
him with a sudden lurch; he drops to the ground. Protruding from his
chest, the bejewelled knife immerse in his cold, black heart.
I stand over him as his confused spirit begins to rise.
Staring down at his dying self, he whispers, ‘What have you done to me?’
‘Time to pay for your sins. Now come follow me,’ I turn towards the open doors.
‘You cannot do this to me! I’m still breathing and can be saved,’ he
screams. With a wave of my hand, he has no choice and reluctantly trails
after me.
We cross the
lawn to the cemetery. In the freshly fallen snow, only his footprints
will be seen by everyone when the new day breaks.
In the
distance, I hear the old hall clock ring out its melancholy chimes for
the passing of the hour as the old day becomes the new. I sink into my
grave, dragging with me what remained of Henry’s conscious self, down to
lay at my side.
Suddenly aware of his surroundings, Henry turns to face me, just as the
worms slither back into my eye sockets, nostrils, mouth, and hair as
time takes back what it had restored to me. His scream fills our narrow
space.
“Oh, such joys at last to have you here beside me in this cold ground,
dearest Henry. Did you think you could escape our wedding vows? Let no
man put asunder not even death could keep us part.”
As I slip peacefully into eternal sleep with my husband at my side, the
tombstone above our head now tells the truth; ‘An unknown intruder
murdered us who lie beneath this cold, cold ground’.
About the Author
Paula R C
Readman has won two short story competitions one which was the Harrogate
Crime Writing competition, when Mark Billingham picked her story as the
overall winner. She has also been published by English Heritage,
Parthian Books and Bridge House in their anthologies. To find out more
about her writing: paulareadman1.wordpress.com
