Read by Paul Clarke
Look. I’ve had some time to think. And what it is … what it is, is that I don’t feel good about what I did, all right? I know it’s probably not enough, not now, not after all these years and everything that happened. Yet I have to say it, or I’ll never rest. I don’t think this is how an apology should be going, to be honest with you. It should be about you, shouldn’t it? Not about me unburdening myself. But isn’t that the point of apologies? To feel less rotten about oneself? Pretty selfish, come to think of it! How am I to know what this will do for you? It might make things worse, for all I know.
Does it help to hear that I didn’t know what I was doing, that I was new to all of this? That there was no one to show me the way? That I was confused and scared as well? I suppose not. These things just sound like excuses now I’ve said them out loud.
I remember the first time. I had been pacing, pacing, pacing that dark, lonely corridor, without even the echo of my footstep to keep me company. Bored senseless. Who knows for how long? While it felt like hours, I wouldn’t be surprised if you said it had been years. And then, suddenly—there you were, like you’d taken shape from mist. The bedroom door was ajar and a glimmer caught my eye from within, stopping me dead in my tracks. I slipped through the gap and watched you brush your hair, its golden glint doubled in the mirror. Your nightdress had fallen just below your shoulder, milky white in the half-light. Snow speckled the window while a little fire kept you warm. I’d been chilled to the bone for so long (I still am); but I was grateful for that little fire, for the radiance it lent you.
I was right behind you, but yours was the only face framed by the mirror. Your scent (lily of the valley, was it?) drew me closer; I must have breathed on your neck then, as I watched the little hairs there prickle up to attention one by one. I clutched your shoulder. Whether I meant to frighten or seduce you, I still cannot say. As you’ll remember, you screamed bloody murder then.
You didn’t sleep that night, even though you squeezed your eyes shut until the sun came up. You murmured to yourself—something like a prayer, and something like I don’t believe in ghosts, I don’t believe in ghosts, over and over again.
I paced some more. I tried to find the ceiling beams interesting, or dust motes. I tried to forget the lightning thrill of that scream, yet it had a gravity I could not escape. Maybe I could have tried harder? It held the power of a drug, though; a delicious, head-spinning plunge that I did not want to resist. So, I went back for more. And more. And more. Try as I might, I could not make you see me, so – to my shame – I tormented you instead.
Once, just as you snuffed out the candle, I whispered your name into your ear. Helen.
Another time, I snuffed out the candle myself.
Another, I showed myself as a shadow.
Of course, you’ll recall the time I did all three, here at the top of the stairs. The last time I heard that intoxicating scream. How many decades have passed since then—five, six? It couldn’t be seven, could it? The detritus that blows in through the broken windows, past the DANGER: NO ENTRY signs, is my only measure of passing time, and of modernity; purple foil streaked with caramel, crinkling packets tinged with neon dust (what exactly are ‘Wotsits’ anyway, Helen?).
Occasionally, youths drift through on clouds of smoke and wayward impulse. They leave me with more holes in the walls and words like love, love will tear us apart spinning in the space where my head used to be. How grand this place was, Helen! The servants, the fresh-cut roses, the coffee in silver pots … all before your time, my beloved. Oh—if only you could have seen this place how it used to be! How I used to be.
Let me tell you, I was quite something my dear. The servants got not one, but two pairs of socks under my watch at Christmas; my father would have rolled in his grave! And he does; he’s stuck in the family plot just beyond the orchard and I hear him moaning from here every Christmas Eve: “Two pairs, Gerald? Two? Curse your bones!” Although it pains me to say it, he might have had a point about the help; it was that mousy young Mabel who was my undoing in the end. I shan’t be telling him that, of course.
What can I say? You’re an old woman now, frail and grey, gripping the arm of a younger woman as you climb the stairs toward me (that’s it—careful now, mind that step, it’s nearly rotted through). Your daughter, I presume? She has your nose, but dull and charmless blue eyes. From her father, I suppose.
“It’s freezing in here mum, you’ll catch your death!” She is adjusting your scarf, doing up the top button of your coat. “Where did you feel the presence most strongly?”
“Where my nightstand used to be, in that corner,” you gulp. “And here, at the top of the stairs. Oh Sarah, maybe we should leave,” you say in a thin, wavering voice. Wavering from age or fear, I cannot tell.
“These memories have haunted you long enough. You deserve peace. And we’ve come all this way. Shouldn’t we at least try?” Sarah closes her eyes and places one hand on the crucifix hanging from her neck, one on the flaking, rickety banister. Listening. She looks haughty. And ridiculous. God, I want to give her a little fright, but I will not give her the satisfaction. And besides, I’ve grown out of that now, as I’ve been telling you.
It has taken death for me to grow up, Helen. For one, I’m beginning to see how young Mabel might have taken offence to my advances. I did tell you how good-looking I was, didn’t I? I couldn’t fathom her fending off a little bum squeeze here and there, not when I was alive. On reflection, I can see how she mightn’t have liked that. Or my chasing her into the pantry – in play, you understand. But I can see why she might have grabbed that heavy-bottomed pot from the shelf and swung it at me full force; I remember being aroused by such a show of strength from so dainty a woman! And, well, that’s the last thing I do remember from my mortal life.
Yes, I can see it now, why she might have done it. Still, I can’t understand why the rest of the servants took such relish in wrenching up the kitchen flagstones and digging that pit underneath to cast me into; not after the two pairs of socks at Christmastime!
“Spirit, I urge you to be gone. There is nothing for you here.” Who does this Sarah think she is? Obviously there is nothing for me here. She needs to stop interrupting; she’s ruining my one big chance to ‘move on’, as they say. I never thought this day would come, not after you fled into that cold night, blood still dripping from your chin onto the snow. Oh, how those crimson blooms in the moonlight plague me still! Over sixty years I have done nothing except pace and pace, and think and think on my sins, those stains. I had not considered, in those early days following my death, that sinning was possible in the afterlife. Had not imagined that ghosts, too, might be dogged by the spectre of regret.
I’m sorry! I’m sorry, all right? I shouldn’t have tricked and terrified you. No wonder, after the accident, you left me here all alone. Until now.
“Sarah … Sarah,” you whisper, digging your nails into the flesh of your daughter’s arm. “He’s here.”
Hush now, I’m not trying to frighten you! If there is a way for me to ‘move on’, it is right now, right here. Only you can absolve me, Helen. Only you can release me.
You give a little gasp and bury your head into her shoulder. A gust blows open the door, whipping snow up the staircase. Here are those little hairs on your neck again, bristling against your scarf.
I’m good now, can’t you see? Just listen, hear me out! How can I make you believe me? I give your shoulder a little shake. How else do I get through to you?
I don’t know which is louder; your shriek, or hers, or the sound of bone cracking as you tumble, once more, down the stairs.
Oh bugger. This did not go well.
Your spirit stands up and contemplates the heap of your body at the bottom of the stairs, your screeching daughter at the top.
And then your eyes, oh those eyes! land on me, at last.
(c) Lianne Warr, 2024
Lianne Warr is a doctor and mother of two (whose headshot is refusing to upload). She has been writing since Covid times about turning tables, transformations, tired women and if all else fails: bloody murder. She has been published by Cranked Anvil and this is her third outing with Liars’ League.
Paul Clarke is a full-time photographer and occasional actor. He trained at Central and loves storytelling, whether with words or pictures.
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