Halloween Story.

[Dusak]

THE LADY AT THE WINDOW

Nothing has changed. Would I expect it to have done, I ask myself. No, my day is the same as the last, my life never altering. I sit here, looking out of this grimy and smudged window at the half boarded up building across the road, formally a small private sanatorium, now a desolate wreck of a once proud example of how a building should be constructed. As is true concerning mine, or should I say my fathers. A merchant banker that has shown little interest in not only his son, but life in general since mother passed away some five years ago to the day. He grows stagnant in the far reaches of this former mansion of happiness and delight, while I slowly do the same at the front. Allays at his beck and call, the target for his complaints each and every day. No visitors are allowed, the telephone ripped from the wall. No music, nothing is permitted that could indicate that life still exists within these rotting walls of my private living Hell. But at least the nights belong to me, with the help of the few drops of laudanum in his nightly glass of warm milk. A little comfort for him, a welcome sense of freedom for me. So I sit here, watching, as usual, the human ants scuttling about below me as they prepare for All Hallows' Eve, this day of October the 31st 1899 at 4.00pm.

I enjoy, in a perverse sense of the term, sitting here, watching others live their lives, craning my ears in the hope of snatching just a small slice of human speech. To imagine, for just a moment, that they talk to me. Engaging me in conversation, a thing that is sorely missed. Sometimes I reply, pretending that I am part of their lives. But it is difficult to hear now, with the wind howling outside and the drafts whispering their secrets through the gaps of the windows frame.

I notice that the old man has appeared as is usual for him this time of day. His well cared for high wheeled wooden cart pulled by, I can only assume, his son. He stops to buy a wrap of hot chestnuts from the young street seller, pocketing them quickly. As is also usual, he curses and shouts at the boy as his small frame pulls with all his might to get the wheels to pass over the slight rise in the road, not an easy task with the slight covering of ice. The wagons burden, always covered with a ragged cloth, hiding its contents from human eye. How I long to know what is beneath. The old man takes his cap off, again as usual, clipping the boy around the ear to get more pull out of him. The boy gives a final spurt, pulls the wheels clear and they both drift off into the distance. I have been that boy all my life, taking cuffs around the ears on a daily basis, mine more psychological against physical, but just as painful for me. It has started to snow, and it grows dim, the moon hidden behind the clouds of winters approach. I just pray and hope that the lady shows herself again, as she has done for the last three evenings.

It is about this time that the flickering of shadows cast by the candle she holds catches my attention. The first time I saw her sitting at the window of the abandoned building across from me, I had been frozen to the spot, just having returned from yet another summons from father, drawn to his needs by the tinkling of the bell he uses to draw my attention. That first time I had eventually regained my seat and nervously looked towards her. She too had sat, seemingly engaged in needle craft of some sort. All her attention was placed towards this work. I had waved, hoping to catch her eye, but to no avail. Then I began to wonder if the building had been sold. Was she the caretaker. Would she be part of a family. I could only imagine as to the state of the building inside its cracked and grimy exterior walls. But perhaps it was liveable inside. Or perhaps, she was a prisoner.

I had had this thought before, only to discount it immediately as being the rambling thoughts of a foolish and over-reactive imagination, brought on by my long periods of boredom due to my forced reclusive life. If she was being held against her will, she would not be sat at a window that she could easily summon help from. But what if she had a child in there, being held against its will under the threat of injury, or even death if she attempted to call for assistance.

Eventually she showed herself at her window, but I could see that her face was troubled. She just stood there, looking towards me, with what I could only describe as a most troubled and frightened pleading look on her face. Then she was gone, hurriedly removing herself from view. I had decided then that I must act quickly to save her.

I needed darkness to attempt this saving of a poor soul, and it was an agonising wait until that darkness eventually came. I had given my father an extra dose of laudanum, gathered my thick winter coat, hammer and chisel in case I needed to force entry, a candle and said a quick pray to whoever was listening, and at the last moment before leaving my room, grabbed my daily journal, not wanting to leave it unguarded. A record of my misery.

The snow was now thick on the ground and I hoped that my footprints would soon be covered, just in case others were using the house as a hiding place and could see my approach from the windows. I glanced up to the ladies window, it lay in darkness. The shadow of a tree, created by the streets gas-lamp, forming a hideous looking form of a grasping fiend that moved and swayed in the cold nights breeze, looking as if it was about to reach down and take hold of me in its spindly grip as it seemingly protected the window. A dog howled in the distance, a low ominous sound.

I reached the side entrance, which was blocked by overgrown brambles and bushes. A good sign as it showed no recent passage by people. The rear door was shut tight, but my chisel, having wedged it into the door-jamb, easily springing it open with two hard pulls. My heart missed a beat as the splintering wood made a loud ripping, splitting sound. I pushed my way into the building quickly, pulling the door shut as I entered and lit my candle.

This room had obviously been the kitchen in times gone by. The walls were a cluttered mess of collapsed shelving and cupboards; the sink was a smashed heap of debris. An old cooking range lay to one corner, now a rusted mound of uselessness. The walls were badly stained with water seepage, black mould grew in large patches on every surface, including the ceiling, giving a distasteful musty, damp smell. Age old cobwebs hung in thick swathing clusters from its corners.

I left this room quickly, entering the reception area. This too was a quagmire of total abandonment and destruction. Ceilings had collapsed, wall’s had detached themselves, leaving wide cracks and gaps that you could see other dimly lit rooms through. It was becoming imposable to imagine that a human being could live amid such devastation and squalor. But I knew that someone did just that. The lady at the window. I felt the need to call out, to assure her that help was coming, but thought better of it.

In front of me was what must have been, in the buildings beginnings, a most magnificent oak staircase. It wound gently round to the right towards the next floor, but now that former grandness was lost forever as falling masonry had smashed holes into and through the stairs themselves, the handrail had become detached and now pointed towards me like an accusing finger. With some difficulty I eventually managed to ascend this death trap of a construction to finally gain, and begin my search of, the upper levels.

This next floor was a shambles. The plaster had fallen to heaps within the rooms and along the corridors, all of which lay bare, void of any signs of furniture or life. I turned the next corner only to be faced with a worst obstacle. The floor boards had been striped away over the years, the plaster had fallen from the walls as had the ceiling. What faced me was like the entrance to the once mortal remains of a giant beached whale with only its passageway of bones to pass through. I timidly crossed, balancing my forward steps from joist to joist, trying not to get one of the exposed rusty nails embedded into my feet. I inspected all this level of the house, but found no indication of anyone ever having used it for many years. Mine were the only footprints on the dust covered floors.

My now weary legs took me to the next level, this being the same as the former one, but a little dimer having lost the advantage of the street lights at this hight. As I had done before, I tentatively poked my head around each doorway, my heart beating like a drum, half expecting my head to be caved in by some hidden brutish thug hiding within the rooms shadows. But the killing blow was never delivered. I started to consider giving up my quest to discover the lady from the window, but decided to give it a little longer and go onto the next level. I turned the corner, heading in the general direction towards the staircase, happen to glance down and my heart nearly stopped in fright.

There were fresh footprints in the thick dust, heading in the same direction as I. I gripped the shaft of my hammer in a sweaty hand, ready to defend myself. Silently cursing for not thinking to bring an oil lamp instead of this candle with me that only enhanced my fear with it flickering shadows. As quiet as was humanly possible I followed these signs of passage, my heart hammering within my chest. Then, as I followed them into a room, a most curious discovery held my gaze. I had been in this room before. I knew this because hanging from a nail on the window frame was a piece of faded yellow cloth that I recognized from seeing earlier. ''Fool'' I had spat out, I had been following my own footsteps.

I was growing tired, hungry and my thirst was making it difficult to swallow the dust that I was continually disturbing as I ambled my way around and through this now obviously totally deserted building. I could only guess that the stresses in my life had caused me to hallucinate, the lady had never existed in the first place. I headed back towards the staircase with the intention of giving up this fruitless search for the comfort and warmth of my own dwelling.

I had been wandering around for what must have been an hour in my attempt to find the staircase I had used to reach this floor, but I had become totally disorientated, the only stairs available were leading up onto the final floor that the lady, the now never to have existed lady, had sat on her chair facing my library window. So the only option I had, was to go up in the hope that I would possibly find the servants rear stairs to allow me to descend.

Fortunately for me, these stairs were in reasonably good condition, allowing an easy journey to the next level. I pulled up in surprise as I entered the first room. In front of the window there was a chair with a small table next to it. On top of the table was a needlework frame, silk threads and a small box. So I had not been hallucinating after all. The woman was real, and she was somewhere within the confines of this house.

After a very long search it became a truthful fact, I was alone here. There was no sign of the lady, no small footprints in the dust. I was exhausted and weary. I also soon discovered that I was trapped on this floor of the building. I had searched relentlessly, but found no sign of the staircase to lead me down. No matter which direction I travelled, all directions kept leading me back to this same room with its sparse furnishings. Furnishings that were layered with thick dust. No one had used this chair and table in a long time, and certainly not in the last three consecutive nights. I slumped onto the chair, wishing that I had never ventured forth, crying out to be able to return to my home and past life. A thing that I now craved for instead of despising.

I had fallen asleep, my head cushioned by my folded arms. I stood, stretching the stiffness out of my weary bones. Daylight was just beginning to show, I looked towards my own window with envy. For the first time in a very long time I wondered what my father would think as he rang and rang his bell for attention. Attention that he could quite possibly no longer receive, especially from me if I failed to find my way out from the confines of this building.

I slumped back down onto the chair, deciding to give it a few moments longer before I started to search for a way out, a task that I hoped would be a lot easier now that I would soon have the light of day. My eye caught the needlework that the lady had worked on. I could not believe what I saw. She had reproduced an exact copy of myself, sat at my window as I stared in her direction. She had captured my image, even down to the clothes I wore as perfect as any photograph could of achieved. Then I heard a familiar noise from outside in the street.

I looked up through the window to see the old man with his cart being pulled by the young boy. I stood up, banging my fists against the glass with such force that I fully expected it to break into a thousand shards. I shouted, pleaded for his help. I cried out in excitement and relief as the old man stopped, took off his cap as he scratched his bald head and looked up towards me. He had a confused look on his face as our eyes met, his eyes searching the frontage of the building. How could he not see me? He clipped the young lad around the head, told him to get a move on and left, the wheels leaving deep ruts in the snow as they continued on their way, snow that had now covered all signs that I had ever entered this building.

I had sat there for several minutes, at a total loss as what to do next when movement from across the street drew my attention. It was the lady that I had entered this hell hole of a building to save. She had placed my father, who was in his wheeled chair, a devise that he had adamantly refused to use when I had offered to give him a little respite from his bed, at the window to face in my direction. She had sat next to him, taking a sip from mothers best china, items that I had always been told never to use, placed the cup down, smiled at me, waved, then began to engage my father in laughing conversation. I took out my journal and began to write my story, tears already beginning to stain the first page.

[Ruby Slippers]

Dusak does it again!