"No man knows fear, until fear comes to him." A wise man.
Like all good Hallowe'en tales, this story is
true.
Recounted on many evenings such as this.
It requires no embellishment.
It is told just how it happened.
The Partick room and kitchen may not have been our dream semi-detached, but it was ours - my wife and I's. Our first home, a first floor tenement flat overlooking a tyre fitting yard. Our first son had arrived and we set his cot up in a wee nursery within the bedroom recess - the bed recess in the old days. Our bed sat in the middle of the floor, bathed in the light from the big bay window. It wasn't a big flat, just this bedroom, the kitchen/living room next door, a tiny inside toilet and a small hallway leading out to the landing. The old lady who'd lived there had recently died and her daughter had decided to sell it off. Humble beginnings, but we'd fought hard to get it, saving up the deposit, jumping through the hoops of all the legal beagles as they took their cut. We were happy and felt we were on our way.
But something wasn't right. It was M felt it first. While I was at work, especially on back-shifts or nights, she felt jumpy, insecure. But she didn't let on to me... until later.
Of course I knew of our strange neighbour, the old woman who lived in the ground floor flat below us. It wasn't just that she kept a Christmas tree in her window all year round. Or the fact she scolded me once on the stair for wearing a red pullover.
"Red is an angry colour."
She hissed, shaking her head to demonstrate her
disapproval.
"It annoys the spirits and leads to
aggression..."
She prattled on as I lumbered a heavy Silver Cross pram,
laden with baby paraphenalia, up to the first landing. But
it wasn't until the time I entered her house that I
discovered the true nature of the woman. I can't remember
why she invited me in. Perhaps she wanted to talk to me
about the baby crying or events in the close, memory fails
me on that count. I recall a cup of tea, in china cup and
saucer. I remember clearly how the conversation turned to
her 'friends'.
"Dont you see them?" She
asked.
"Eh? No, cant say I do." I
replied, sipping my tea and looking around the time capsule
of a room.
"They're all around us," she
went on "I talk to them and they talk
to me."
A Spiritualist, she spoke to me of her beliefs and the
after life, of portents and premonitions. Of the meaning of
the strange little ornaments displayed along her
mantlepiece and her ghostly residents and visitors.
"They can see you. They're looking and
talking about you right now. See, over
there..."
She pointed to the sink as though someone were standing
there.
I grew uneasy as she explained how they came to her and
told her of the goings on in the building, of how she
didn't need to leave the house, how she was kept informed
by her... friends.
I told M little of this. She knew the old woman was a bit eccentric because of the all year Christmas tree and did her best to keep out of her way. So did I.
The burst pipe was just one of those things. A connection
came loose at the back of the washing machine in the middle
of the night, water seeped over the floor, and brought down
part of the ceiling downstairs.
The old lady was quietly livid. My mate and I did our best
to redecorate the damaged area, all the time joking about
the spirits watching us and how they were probably
critcising our brush strokes. It was tastless humour at the
auld yin's expense and she glowered at us, fingering the
pieces of one of the ornaments that had been broken by
falling plaster.
We finally finished and left.
Then things started to happen...
Do you really wish to continue ... ?
Original story © Bob Wilson 2008
Layout, editing and additional material © Dave Sloan 2016
'tachras' and 'Winding Yarn' © Dave Sloan 2005, 2012, 2016