Ghostly Writes Anthology 2016

by Claire Plaisted

It was my favourite place, had been for years. I was a loner through my teenage years, finding solace in my camera and painting. I’d lost count of the times my parents had tried to coax me from my room or the attic where they’d let me set up my art studio. Now I was in my twenties they left me to it. I sometimes saw them in the evening as I was going out. I preferred to sneak out into the impending gloom; then I didn’t have to see their sad faces watching me, ready to pick holes in my black leggings and baggy jumper ensemble.

  I walked the familiar path up the hill to the cemetery. In the summer the sunlight would fade in hues of gold and crimson, like dried blood had seeped from the sky and stained the old stone headstones. I’d snap strange angles by lying in the damp grass as the sun dropped from the sky. My favourite subject as summer turned to autumn was the falling leaves. They were crisp and frail as I stomped over them, loving the crunch. Then I’d pick up the skeletal remains and gaze at it in my fingers before capturing it on my camera.

  The moon was full and rising behind the sharp steeple that punctured the skyline as I stopped to admire its shape. I’d never been inside. The church was always shut on the times I visited. The path wound on up the hill to a look-out point, over the silver of the river below. It was a peaceful place I rarely shared it with anyone, until tonight. I settled in my favourite place, my back against a memorial of an angel that dominated the area. I was still trying to capture her features, wings outstretched, as if she’d only landed for a moment of breath before taking off once more. Her face was beautiful, but who ever had carved her had etched the loose strands over her one eye and cheek. Her lips were full but downturned. Sometimes when it rained the drops fell over her cheeks and looked like tears.

  Pulling my camera out I studied the shots I’d taken and stood again to take some different angles and pictures to capture her.

  ‘She’s beautiful isn’t she?’ a voice said from behind me. I jumped and turned to find a young man studying me.

  ‘Yes,’ I squeaked, the moonlight choosing that moment to illuminate his face. He was blond but so light that it shone white. His skin was pale and his eyes were dark. I gazed into them and thought of midnight.

  ‘I’m Kendrick,’ he said, extending his hand to take mine and pull it to his lips. It was such an old fashioned gesture that I blushed. He held it firm, his fingers cool but they sent a tingle right through me. It sparked an irregular beat in my heart.

  ‘I’m Anne, short for Annelise.’ I pulled my hand away and prepared to leave. But something in his gaze stopped me, like I was paralysed.

  ‘Join me to watch the moon rise, I so rarely have company.’

  ‘Sure,’ I heard my lips say, even though my head was screaming for me to run, flee. His demeanour was soothing but frightening at the same time.

  He pulled me towards the large oak tree and I saw a blanket spread out, a bottle of wine and two goblets set out in the centre. It was like he’d been waiting for me. I sat down and watched as he poured the liquid into the cups. The silver was cold in my hand but the intricate carvings took my fancy.

  ‘Can you hold this so I can take a photograph?’

  He bowed his head and I did just that, letting the flash illuminate the tiny figures of men and women dancing.

  ‘These are treasures.’ I gasped, putting my camera down and taking back the cup.

  ‘Here’s to All Souls day tomorrow,’ he declared, letting his cup clink against mine. His lips opened, revealing a line of white teeth and the tip of his tongue.

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Yes, so tonight let’s celebrate with good wine and great company.’

  I normally hated the taste of wine, especially red, but as I brought the glass to my lips I inhaled its deep aroma that spoke of succulent, ripe grapes on the vine and sweet dark chocolate.

  ‘This is delicious,’ I murmured.

  ‘Then drink, lie back and we’ll watch the grey horses ride across the midnight plains.’

  I wondered if he was a poet to my artist, that’s why our souls had called to each other in this place of death. I finished my glass, ashamed to tilt it high so that I caught the last drops on my tongue. Then I did just as he suggested and lay back on the blanket. The clouds did seem to take on the shape of ghostly grey horses, dancing and prancing in delight. The moonlight dappled their skin in a myriad of patterns. Their tails and manes swept out and vanished in the breeze that chased them.

  Closing my eyes, I felt his cool hand on my arm, circling and tracing patterns just as I did when I held my paintbrush. I dreamt of my painting, half finished in the attic; I would pour my heart into it tomorrow. But tonight was different; it was special sharing it with my mystery man. My dreams took me away as I clambered onto one of the horses and flew across the sky, finding an escape from my sorrow, wind whipping my hair into a tangled mess and I felt sure my laughter echoed over the city below.

  Waking in a tangle of my duvet it took me a moment to take in my surroundings. I was home and a fever itched in my fingers to finish my painting. I had no recollection of how I’d got home; that single glass of wine must have pulled a powerful punch. With a glass of water, I wandered into the attic and stared at the giant canvas that called to me. My paintbrush flew in sure and certain strokes over the blank parts until I stood back in the evening light and signed my name with a flourish in the corner. Surely now I could prove to my parents that I had talent, that this wasn’t a waste of time. The only thing I’d left blank was the dedication on the bottom of the plinth. How it that I just couldn’t find any photos of the writing or even remembers the name, for I must have stared at it a thousand times?

  Pulling on my coat, I slipped out of the house and walked quickly through the damp evening. A mizzle of rain soaked through my jacket, but I didn’t feel it. As I got closer to the statue I wondered if Kendrick would be there again. Perhaps he’d walked me home? I wanted him to be my next subject, to gaze at his ethereal beauty as I captured it through my lens and then onto my next blank canvas.

  ‘There you are Annelise, I’ve been waiting for you,’ he said, stepping from the shadows of the angel’s wings.

  ‘Kendrick...I hoped I’d see you again,’ I breathed, as he opened his arms and I stepped into them.

  ‘Do you understand yet?’

  ‘Understand what? I came to thank you for taking me home last night, for the wine, the words you whispered and the patterns you traced. You inspired me to finish my painting. Well, all except for one part. I need to see the name.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  He turned me around and led me to the front of the statue, keeping his hands on my shoulders as I let my eyes glide down over her face. Her body was young and draped in a Grecian style gown that both disguised and revealed curves so similar to my own. It was then that I looked at the inscription.

  In loving memory of our angel

  Annelise DeVay

  May you find happiness and peace

  Fly free our daughter.

  1998–2015

  I read it once more before I sagged against him and he lowered me to the floor, squatting down behind me. The blood rushed to my head and I heard every beat of his heart behind me. Then he whispered in my ear. ‘I’m sorry you got lost. I waited for you every day but you never came back.’

  ‘Back to the bridge,’ I replied, suddenly the memories engulfed me like a flood. We’d been lost together, bullied and teased by our peers until we’d seen the only way out was to jump.

  ‘I’ve waited a year for you until he released me from the bridge and I found you here.’

  ‘Who released you?’

  Kendrick looked up and I followed his gaze to the top of the church spire. A figure of flames rested there, crouched like a grotesque gargoyle. His eyes were burning us with a look as if we were ants under his magnifying glass.

  ‘Annelise, you have two choices now. You can meld into the stone and find your human body buried beneath. Then you will be dead.’

  ‘And the other option?’<
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  ‘You can join me, us, and stay forever a lost soul. But you will need to feed.’ As Kendrick said ‘Us’ he motioned in the direction of the flaming figure.

  The puzzle pieces fitted together, the reason my parents looked sad but never spoke to me. My love for Kendrick and our defeat at the hands of those cruel teenagers who’d taunted us to death. The wine had been blood and I had flown home.

  ‘Stay with me and we can take our revenge together.’ Kendrick said, reading my thoughts. ‘But I won’t blame you if you take the easy choice.’

  He pushed me forward and the stone seemed to melt, allowing me entry to the grave below. The smell of earth did nothing to disguise the rotten stench of my decay. The last clumps of my hair hung over the skeletal remains of my face. The anguish still etched there even though my eye sockets were empty. Part of me wanted to lie down and sleep but then I felt a tug, his hands pulling me back to the moonlit night.

  With tears rolling down my face I looked up at the statue, she was crying too. But then I turned to Kendrick, the one and only love of my life and replied.

  ‘Take me and let’s be lost souls together.’

  His tears mingled with mine as he lent towards me and his lips claimed mine before he trailed them round and I felt the tip of his fangs pierce my skin. But my blood was cold and black. Suddenly I felt a blaze rush straight through my body followed by a fever that seemed to consume me.

  Kendrick stood back and placed his hand into mind. ‘Come, let us fly, feed and take our revenge. We belong to the Devil now.’

  I felt like a feather as I was lifted onto the breeze and soared upwards towards the bright moon that lit the sky.

  ‘Wait, can I just go and see my parents for one last time?’ I begged. Kendrick nodded and we soon reached and passed right through the window pane. For some reason they were not asleep in their bed and I found them in my attic studio. I watched them silently from the darkest corner.

  ‘It’s finished and signed. How can that be?’ my father said, staring at the canvas.

  ‘I don’t understand either but I love how she’s put herself into the background. Smiling and happy as she once was as a child.’ My mother pointed to a figure in the background before she fell into his arms and wept.

  I watched them leave and stared closely at my final legacy to the world. A single tear drop trailed down the cheek of my painted statue, matching the one that I felt on my own. Filled with remorse at the pain I had caused, I looked around but I was trapped. Kendrick waited beside me, his hand still in mine. The devil stared in through the window, his thoughts sending me only two words.

  ‘Lost Soul’

  The Thin Place

  Elizabeth H Newton