by Amy Cross
The house is silent.
As soon as I start playing, I somehow feel more relaxed. I've never been much of a music person, not until today, but suddenly it's as if the idea of playing this piano is all I can think about. At least this is something I can still do, even without my sight, and I figure it's better than sitting around doing absolutely nothing. I know the idea of a blind pianist is a bit of a cliché, but I guess cliches are sometimes cliches because they're true. And to be fair, even though there's a danger that I might be getting ahead of myself, I feel like I'm actually quite a natural as I pick out a very simple, very basic tune.
For the first time since I lost my sight, I feel like I'm doing something worthwhile. I just wish I understood why Mum is so against the whole -
Suddenly I hear a loud bump from upstairs.
I stop and look toward the ceiling, although I still can't see anything. I wait, listening as silence settles again, but I know I heard that noise. There was a short but firm bumping sound, as if someone hit the floor in the room above.
Maybe something fell.
Taking a deep breath, I move my fingers a little on the keys and then I start playing again.
After just a couple of seconds, the bump returns, this time sounding more insistent.
I pause again, but the house is now quiet once more. Still, it's almost as if every time I start playing the piano, something upstairs gets pissed off.
“Good job I don't believe in ghosts,” I whisper to myself, although I hesitate before starting to play again. This time, I manage to get six whole notes out before the bump returns.
Stopping again, I sit in silence for a moment, feeling a cold shiver passing across my shoulders. I don't believe in ghosts, I never have and I never will, but I can't deny that the bumps are getting a little creepy. I want to play again, but instead I get to my feet, figuring that I might as well go take a look and figure out what the hell is causing all the noise. Turning carefully, I start making my way across the room, shuffling at a snail's pace.
Just as I reach the doorway that leads into the hall, I hear a faint rustling sound over my shoulder. I turn, but of course I can't see anything. Old habits die hard. Still, it was almost as if someone is outside, maybe in the garden, maybe watching me through a window.
I stay completely still for a moment, before turning and shuffling out into the hall. Reaching up, I hold my hands high above my head until I feel my fingers bumping against the lampshade hanging down from the ceiling, and sure enough I can feel the bulb's heat.
Mum left the lights on for me when she went out.
It takes a couple of minutes for me to locate and climb the stairs, but finally I get to the landing and I start fumbling my way toward Mum's bedroom, which is where the bumping sound seemed to be coming from. I know I shouldn't be so nosy, but I figure I can't really be accused of snooping if I'm blind, so when I reach her door I immediately turn the handle and step through into what I assume must be the house's main bedroom.
Beneath my feet, a floorboard creaks loudly.
Stopping, I listen in case any other noises break the silence of the house, but all I hear now is the sound of my own breath.
“Hello?” I call out, even though I feel pretty dumb. “Are there any piano-hating ghosts up here? Any -”
Suddenly I feel the hairs moving on the back of my neck, as if someone breathed on me.
I turn and reach out, but there's no-one there. Figuring that I simply overreacted to a breeze, I touch the back of my neck and try to remind myself that there's really nobody in the house with me.
“In case you hadn't noticed,” I say out loud, “I'm blind. So I guess that makes it pretty hard to haunt me, huh? I mean, creaks and bumps in the night are kind of creepy, but it's not like you can do much more.”
I wait.
Silence.
Taking a deep breath, I step cautiously into the bedroom, with my hands outstretched so that I don't slam into anything. I make my way across the room until finally I bump against the edge of a bed, and then I carefully lower myself and sit down. The bed creaks beneath me, and when I reach over and feel the far end, I realize that it's an old bed with some kind of iron frame. I guess it was left behind by the previous occupants, which means someone else once slept right here, where Mum sleeps every night.
Shuffling along the bed, I reach the wall and feel carefully for the nightstand. After a moment, however, my hands brush against something wooden that has been left leaning against the wall, and I quickly realize that I've found some kind of wooden cane, the kind that old people use. I pick the cane up and run my hands all along the shaft until I feel the bottom, where the rubber tip has been removed to expose the hard wooden end.
A shudder passes through my chest as I consider the possibilities, but finally I hit the cane's tip against the floorboards.
That sure sounds like the bump I heard when I was downstairs.
“Okay,” I mutter, trying not to let my imagination run wild, “that's definitely slightly creepy.”
I bang the floor again, briefly breaking the silence of the house.
“What would Mum want with a cane, anyway?” I whisper. I mean, I know the house was fully furnished when we moved in, but it's hard to believe that someone left an old cane behind. And even if they did, why the hell would Mum just let it stand next to her bed like this?
I hold the cane for a moment longer, before carefully resting it back against the wall. I figure I need to ask Mum what's going on, but I should pick my moment and I don't want her to realize that I've been rooting about in her room. After all, she's always been a very private person, and she's never really told me very much about her life before I was born.
But if she wants to keep some random cane next to her bed, I guess it's a free country.
Getting to my feet, I hold my hands out in front of me as I shuffle back toward the door. The last thing I need is to bump into the wall, so I walk very carefully and very slowly, with my hands out ahead. At least the house is silent now, and I figure I can go back downstairs and play some more. Whatever's causing the banging sound, it's not like I'm equipped to figure it out properly, but that doesn't mean I'm going to assume it's a ghost. I'll just -
Suddenly I let out a gasp of shock as my outstretched hands touch the cold face of a child.
Chapter Eighteen
Alice - Twenty years ago
It's late now, gone midnight, which means I can go to the store.
It must be six months since I last went shopping in daylight. Unfortunately, people know me and they know what happened with the poor boy at the hospital, and they began to gossip behind my back whenever I passed. Few dared actually say anything to my face, although one or two of the braver souls managed to glare at me. I heard the constant rustle of whispers wherever I went, however, and once or twice I even picked out a few of the words they were using to describe me.
Murderer.
Killer.
Guilty.
So now I stay indoors during the day and only come out at night. As I reach the forecourt of the gas station, with its blazing lights filling the cold night air, I'm grateful that I can at least come here to buy food. The prices are high and the selection is limited, but beggars can't be choosers and at least the bored teenager behind the till never seems to care or notice who I am. Even now, as I step through the door and grab a basket, he doesn't look up from the game he's playing, so I quickly make my way along the first aisle and grab some fruit and bread.
I should hurry. Father doesn't like it if he wakes up and finds that I'm out of the house.
***
Making my way back along the street, with two bags full of groceries, I feel a shudder of panic as I see two figures up ahead. They seem to be arguing next to the gate that leads to our front door, but it's only when I get closer that I realize I recognize their voices.
“There she is!” Angela Harper hisses, storming toward me. “There's the bitch who killed our boy!”
&n
bsp; I freeze, too horrified to know what to say or do.
“Are you looking forward to next month, bitch?” she yells, shoving me hard in the chest, forcing me back against the wall. “You're not gonna walk out of that hearing, you know! They're gonna send you down for what you did!”
“Angela, please,” her husband says, trying to pull her away. “Let's just -”
“He's dead because of you!” she sobs, with tears streaming down her face. “He died in agony because you couldn't be bothered to check what pills you were giving him!”
I try to push past her, but she grabs me by the throat and slams me against the wall. Dropping the grocery bags, I try to get free, but she's squeezing me too tight.
“Angela, stop!” her husband shouts.
“You're a monster!” Angela sneers, leaning closer to me. “You were supposed to look after him! You were supposed to make him better, not kill him!”
I try again to pull her hands away from my throat, but suddenly she lets go and steps back. I let out a faint gasp as I struggle to get my breath back. For a moment, it seems as if her husband has managed to calm her down, and he's trying to guide her back toward their car. There's still pure anger in her eyes, however, and after a few seconds she pulls away from him. Suddenly she swings a fist at me, punching me hard and sending me staggering back until I trip and fall to the ground.
In a nearby car, a baby is screaming.
“That's our other child,” Angela shouts, towering over me as her husband tries again to pull her away. “Do you want to kill her too? Do you want to shove the wrong pills down her throat?”
“I'm sorry,” I stammer, covering my face with my arms in case she tries to hit me again. I try to grab my grocery bags, but they've spilled all over the pavement and I quickly turn away, hurrying to the front door.
“That's enough,” Angela's husband tells her, as the baby continues to cry. “I told you this was a bad idea. Let's just let justice take its course.”
“Murderer!” she screams, but at least she's not following me now. “You killed my boy! He's cold and rotting in the ground because of you!”
She's sobbing now, breaking down, but I don't dare look back. Instead, I fumble with the front door key before finally managing to get inside. Slamming the door shut again, I drop down to the ground and start weeping. My whole body is trembling and I can still hear Angela Harper yelling outside, but at least I'm back in the house now and she won't be able to get at me.
I should have known that was coming.
It's been weeks since she last screamed at me in the street, but I should have realized that she'd be back soon. After all, the hospital's review board is due to release its findings in just a few days' time. And then my guilt will be confirmed.
A moment later, there's the sound of breaking glass, and I crawl forward so I can look into the front room. A rock has been thrown through the window, landing on the carpet with shattered glass all around.
“Murderer!” Angela shouts again, although a few seconds later I hear car doors opening and closing again, followed by the sound of an engine starting up. Finally they drive away and I'm left on all fours, staring in horror at the rock on the carpet.
“What's happening down there!” Father yells from upstairs, while furiously banging his cane against the floor. “Alice! What the hell is going on?”
Still trembling, I get to my feet. I know I should go and calm him, and that I need to pick up the broken glass and find some way to seal the window until morning, but suddenly I realize I can sense someone standing right behind me. I turn slowly, and sure enough little Anthony Harper is staring at me with dark, sunken eyes.
“They're all telling the truth,” he says calmly, as I step back with tears in my eyes. “You are a murderer.”
Chapter Nineteen
Rachel - Today
“Are you sure you're alright?” the taxi driver says as he helps me up the steps. “I can call the police if -”
“I just need to find her,” I stammer, almost tripping. “Are you sure this is the old phone exchange building?”
“Sure, but -”
“Where's the front door?”
“Hang on.” Still holding my arm, he leads me past the top of the steps, and a moment later I hear him pulling on the door. “It's locked.”
“Use the buzzer!” I tell him, still trying not to panic. “Ask for Rosemary Willis!”
I hear him pressing a button, and a moment later there's a faint tinny whistle.
“Is there a Rosemary Willis in there?” he asks, sounding a little confused. “Hello?”
“Where the hell is she?” I hiss, turning and fumbling for the door handle. I try to pull it open, but of course it's still locked. “Mum!” I yell, taking a step back. “Mum, it's me! Where are you?”
Nearby, a voice crackles over the buzzer.
“I've got a young lady here,” the taxi driver explains. “She's blind and she's looking for her mother. She says her name's Rosemary Willis and she's working here tonight as a cleaner.”
“Who?” the voice asks on the other end of the line.
“Rosemary Willis,” he says again. “She's a cleaner.”
“She's my mother!” I shout, hurrying closer and bumping against the taxi driver's arm. He reaches out to steady me. “Please, you have to send her down here! I have to talk to her!”
“Wait a moment,” the voice replies, and the buzzer falls silent.
“What's he doing?” I ask, once again filled with panic. “Where did he go?”
“Hang on,” the driver says, “someone's coming to the door.”
I wait, and a moment later I hear a key being turned in the lock before finally the door swings open.
“Where's my mother?” I ask, pushing through and then stopping as I reach forward, trying to figure out which way to go.
“Who are you?” a man's voice asks. “What's going on?”
“She's looking for her mother,” the driver explains again. “Rosemary Willis? I don't really know what's going on, she called and asked me to bring her out here.”
“Mum!” I shout, filled with panic as I stumble forward. Bumping against the wall, I take a moment to steady myself. “Mum!” I yell again, and this time my voice echoes slightly, which I guess means I'm in a long corridor. “It's me! Where are you?”
“Who are you looking for?” the man asks, sounding confused.
“Rosemary Willis,” I reply, turning and looking in his general direction. “She works here as a cleaner. She's been working here for a while now.”
“Rosemary Willis?” He seems not to know the name. “Listen, I'm the only cleaner who does night duty here. I'm always alone, there's nobody else.”
“That can't be right,” I tell him, sniffing back fresh tears. “Please, you have to find her for me. She works for an agency, she told me she's been doing night shifts here since about two weeks ago. She comes almost every night.”
“I've been here every night since last month,” the man replies, “and I promise you, there's never been anyone else. Believe me, I've asked the agency to send someone to give me a hand, but they always refuse. I'm pretty sure I'd have noticed if there was anyone else here with me. I wouldn't have had to do so much bloody work, for a start.”
“Mum!” I shout, turning and stumbling along the corridor, with my hands outstretched in case I bump into another wall. “It's me! It's Rachel! Mum, where are you? Something happened at the house, I felt -”
Slipping suddenly on a wet floor, I tumble down and land hard on my right arm. Letting out a gasp of pain, I struggle to get back up.
“Mum!” I scream. “Mum, help me!”
***
“Are you sure you don't want me to come in with you?” the driver asks a short while later, as he helps me back to the house's front door. “Maybe I should call the police or -”
“No, I'm fine,” I tell him, already fumbling to find the key. “I just made a mistake, that's all. I must have got the wrong offi
ce building.”
“But is there anyone at home to help you?”
“I'll be okay once I'm inside.” My hands are trembling, but I manage to get the door unlocked and then I quickly step inside. My heart is racing and I can't quite figure out what's happening. All I know is that my mother wasn't where she said she'd be, and I felt a face earlier. Except there can't have been a face, which means it must have all been in my head. “Mum?” I call out, hoping that somehow she might have already come back. “Mum, are you here?”
Silence.
“I don't feel right leaving you like this,” the driver continues. “If you -”
“I'm fine, honestly,” I tell him, turning and smiling even though I'm not entirely sure where he's standing. “She'll be back soon. Maybe I wasn't paying attention properly when she told me where she was working. I guess I just had a panic attack, but...”
I pause, thinking back to that moment an hour or so ago, when I felt a face staring straight at me. It was only there for a couple of seconds, and I'm starting to think that somehow I imagined the whole thing. I guess my other senses are maybe over-compensating to deal with the fact that I can't see.
“As long as you're safe,” the driver says finally. He probably thinks I'm completely out of my mind. “I just...”
His voice trails off.
“Thank you for everything,” I tell him, as I swing the door shut. “I'm really sorry I bothered you.”
Once I'm alone in the house, I stand completely still and listen once again to the silence. An hour ago I ran out in a panic, desperately trying to use my phone's voice app to call Mum, and then – when that didn't work – I called a taxi instead. Now I'm starting to feel that I completely over-reacted, and that I allowed myself to fly into a panic. Still, I can't help turning and waiting in case there's even a hint of another noise, but it's becoming increasingly clear that not only is there no ghost, but there's also no sign of Mum.
“Hello?” I call out.
