Things We Say in the Dark

by Kirsty Logan

  I don’t know who Brigitte is. Who she was. She seems to be – to have been – in her late thirties, early forties. She has long brown hair and small hands. Her face is bloated from the water and I can’t tell what colour her eyes were, but I’m sure I never met her. She wears a nightgown, ankle-length and white and always drifting around like she’s falling in slow motion, but it’s a timeless design so it’s hard to place it. I think she might be from a long time ago. Decades or centuries, many generations. Perhaps it takes a really, really long time to work your way back to here from wherever you go. I don’t know who she is and I don’t know what she wants, other than to be near me and talk to me always. What kind of monster am I for resenting that? For resenting a love so obsessive, so all-encompassing, so perfect? Most people go their whole lives without being loved like that. I should appreciate it.

  She can come to me whenever she wants to, and what she wants is all the time. If I’m asleep or distracted or trying to do something, it’s harder for her to get my attention. Her words are still there but I’ve stopped hearing them. That’s when she gets frustrated. I work from home now; it wasn’t a good look for me to suddenly respond to her in the middle of a meeting or while on the phone. I still don’t know whether other people could see her and were frightened at the sight, or if they couldn’t see her and were shocked by me suddenly shouting shut up shut up please for fuck’s sake shut up at nothing. I don’t know how you ask people something like that.

  I still live in the house I grew up in with my mother, which is also the house my mother grew up in with her mother. They’re both dead, so it’s my house now. I had a wonderful childhood here. My mother and I loved each other so much; it was just the two of us, a tiny team, together all the time. My grandmother died when my mother was small so I never met her. My mother died when I was small too. I miss them both. I know it might not make sense that I miss my grandmother when I never met her, but I do. I miss how much I would have loved her.

  There’s only one place I can go where Brigitte can’t find me. Behind the house is a long, rambling, overgrown garden, and at the end of the garden is a pond. On top of the pond is a layer of algae, summer-stinking, blanketing the black water. Over it hums a constant shift of black flies. There is nowhere now that she is not – nowhere except here. I have to make sure she won’t find me. It’s not enough to just be beside the pond. I slide into the water, feeling the wet algae slime up my calves, my thighs, my belly, my breasts, my throat. Under the water, invisible things squirm. The water is the colour of stewed tea. I close my eyes and take a big breath and dip my head under the water. Silence. Darkness. I feel my heartbeat pulse in my ears. The water presses on my eyes. I am alone, finally alone, if only for the length of a breath.

  I know I shouldn’t go to the pond so often. She will get suspicious. I know she will eventually find me here, and every time under the water is a new risk. But the constancy of her. It drowns me. Here under the algae in the stale water, I have peace. Insects flick along my arms. Weeds tangle around my ankles. I know it’s ridiculous to feel so suffocated by her. It should be nice. Comforting. A middle-aged woman watching over me, keeping me company. It’s not like she’s got yellowed claws or black eyes that drip blood. It’s not like she hides in corners facing the wall or cackles at strange moments or runs her talons through my hair as I’m washing it. She’s just – there. Wherever I go, whatever I do. I walk down the street and I feel her toes stepping on the backs of my heels. I type emails and I feel her fingers on top of mine. I read a book and she bends the cover back so she can read it too. I get in the bath and I see the water rise as she climbs in after me. I go to the toilet and she slides her fingers under the door, calling my name. The constant presence and noise of her. She chatters, chatters, chatters, day and night, never pausing for breath because she doesn’t have to breathe. Her voice fills my head until there’s no space for anything else. I’ve been under the water too long, but I’m not ready to come out. I know, I just know, that she has found me. If I surface, there she will be, ready to reach for me: to stroke my face, to kiss my cheek, to twine her hand in mine. Wanting me, needing me. Bright lights flash inside my eyes. My heart throbs. Just one more second, please. Just one more moment of space and silence. I press my hands hard against the walls of the pond to hold myself under. I think of my mother, and how much I loved her as a child – obsessively, all-encompassingly, perfectly – and how much I love her still, even after she drowned in the pond.

  We Can Make Something Grow Between the Mushrooms and the Snow

  The Mushroom House

  Eco-friendly and ripe for development, this highly unusual dwelling will make the perfect home for the right occupants. Buyer, be aware that house is set on a bed of mushrooms with most of the organism below the soil surface, providing a sturdy and constantly growing base for the structure. The organism’s above-surface aspect forms the walls and roof. Three public rooms, two bedrooms, family bathroom – though these will expand as the organism grows. Damp proofing recommended.

  Richard’s notes: Three seconds in this house, and I feel my body pulse fertile as earth. It’s perfection. We can have children here, I know it. Three, four – eight, ten. As many as we want, no effort at all. What can I say? It’s a house made of sodding mushrooms, and I bloody well love it! I really can’t see a single problem. Where can I sign?

  Carolyn’s notes: This is not a house. It’s a pit of rot. The walls are grey and spongy and everything stinks of decomposition. My feet are mired in dirt. Every time I breathe I feel like I’m inhaling spores, invisible things that will wriggle and burrow and grow inside me. I could never work in a place like this. I need space and quiet, cold and clarity. This grimy, mildewed house is the opposite of that. How quickly can I leave?

  The Bluebell House

  This charming and unique cottage is situated in the centre of a bluebell wood. Previous owner was a witch, but house has been professionally cleaned with bleach and appropriate rituals. Bijou, but still with all the necessities. Big enough for a family, assuming the family is one person, or multiple people who are very small. Living room, two bedrooms, outdoor bathroom. Good-sized kitchen, particularly the oven.

  Richard’s notes: Carolyn wouldn’t take the mushroom house, even though she got pregnant right after we went there – I knew it was a fertile place! I’d happily have stayed there. But hey, marriage is about compromise. It’s creepy to me that a witch lived here. Cast her weird spells and curses, thought her nasty thoughts. For all we know, she cooked stolen children in that oven. The estate agent didn’t say that, but I’ve read the stories. Still, perhaps bringing a child here would be a good thing. Perhaps it would cleanse it. I mean, we’re certainly not going to put any children in the oven! I think we could make a good go of it here.

  Carolyn’s notes: The flowers on the ground here are thick as dust. The second I got near the house, I was choking on pollen. But I’m trying. I even brought my research books with me to see if I could do some work, just as a test. He goes on whether or not he likes the place, but for me it’s more complicated than that. If I can’t work, I can’t earn, and we’ll lose whatever house we’re in. I left him talking to the estate agent and tried to work. Nothing came. I can’t think. Can’t breathe. The pollen is inside me.

  The Cave House

  Sturdy roof and walls. Open aspect to the front, interior fully open-plan. Easily maintained. Free food and water sources in the form of lichens, mosses and a nearby stream. A fixer-upper, ideal for an enthusiastic and motivated buyer.

  Richard’s notes: It’s a cave. Literally a cave. And I don’t know what she wants, but to be honest I’ll stay in any godforsaken hole that pleases her as long as she can be happy with me and our child. She’s grown so much bigger over the past few months, and the baby will be here before we know it. Even she must see that modern people don’t raise babies in caves. A fucking cave! She can’t possibly want this.

  Carolyn’s notes: This is better than the others.
Fewer distractions. There are horses in the field nearby, which I like. One of my chapters is about Icelanders’ conversion to Christianity in the year 1000. They had to follow the religion, obviously, but they were allowed three exceptions. One was the eating of horsemeat – luckily for those horses, we’re not Icelandic. The other exceptions were ritual scarification carried out in secret, and bera út, abandoning a child in nature to die of exposure. I’ve tried to tell Richard so many times but he doesn’t think it’s interesting. Anyway, I don’t think this is the right house for us.

  The Bird House

  Spacious and airy, complete with open skylight. Fantastic views. Comes as seen, trunk and all attached branches included, as well as any feathers. Birds may return to lay eggs, meaning an environmentally friendly and organic food source for owners.

  Richard’s notes: This is getting ridiculous. We’re eight months in and she’s enormous, almost past walking. How is she supposed to get up and down a tree? It would be impossible to attach any sort of decent ladder to the trunk, it’s so spindly. And that’s not even mentioning a child who’ll be crawling in no time – right off the branch, no doubt, and what then? And what are we supposed to do when it rains? I need to put my foot down. At least, I would if it wouldn’t snap the branch we’re standing on.

  Carolyn’s notes: This is closer. This is better. I need light and air and space and solitude. I need to be able to move, to think. It’s not just for me, it’s not selfishness. We won’t get any more of my advance money until I finish the book. I have to support us all, and I can’t do that in the gloom and the earth and the fetid heat. This is nice – open, airy. The twigs are a bit scratchy but there are plenty of feathers and they’re very soft. Of course they’re soft; that’s what people stuff duvets and cushions with. The baby will soon need a home that isn’t me, and here’s a literal feather bed. We haven’t quite found the right place yet, but we’re near.

  The Island House

  This cosy and charming wooden structure is set on its own island. Structure in fact covers the whole island, which is compact and ideally situated in a peaceful and secluded part of the ocean. Ideal for the homeowner who likes their own space.

  Richard’s notes: Look, I’ll admit that it sounded good when the estate agent said we could live on our own island. But when I imagined island life, I did imagine that I’d be able to actually walk on the island. You know what I’m picturing: a beach, some trees, maybe some green patches for chickens or sheep. This one is so tiny that you can’t leave the house without stepping into the ocean. It’s not even a calm, blue, tropical sort of ocean – it’s grey and choppy and every other wave crashes into the outer walls. I can’t believe this is what she wants. The baby is only a few weeks old, and as we’re looking around the house I swear she’s eyeing up places she could put him down.

  Carolyn’s notes: What was my life before? What was it like to arrange my time the way I chose? What was it like to be able to hear my own breathing? Three weeks, and I can barely remember. It needs so much. It wants so much. I thought if I could go away, away, away – to an island, no one else there – then I could work. But there will never again be a place with no one else there. I could be on the other side of the world and I would still hear him cry for me in the night. His tiny mouth, never full, never silent.

  The Glacier House

  A spacious, secluded, one-of-a-kind property created from a much-sought-after glacier. Fully open-plan with far-reaching views to all sides: front, back, top, and bottom (when over deep water). Currently three bedrooms, though further rooms can be carved out.

  Richard’s notes: Why on earth would she even consider this? Dragging us up to the hinterlands, so far fucking north I feel like we’re about to tip off the map. I get that her book is on northern cultures, but come on! She wants to go from a northern country, to a further northern country, and then when she’s in that country she wants to go even further? I mean, Christ, why don’t we just move to the middle of the Arctic and call it quits? Not only is this house on the ice; it’s made of ice, with beds and sofas and tables and chairs made of ice. There are no walls. There is no roof. I can’t believe she’d even suggest bringing our child here. The wee guy will freeze to death in about three seconds. I’m freezing to death in about three seconds, and I’m a bloody adult, with enough body fat to shame a seal. I can’t live here. He can’t live here. God, I miss the mushrooms.

  Carolyn’s notes: The first step I took into this house, I felt my mind flash clear. It’s perfection. I can work here, I know it. I love this glacier: the chill, the cleanse of it. We’re taking this house. It’s everything I need. I think of the horses, of the ritual scarring, of the cold. There are rules to the world, I know. But perhaps there can be exceptions. I don’t need three, only one. We’ll take it. Are you listening? I’ll take it.

  I’m just back from the pool, and I’ve been thinking. As I swim I count laps, and on the lonely walk home I count steps. It’s good thinking time. In writing this book, I’m trying to figure things out. I know I’m taking a while to get to any answers, but bear with me. I’m writing my way through.

  I want to know what haunts me. The ghosts that obscure my face in the mirror, that speak in my head when I’m trying to think, that pull my hands back when I try to reach out. I know there’s something; I just don’t know what it is yet.

  But also.

  This work I’m doing, this dragging up of my worst fears. I don’t know what it’s doing to me. Maybe I’m looking for something – for someone – to keep me safe. To say that I’m safe, even if it’s not true.

  We tell ourselves stories, we stoke our fears, we keep them burning. For what? What do we expect to find there inside?

  What are we all doing to ourselves?

  Half Sick of Shadows

  Excalibur

  Camelot appears to them through a sudden drop in the trees. The black tips on the white towers. The rusting swoop of the roller coaster. The flap of a tattered flag. In the back seat, the little one clutches her rag doll tight with excitement, making its yellow wool ringlets jerk. The big one in the driver’s seat stops the car. The other big one in the passenger seat unclips her seat belt. There is one other vehicle in the enormous car park: a camper van, long-abandoned, its white sides mossed and rusty.

  They release the child locks. The little one clambers out of the car, leaving the two big ones in the front seat to talk. There’s plenty to hold her attention, as the car park is littered with toys: plastic soldiers, stuffed teddies, configurations of still-bright Lego blocks, a congregation of dolls. She forgets her own doll on the seat. The big ones have to speak quietly; the little one has left her door wide open, as if knowing to leave an escape route.

  The Sorcerer

  – It’s not so bad here, is it? It’s actually kind of nice.

  – If you squint. Or close your eyes entirely.

  – It’ll be fine inside. There are cosy places to rest, things to eat, plenty of other kids. It’s like a holiday for her. Kids love adventuring, self-sufficiency, making forts, all that Enid Blyton shit.

  – I’m not sure about this. Are we doing the right thing? Maybe if we just …

  – Come on, Scarlet, we agreed. You won’t care about this tomorrow.

  Towers of Fun

  The afternoon is already old. Dusty golden light stretches low across the car park, shadowing the stones. The little one patters back over to the car, her buckle shoes gleaming against the cracked asphalt. She holds a doll in one hand, snatched from the silent choir, its hair dirty but still prettily blonde underneath, its cheeks pink circles the size of thumbprints.

  She stands patiently at the driver’s side window until the two big ones notice her and abruptly stop their muttering. Their smiles stretch wide and painful and they make a performance of getting out of the car and locking the doors, for all the world as if they’re getting ready for a lovely day out, for all the world as if the theme park hasn’t been abandoned and forgotten for the past
ten years.

  They walk under the portcullis, arms swinging joyfully, the little one between them. The little one hesitates, hiding the doll behind her back. One of the big ones attempts to whistle a tune, but the notes quickly die. Without meaning to, they all tip back their heads as they pass the white towers of the castle, staring at the empty eyes of the windows.

  Dragon Flyer

  – What have you got there, my little lily?

  – A dolly, Daddy. Can I keep it?

  – Where did you get it?

  – On the ground when I got out of the car. There are lots of them.

  – Are you sure? You’re not telling a fib?

  – No, Daddy! I promise. It was just left there and nobody dropped it because nobody was there around, not for ages I think. Someone must have not wanted it any more.

  – Where’s your dolly?

  – I forgotted it in the car. I could get it when I get back though, couldn’t I, Daddy? Then I don’t need this one.

  – That’s okay, my willow. You keep that one.

  Knightmare

  Together, the three walk through the theme park, keeping to the ruptured paths where they can. The roller coaster looms and swoops above their heads, and the little one squawks to see it. She doesn’t ask to go on it; it’s unclear whether she knows that the carts have been rusted in place for years, or whether her own imagination is enough to take her on the ride.