Half Life

by Heather Atkinson

  HALF LIFE

  Why does my life have to be continuously disrupted? Admittedly it’s a half life but it’s all mine nevertheless.

  Why do these awful people keep tramping through my house, filling it with their tasteless articles and letting their brats run about, scuffing the polished floorboards? The last lot had been a loud obnoxious family, overweight and tasteless. Well I soon saw them off. They’d cleared out quick smart when I’d made my displeasure known. I designed Briar House myself exactly one hundred and thirty one years ago. It’s an elegant five bedroomed detached cottage with its own private beach. I’ve had it to myself for a blissful few months but now it’s happening again. Strange men are bringing strange furniture into my house. It’s so damn rude it makes my blood boil.

  One of the sweaty removal men carefully puts a footstool down in a corner of the sitting room, well out of harm’s way. When he leaves I place it right in the doorway. That will teach them all to invade my space without my permission.

  When one of the men returns carrying a box he trips over the stool and the box falls from his hands, sending the contents scattering across the floor.

  Alerted by the noise, the rest of the men race into the room and an argument breaks out. Eventually the leader calms things down, the dropped items are retrieved, some of which are broken and they all return to the task. I enjoy toying with them, tugging at their overalls and hair and enveloping them in coldness. They get more and more anxious and keep looking around fearfully until they’re practically running in and out of the house dumping items unceremoniously, the big girls.

  The sound of one of those moving metal beasts draws my attention to the window. I look outside to see a woman clamber out. This must be the new owner. I decide to wait behind the door to give her a nasty surprise, let her know who she’s dealing with straight away.

  She steps inside and I prepare to shove her backwards but when I find myself staring into the saddest pair of hazel eyes I can no longer find the will to do the deed. I saw much grief and tragedy in my real life, which still haunts me even now and I see the same pain reflected here. Those eyes fix on me and for one terrible moment I think I’ve been seen but that’s not possible, not unless I will it. Then one of the burly removal men steps forward looking rather sheepish and begins to talk, gesturing at the items that broke; a vase and a couple of photograph frames. Fury joins the pain etched on her face and she starts to shout. The big man wilts beneath the anger of this slender woman with the big sad eyes and long light brown hair.

  The big man placates her with soft words and eventually she calms down. While they continue with their work she scoops up one of the broken photograph frames and retreats upstairs. Curious, I follow.

  She goes up to the master bedroom that I used to sleep in every night, so long ago. This causes me to frown.

  “Trespasser,” I hiss quietly.

  Startled by the sound she looks up but seeing nothing she shrugs and perches on the edge of the bed the removal men put there and pulls a white wicker bin towards her. Gingerly she picks the broken glass out of the photograph frame and drops it into the bin. A sliver of glass bites into her skin and after removing it she sucks the tip of her finger.

  Tentatively I take a step into the room to try and sneak a peek at the photograph. It shows her with a strong looking man with dark blond hair and sly blue eyes. I don’t like him on sight. Clearly he believes he is God’s gift. In the photograph his arm is wrapped around her and her eyes are full of laughter. I watch as she scowls at the image of the man then dumps the whole lot in the bin, frame and all. Tears stand out in her eyes and she wipes them away angrily before heading back downstairs. Just before I follow I glance at the set of double doors leading out onto the balcony, the scene of my death and I shiver.

  Downstairs the removal men have finished so she pays them and thankfully they depart. She seems relieved to be alone. I follow her like a curious puppy into the kitchen where she prepares herself a sandwich and a large glass of white wine before settling down in front of the large black square box, which I’ve recently learnt is called a television. Whereas the previous residents stared at it compulsively she hardly sees it as she chews her sandwich absently. She takes just a couple of mouthfuls before putting it aside and picks up the wine instead. Depression and rage hang about her like a shroud, enveloping her in black folds and I know she has suffered. Normally I choose this moment, just when the new arrivals are starting to relax to begin my torments. I usually go upstairs and start banging about and moving things around. The sooner they get scared the sooner they leave but I simply can’t find it in myself to start torturing this poor creature who is clearly anguished. I’m not malicious, I don’t enjoy upsetting people. I just want my house to myself.

  After finishing off the glass of wine she falls asleep on the couch. The glass slips from her fingers and I catch it before it hits the floor and return it safely to the kitchen.

  I regard her sleeping form from the doorway. She looks so serene in sleep, the frown smoothing out to reveal a very pretty face. I decide to give her some peace and quiet for one night.

  She begins to writhe in her sleep, clearly in the grip of a nightmare and I kneel beside her and put a hand to her forehead. Instantly the murmuring stops and she sinks into oblivion. It’s so long since I’ve had physical contact with any living thing, other than when I’m prodding or poking someone in an effort to scare them but that isn’t my intention now. She feels warm but that is no surprise because I am constantly cold. It is so soothing I stay by her side for hours. I wonder what her name is? Something delicate and feminine, perhaps a flower? Rose or Lily, or maybe even Primrose? I dismiss the latter as too twee.

  The sun comes up but she sleeps on and on. When I judge it to be mid morning there is a knock at the front door. She sits bolt upright, startling me and I retreat to the kitchen doorway to watch as she staggers to the door bleary-eyed and hair tousled. She pulls it open to reveal a woman of her own age with blond hair and gaudily painted lips clutching a pot plant.

  “Sally,” she smiles, embracing the visitor.

  I wait for Sally to say her name back but she doesn’t.

  “Did I wake you?”

  “Yeah, I fell asleep on the couch last night,” she yawns, stretching. “Come on in.”

  Sally steps inside and holds out the plant. “I got you this as a moving-in present.”

  “Thanks,” she says, accepting it. “Brew?”

  “Coffee please.”

  While she goes into the kitchen clutching the plant, Sally wanders around the living room, examining it.

  “So how are you settling in?” calls Sally.

  “Fine,” the trespasser calls back. “The idiot removal men dropped a box and broke a few things but other than that the move went smoothly.”

  I can see her pouring hot water into the mugs. Although her tone is cheerful her face is tight with pain.

  “Any regrets?”

  “No. I just had to get away from the city,” she says as she returns to the sitting room clutching two steaming mugs. She places them on the coffee table before the couch and sits beside Sally. Dammit I’ve learnt the friend’s name but not hers.

  “So you feel better being here in the country?” says Sally.

  “Much better. I need the peace and quiet.”

  “Did you see Michael before you left?”

  Her eyes sweep down to her hands, the pain in them intensifying. “Oh yes, he took the opportunity to gloat.”

  “It’s outrageous the way he’s treated you and he’s got away with it. There must be some law against it?”

  “I’ve fought him through the courts and lost. Everyone at work backed him up, they were frightened of losing their jobs too. He’s made way for his y
ounger model and I just have to live with that.”

  “So you lost your home, fiancé and job while he gets everything. It’s so wrong,” seethes Sally.

  So that’s what happened. This Michael, who I take to be the blond man in the photograph pushed her out of her old life. Small wonder she’s angry.

  “So what are you going to do now?” says Sally, sinking back into the couch with her cup of coffee.

  “I’m taking some time out to try and put myself back together. I can afford a few months off work.”

  “But what work will you do? The only newspaper around here is the local one, all coffee mornings and jumble sales. Hardly cutting edge reporting.”

  “I’ve spent my entire life concentrating on my career and look where its got me? I’m thirty six and I sleep alone every night and live off takeaways. Maybe it’s time I concentrated on other areas of my life?”

  “There’s even fewer men around here than jobs. They’re either over seventy or married.”

  “I don’t necessarily mean a man. I might join some of the local groups and I can do other things. I worked in pubs and shops to put myself through university.”

  Sally looks horrified. “Just eight months ago you were reporting from Afghanistan. You’ve worked in war zones, you’ve interviewed politicians, royalty and decorated soldiers. I don’t think you’d be very fulfilled pulling pints in the Lamb and Flag.”

  “Something will come up.”

  “I’m sure it will. You look better than the last time I saw you.”

  “Maybe that’s because I got a full night’s sleep last night for the first time in months.”

  Sally looks incredulous. “You slept well here, in the most haunted house in the village?”

  “I’ve seen no evidence of that,” she replies sceptically. “In fact there’s a really nice feeling to this house. I fell asleep on the couch and I felt safe and almost…cared for.”

  “So nothing weird has happened then?”

  “Sorry to disappoint but nothing at all. The removal man who dropped a box of my things tried to make out that he tripped over a footstool that had mysteriously moved on its own but I think he was just trying to make an excuse for his clumsiness. I gave him what for, I can tell you.”

  “I bet you did,” smiles Sally. “But do you know the full story behind this place?”

  “You mentioned something about the man who built this house, Thomas Galbraith was it?”

  My eyes narrow at the mention of my name.

  Sally nods eagerly, clearly excited about relating my sorry tale. “He belonged to a very wealthy family and built this place when he inherited his fortune. He was an architect and he designed it himself.”

  “He had excellent taste.”

  I can’t help but smile at the praise.

  “He was very successful,” continues Sally. “Then his life was tragically cut short when he fell from the balcony leading off the master bedroom. It was a very nasty end because back then there were a set of wrought iron spikes beneath it They‘ve been removed now.”

  I close my eyes as I’m rocked on my feet at the memory of those spikes rushing up to meet me. I open my eyes and push the memory aside, forcing myself to concentrate on their words.

  “Nasty,” grimaces the woman with the sad eyes.

  “Very. On top of that no one knows how it happened. He was alone in the house so he wasn’t pushed, he’d just married the love of his life and his career was flourishing, neither did he have any money troubles so there was no reason for him to kill himself. The inquest at the time ruled he must have had a dizzy spell or something and fallen. The family wanted it wrapped up quickly so no one could talk about suicide.”

  I scowl at the painted woman. What a lot of rot.

  “Anyway,” she continues, “it’s rumoured that with his last breath he swore to avenge himself on anyone who bought the house and to haunt them to their dying day,” she ends with relish.

  I laugh and shake my head.

  Her friend appears unmoved. “I thought you said he was alone here when he died. So how could anyone know what his last words were?”

  Sally looks flummoxed. “Errm…”

  “And I think someone who’d just landed on a set of metal spikes would be too busy being dead or in agony to bother cursing someone he didn’t even know.”

  “Alright, that’s just the legend,” she pouts.

  “You don’t half talk a load of crap sometimes Sally,” she smiles fondly.

  I soften towards this trespasser. At last someone with a brain in their head.

  “Okay forget about the curse,” says Sally. “But this place is definitely haunted.”

  “Yeah, alright,” she scoffs.

  “I know you don’t believe in that sort of thing but the last six owners have been frightened off.”

  “Then they were idiots.”

  I smile and nod in agreement.

  “Most of them were professionals too,” continues Sally, undaunted. “One was even a respected surgeon and certainly not the sort of man to succumb to superstition. He said he could hear footsteps slowly walking up the stairs at night. Then they would stop outside the master bedroom and there would a be a knock on the door. When the door was opened there would be no one there.”

  “This is an old house full of creaks and groans. They all probably let their imaginations run away with them.”

  “Then how do you explain the vicious prods and hair pulling and a man’s voice telling them to get out?”

  “Hysteria.”

  “Oh please,” huffs Sally. “If you don’t believe me then take a look at this,” she says, pulling a pile of newspaper cuttings and photographs from her reticule and dumping them in the trespasser’s lap.

  The first photograph was of myself, taken barely a year before I died. It’s very dull and dour and I despise it. I was always tall and slender but this photograph makes me look positively gaunt. The poor lighting in the photographer’s studio turned my thick sandy coloured hair grey and excellent bone structure and prominent cheekbones into a death’s head. I wonder if it was a sign of things to come.

  “Is this Thomas?”

  “It is,” replies Sally.

  “Cute. I wouldn’t mind being haunted by him.”

  I haven’t blushed in a hundred and thirty one years but now I feel my cheeks heat.

  “You know I don’t believe in all this rubbish,” says the trespasser. “I believe in cold hard facts, things you can see and touch, not ghostly architects.”

  “But these are facts, they’ve been printed in a newspaper,” says Sally, pointing to one of the clippings.

  “Oh yes,” says the trespasser derisively, picking up the paper to read. “Miss Marguerita Swirls says Briar House is haunted by the restless poltergeist of a man tormented by his untimely mysterious death and pining for his lost love. That’s a real gem of investigative journalism, asking the local loony about a haunted house.”

  “Marguerita is not a loony, in fact she’s a very gifted psychic who says Thomas Galbraith is still here.”

  The trespasser’s eyes fill with a delightful mischief. “Let’s call him then shall we? Thomas? Thomas Galbraith, are you here?”

  Sally looks horrified. “Stop that right now. It’s dangerous.”

  I scowl again. Why wont the stupid woman say her name?

  The trespasser laughs. “No it’s not because there’s only the two of us here Sally.”

  “You shouldn’t play with dark forces.”

  The trespasser saw she’d upset her friend. “I’m sorry but I really don’t believe in any of this. I’m happy here, I like this house. Let’s just leave it at that.”

  Sally smiles. “Okay.”

  “Another brew?”

  “Please.”

  While the trespasser collects the mugs and heads back into the kitchen I feel a rising anger towards Sally. Why can’t she call her friend by her name?

  “Say her name,” I snap impatiently. “Say he
r name.”

  In my anger I knock a small wooden cat off a shelf and it lands on the hardwood floor with a bang. Sally’s reaction is extreme to say the least.

  “Kate,” she screams. “Kate.”

  “At last,” I sigh. Not a flower at all but something soft and feminine and no nonsense, like Kate herself.

  “What is it?” says Kate, racing into the room.

  Sally frantically gestures at the cat on the floor. “That just flew off the shelf of its own accord. See, I told you.”

  Kate picks up the offending item and frowns. She is stood so close to me that I could reach out and touch her. I admit I’m tempted. I raise my arm but she moves away to study the shelf the cat had fallen from.

  “The shelf’s probably not level,” says Kate, replacing the object. “It must have slid off. I’ve got a spirit level, or would you find that too scary?” she grins.

  “I can’t believe you’re not taking this seriously,” says Sally, gathering up her things.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Away from here.”

  “Sally, calm down.”

  “I’ll be calm when I’m out of this house, it freaks me out.” As she pulls the door open she pauses in the doorway. “You’ll see I’m right, one day.”

  Then she leaves, slamming the door shut behind her and I’m glad the monstrous woman has gone. Kate sighs and shakes her head before picking up her cup of tea and heading upstairs. I follow then hastily retreat back downstairs when she starts stripping off for a bath. Its been a long time since I’ve seen a beautiful woman naked but I refuse to become a peeping Tom, so to speak. I pause. Is she beautiful? I haven’t thought of anyone this way since I died but yes, I suppose she is.

  I wait in the sitting room until she returns downstairs wrapped in a robe and hair loose and damp. After making herself another cup of tea she curls back up on the sofa. Now her friend has left all her bravado has disappeared. She looks so melancholy again I decide I’ll begin my campaign to drive her out tomorrow.

  I occupy myself by strolling through the house, examining the new furniture. There isn’t much of it, just the bare essentials, as though she’d been in a hurry to leave her old life behind. Or perhaps she doesn’t want to be reminded of it.