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Lost in Time

A Dead Diary

By Victoria TunneyPublished 7 years ago 21 min read
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They've started to notice. I have to hand it to them, it was quicker than the last family. Only today, I heard the father muttering that he must be going insane. After all, why would anyone leave car keys on top of a wardrobe? I can't help it, I like the way they jiggle when I shift them around the house. It's not like there's anything else I can do. The boy, Leon, is hardly around, college some place up north, but his sister Emily is my age and still living at home. I like watching Emily and her friends, with their make-overs and dress swapping, but I can never be a part of that. I can't leave the house either, so following her on a day-out into town is out of the question. All my friends grew old and died centuries ago. My family left the house not long after my accident, too many memories I suppose. Mother became so emotional, especially when she came across anything that was once mine, and Father, well, he became a volatile mess of the proud man he was. They tried for months, pretending that everything was fine and that they had grieved for their girl, but it never healed. God above, I took long enough to come to terms with where and what I was. In an eavesdropped conversation, 3 weeks after my funeral, I finally found out how I had died. Turned out that my fiance, Jimmy Fellon, the banker's son, had upturned the cart whilst bringing me home from town. He was running the horse down the embankment to my parent's farm when the wheel snagged, pitching me forward and straight under a galloping horse. I was apparently killed outright, which my unwilling informer pressed would be a comfort to my family. So only 8 months after they buried me, my parents sold up and headed east with my siblings for a new life far from the pain. The people I once knew stopped by a few times when the new family arrived but it got too depressing to see them growing older with each visit, or bringing their own families to the house after church, so I stopped watching.

The day that destroyed me was a Friday, around 15 years after I had shuffled from my mortal coil when Jimmy arrived at the house for dinner and to finalize a business agreement. I was so excited to finally see my Jimmy again, he had not called at the house since my wake, and I still clung to a silly hope that I had been his true love and that, by losing me, he would scorn the idea of ever marrying another woman. Oh, how wrong I was, the knock at the door rang like a klaxon and I rushed through the house to the lobby, completely oblivious to the trail of rustling drapes I left behind me. I rounded the banister and if I had had a heart, it would have stopped. There in the doorway stood Jimmy, with a simpering Jane-Ann Hosaen clutching his elbow. I had been close friends with her, even making her swear she would never steal Jimmy from me, sweet Mary how naive I was. I glanced at her hand and found a wedding band, delicate gold base and adorned with a single pearl, my engagement ring! A fury rose within me but never reached its peak, for they were followed by two darling boys, both dressed to match their parents and topped with mops of golden hair. My whole being filled with a sorrow I could only describe as a longing. They should have been mine, I should have been Mrs. Fellon and mother to those children who may well have been small models of their father. I retreated to what was once my room, curled into a ball on the empty floor, and wept. I had never wondered in my lifetime if the dead who linger can still feel pain, but now I knew, we could feel it even more keenly than the living. At least the breathers could act upon their emotions and remedy their grievances, I could not. How could I release my pain in a world where I no longer existed, where I was invisible and inaudible. I sat up, and almost unbidden, a scream burst forth from me which shattered the mirror still bolted to the wall and knocked stored knick-knacks from their shelves. I'm not proud of it now, but I found my release in wanton acts of violence and vandalism, raging around the house in the weeks following Jimmy's visit throwing objects at the living family and breaking anything that came under my gaze. Terrified, they finally fetched Pastor Raymond from his grotty little cottage to bless the house. The smug little man wandered the house chanting his drivel, looking all superior and constantly asking blaming questions of the family. He had the notion that they had committed some sin which had invited a demon into the home. It irked me, the way he looked down his nose at these poor people, and eventually, my old sense of justice regained control of me. So I redirected my new skills into launching small objects at the side of his head every time he sneered or glared at the family until finally, he understood the signs that it was not the family to blame. Raymond began to sweat then and audibly began racking his tiny brain for a solution. Then his face lit up and he called me out by name, demanding that I cease my destruction and leave the house. His reward was a large planter blown to pieces beside his right leg and the cowardly preacher tucked tail, begged the family to leave immediately, and ran out of the door like a skittish cat.

The house went quiet then, for years, as the family moved into town and told any prospective residents to steer clear. Jimmy even came back alone one evening, letting himself in via the kitchen door as he had in his youth. He came to my old room, sat on the floor and cried, professing that he was sorry I had died because of his stupidity and that I had never left his heart in the 20 years which had passed. I left him to it, I couldn't stomach the sight of him in that wretched state knowing that it was only for his own sake that he spoke. He must have sat there all night rambling on and on, apologizing for everything from my death to his wife to his sons. It made me laugh, how each freshly sobbed apology was punctuated by a plea for me to move on and be at peace. How little the living know. Moving on would not be so simple for me, I wasn't that I did not wish to, I simply did not know how. I had tried everything to leave this purgatory, from leaving heartfelt messages to my family that I was fine and had felt no pain, to even coming to terms with the fact that Jimmy had needed to move on with his life and have a family. I was perfectly at peace right where I was, but no magic door or shining tower of light had arrived to take me over to where I should have been. Light crept through the window shutters and I heard Jimmy compose himself, snuffling away the proof of a sleepless and tear-filled night. I followed him to the back door and he halted, taking one last look about the room and sighing. I don't know why I did it, but I reached out to him and placed my hand on his cheek in acceptance. His hand shot to his face and he smiled, for a moment looking like the young man I had loved. He nodded his goodbye to me and the house and left, gently latching the door behind him. I watched him disappear over the hill in the morning glow and I felt a strange sense of joy wash through me. He knew I held no ill will towards him, even if I hadn't passed on as he had begged me to do. Maybe the feeling came from giving him a sense of forgiveness, or from the realization that I could make myself known to the living in ways that didn't involve ravaging the house. Time passed slowly, and the dust and cobwebs gathered, coating everything in glittering silver. Boredom soon set in, and I began to regret how I had driven the last family out. It hadn't been a perfect situation but at least there had been noise. The silence was deafening, even to me. My only company was the family of rats who had taken up residence in the attic, gnawing their way through everything that had been stored up there. The little ones were sweet, fearless and inquisitive, but the adults still gave me the creeps. Yes, a spirit afraid of vermins, queer I know.

Eventually, once I had lost track of time, a woman came by and began discarding the junk and dust from the rooms. Shutters were flung open and windows slid up in their frames to let in the light and air. The dead can feel, and after so long in the dark, the sun and fresh breeze felt wonderful on me. It was like being released from a prison, even though I could not leave the building. Others arrived around mid-day and progress went apace, room after room was emptied, aired, and scrubbed, breathing new life into the house. I grew excited, a flurry of liveliness like this could only mean that someone was coming to reside in my house. The possibility of human company and an end to the rat infestation made me giddy. I even chipped in, launching small items from windows into waiting baskets and blankets whilst no-one was watching, and running my hand along shelves and fireplaces to sweep the dust away. I'd learned my lesson, the living get so scared by events they cannot explain. It made me feel useful, and a part of the team. I had missed having something to do and people to help. The day grew long and the living slowed down, pausing for a hastily made dinner and the shadows grew long across the garden. They congratulated each other on a job well done and, oddly, they all lined up before the front door and bowed to the house before heading back towards town. I could only reason this to be in thanks to me, for letting them in to clean without destroying everything. Maybe I had become a sort of local legend, or maybe Jimmy had gone home that day years ago and told the town that I still lived, in a manner, in the farmhouse over the hill. I didn't know, nor did I care, for suddenly I felt acknowledged and accepted. It felt nice, after what I could only reckon as 68 years since my passing, for the living to acknowledge me and my attachment to the house. I grinned and swept my arms inward, softly folding the double door at the front of my house. Laughter and astounded yelps surged through the small crowd of spectators. I could still hear their shocked babbling as they mounted the crest of the hill.

The following week, the new resident arrived. She was a lovely woman who came with carriages upon carriages of belongings. She gestured the moving crew to just unload and leave and shuffled her way into the lobby. I sat on the stairs, absently admiring her dress with its soft shimmer of blue and delicate silver embroidery. The door shut with a soft click and she turned to the stairs, looked straight at me and grinned. She introduced herself as Miriam and, as I peeled my jaw from the floor, explained that she had been born gifted with the ability to see and talk with the deceased. You could have knocked me over with a feather. So long alone and now a friend who would communicate with me. She was a lovely lady, soft spoken and kind. And she always appreciated the small helpful activities I undertook to make her feel welcome. I braved the attic and terrorized the rats so much that they scooped their young up and scurried away for a quieter life. I made a daily routine of ensuring the house was properly locked up at night; after all, a woman living alone outside of town was a target for less admirable characters. There were a few who tried over the years, all went screaming into the night when every door and window they opened slammed themselves shut on them, no matter how hard they tried to enter. It was fun, I'll admit, to watch the confused expressions slowly morph into fear. It served them right for trying to prey upon a helpless woman. We became good friends and no-one questioned her love of the house, it seemed that my display of helpfulness to the cleaners had quelled the myth that something nasty was haunting Gainsbrook Farm. Miriam would always lay me a place at the table, or place a cup and saucer on the sideboard, despite knowing I could neither eat or drink but it made me feel included in daily life. What hurt was watching the passage of time in her ever aging features, her once vibrant golden locks had turned gray and her face now bore the lines of a long life. She mentioned it to me once, as we sat in the parlor enjoying the evening light. She apologized that she had grown so old on me, and jokingly commented that she would still be as beautiful as me if she had died young. I laughed and reminded her of another day when she had told me that the dead choose the age they were at their happiest in life. She had only smiled and waved my response away, stating that it would be difficult for her to choose as all her years in this house had been happy. We lapsed into companionable silence and wiled the day away with trivial activities. I dwelled on her words, with so many happy years behind her, would Miriam stay or would she move on when the time came. Maybe it was why I was stuck here, I had died too young to have any experience of life. I pondered this for months until one day I noticed that Miriam had not risen with the skylarks as usual. I made my way to her room and passed through the door. Miriam still lay in bed, curled in a ball and shaking like a leaf under her covers. I could get no rational response from her, only mumbled gibberish and fevered groans. I panicked, I could not help her due to my own situation. It wasn't as though I could run and fetch the doctor from town and I didn't have the strength to haul the needed remedies from downstairs. I knelt by the bed, pleading and praying for her to recover, my hand passing through hers as I naively attempted to cling to her. It dragged out for days, and I never left her side for fear she may pass on without saying goodbye. Monday morning came and sunlight crept through the shutters. I gently stroked Miriam's hand, she had lost her ability to talk at all during the night and she stared blankly at me from under her limp eyelids. I'll never forget the way the life slowly slipped from her eyes and how her body sagged against the bed. A glow surrounded her corpse and the Miriam I recalled from 58 years prior sat up on the bed. Her laughter peeled like church bells in the hollow room. She stood and shook the creases from her glittering blue dress before turning to me, as she had all those years ago. She beamed at me, a reassurance that she was grateful for the little I had done to help and comfort her as her body had succumbed to illness and age. Yet there was a sadness in her eyes that told me she would not be staying, her journey was complete and now she would move on to wherever it is we were supposed to go. She approached me and gently touched my shoulder, telling me to be brave and that my turn would come. Tears clustered behind my eyes yet I smiled back, refusing to let her part in sorrow. She turned her face skywards, satisfied that I would be strong, and her form dimmed and dispersed like ashes from a fire thrown into a strong breeze. I stood there for what felt like an eternity, staring blindly into the empty space left behind, still gently clutching the hand of her remains. The sun had descended below the crest of the hill by the time I snapped out of my stupor. I sank to the floor and cried like a child. It felt like I had lost a mother, even though Miriam had not been much older than myself when she first came to the house. She had been a steadfast companion for nearly six decades, and now the house felt cold and vacant. I pulled the covers up over her body out of respect and crept downstairs, curling up in her armchair and sobbing the whole night through.

It was 4 weeks before Miriam's body was found, a paperboy from town raised the alarm when he reported back that not only had he not been paid by Miriam for a month but her papers for that time period were still on the porch and pathway where he had left them. The boys' employer and the town quack promptly rushed out to the house, eager to offer assistance to the poor old woman, only to find her body bloated and rotting in her bed. The poor boy was scolded for not mentioning sooner that something was amiss but I could understand why he had barely noticed. Miriam had never been one for the local gossip rags and would sometimes leave them piling up on the porch before bringing them in. Their only use to her was as kindling for the fireplaces. A crowd gathered outside the house as news returned to the town of Miriam's death, and anguished gasps and murmurs of revulsion echoed through them as Miriam was carried from the house wrapped in her bed sheets. From their reactions, I could only imagine the stench that rose on the summer breeze and impregnated their noses. The undertaker had been summoned, bringing his beautiful black horse-drawn hearse and a makeshift coffin for dear Miriam. Mr. Brooks had always liked Miriam, often calling in to see how she was doing or if she needed any help around the house. Miriam loved his baffled expression each time she declined and informed him that she had all the help she would ever need, sending him back to town with a peck on the cheek and warm smile. Now Mr. Brooks could finally be of service to Miriam, by transporting and burying her with all the respect and care she deserved. I stood at the open door and watched as Mr. Brooks and his assistants gently laid Miriam within the casket and loaded her into the hearse. Tears shone brightly in his eyes and he paused to look at the house. Others followed his gaze until the entire gathering stood in stunned silence, and I suddenly became aware that everyone was looking at me. A few of the women fainted, toppling over against husbands and sons, and many took a few involuntary steps backward as though struck by an invisible force. An old man came forth, graying and hunched but with steady steel-tinted eyes. He mounted the porch and struck his stick on the wood. As he began his tale, I realized who he was, or at least who he was born of. His tale spoke of an accident long ago and a young man who blamed himself for his lovers' death, and how after years of pain and guilt, her spirit had forgiven him. My god, how many years had passed, that Jimmy's grandson should be standing on my porch retelling my forgotten history, with me plain to see as proof. I stayed silent, answering his inquiries by mere gestures, and a soft smile answered Mr. Brooks entreaty to know if I had cared for Miriam in the end. As the old man finished his story, people from the crowd began to come to me, faces all wearing the same mask of wonder and fear. I kept my smile fixed and made no sudden movements and answered as many questions as I could, but the day was growing long and my poor Miriam still lay in the hearse unattended and unmourned. Eventually, Mr. Brooks reached for my hands, which was a useless task as his passed straight through my own, reminding the crowd of my condition, and he settled for a short and courteous thanks before barking orders for people to go home and allow me space to mourn.

I left every window open that night, a vain attempt to air out the house. I had forgotten how still the house was when only I wandered its rooms and corridors. I prayed I would not be alone too long, I did not think I could bear another endless loneliness. I was strangely mistaken, as the world beyond the windows altered rapidly in the years that followed. People came and left flowers on the porch with notes for myself and Miriam, the new paperboy took to posting his deliveries under the door so I could have something to read, and the great wall of trees slowly disappeared from around the house. Homes went up in their place and soon, my little farmhouse was surrounded by a bustling neighborhood. The news came about a great ocean liner sinking on its way to New York, a huge loss of life which shook the world, and soon after came murmurs of the wars in Europe. I kept agate with the changing world and time passed me by without much of a pause. Cars replaced the horses and carts, airplanes droned through the skies to far-off destinations, and the world outside grew noisy and bright. Yet I stayed in silence, despite the flowers still arriving on the porch and regardless of the papers slipped under the door, everything inside my four walls remained untouched. Everything was as Miriam and I had left it on the evening before her illness, 62 years before. I had never found the want or the will to change anything, content to stay within my time capsule and be lost in time. I knew deep down it would never last, that sooner or later, a new family would move in or my house would be demolished to make way for a building to match the neighboring homes. Thankfully, the former happened in 1976, when a young woman moved in with her two young children, and although it pained me to see Miriam's belongings finally leave the house I knew that they would be well looked after, as the new tenant had sold them to the local museum as antiques. They didn't stay long, however, between the trouble with the children's absent father and the children screaming to their mother at all hours about the lady in the house, the homeowner soon resold and left. That's when the current family arrived, hired movers unloading furniture and belonging into their assigned rooms the day before. How I loved the noise when they came, Emily was only around 11 years old and she was a darling. Whilst I'm not sure if she ever saw me in those early years, she did name her imaginary friend Josephine and described her to her mother as a young woman in a white lacey dress. Leon went through his phases, as all boys do and he reminded me so much of my own brother, all bluster, and confidence. The mother, Kerry, was a down-to-earth lady with a love for bringing laughter to any situation and the father, Thom, was a man modeled after my own father, hardworking and proud. I did my best to make them welcome, I wanted them to stay forever.

So here I am, 5 years later, happy to help around the house and satisfied to watch little Emily growing into a fine young woman. Maybe it isn't so bad being here, stuck in this house. And maybe Miriam was right, my time may well come soon. But for now, I'll carry on as I have, playing with the ornaments and jangly keys and pretending to involve myself in Emily's teenage years. Who knows, if I'm still here by the time they leave, the next resident might be another Miriam...

fantasy
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About the Creator

Victoria Tunney

I love writing short fictions, especially horror, fantasy, and historical fiction. Previously published in The Last Line literary journal 2016 with 'Witchlight' and The Last Line literary journal 2017 with 'Faded Memories'

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