Ghostly Stories

  Ghostly Stories

  Celia Fremlin

  Faber Stories

  Contents

  Title Page

  The Hated House

  The New House

  About Faber Stories

  About the Author

  Copyright

  The Hated House

  Now that she had it to herself, Lorna felt that she could almost enjoy hating her home so much. She flung her school coat and beret on to the sofa, dumped her satchel down in the middle of the floor, and watched with satisfaction as the books and papers spilled out over her mother’s spotless, well-vacuumed carpet. It was nice to be able to mess it up like that, without risk of reprimand. She gazed round the neat, firelit room with contempt. Hideous ornaments—houseplants, bric-à-brac of all kinds; and on either side of the fire those two neat, well upholstered armchairs were drawn up, for all the world as if a happily married couple habitually sat in them; a contented couple, smiling at each other across the hearth; not a couple like Lorna’s parents, wrangling, bickering, squabbling, the long evenings filled with temper or with tears …

  With slatternly, spread-eagled violence, Lorna flung herself into the nearest of the two chairs, sending it skidding and scratching under her weight across the polished wood surround.

  That was better! Lorna spread out the length of her legs untidily, in the luxurious abandonment of solitude: real, reliable, long-term solitude, a whole glorious evening of it, and a whole night to follow!

  Such a fuss there had been, about this simple business of leaving her alone in the house for a night! Just as if she had been a baby, instead of a young woman of nearly sixteen!

  “Be sure you bolt all the doors,” her mother had said, not once but fifty times: “Be sure you put the guard in front of the fire before you go to bed … Be sure you turn off the oven … Be sure you don’t answer the door to anyone you don’t know … Remember you can always go in to the Holdens if you feel in the least bit nervous …”

  Go in to the Holdens, indeed! Lorna would have died—yes, she would willingly have lain right here on the carpet with her throat cut—before she would run for help to that dreary Holden woman, both boring and sly, chatter chatter over the wall to Mummy about the problems of teenage daughters. Ugh!

  Ah, but this was the life! Lorna slid yet deeper and more luxuriously into the cushioned depths of the chair. Tea when she liked; supper when she liked; homework when she liked; music when she liked. Lorna’s eyes turned with lazy anticipation towards the pile of pop records stacked under the record player. Ah, the fuss there usually was over those records, with Mummy twittering in and out, trying to stop Daddy being annoyed by them … “Can’t you turn it down lower, dear? … Can’t you play them in the afternoons when Daddy’s not here? You know how it annoys him.”

  What Mummy didn’t realize was that actually it was quite fun annoying Daddy—a real roaring bellowing row instead of all these anxious twitterings! And afterwards Daddy would go on yelling at Mummy for hours, long after the records were finished and done with. And then next day Mummy would scuttle about with red eyes, polishing things, as if a tidy polished house was some sort of protection against quarrelling! Honestly, adults! That’s why I hate the smell of polish, thought Lorna, deliberately jolting the chair on its rusty castors back and forth across the polished boards, making deep dents and scratches in the wood. It’s misery-polish that Mummy puts on everything, it’s dishonesty-polish, trying to make this look like a happy home when it isn’t! It’s because she’s too cowardly, too much of a doormat, to stand up to Daddy’s tempers, so she tidies the house instead … I bet she’s tidied the kitchen even better than usual today, just because she’s nervous about leaving me alone! She thinks tidiness is a substitute for everything! Stirred by a flicker of resentful curiosity, and also by a mounting interest in the thought of tea, Lorna dragged herself from her luxurious position, and went to the kitchen to investigate.

  Yes, it was immaculate. Every surface scrubbed and shining; a delicious little dish of cold chicken and salad all ready for Lorna’s supper; and for her tea—just look! a big, expensive, once-in-a-lifetime meringue, bursting with cream! A treat! Another of Mummy’s pathetic attempts to provide Lorna with at least the shell of a happy home! Irritation fought in Lorna with eager appetite. Does she think I’m a baby, or something, who needs to be consoled for its Mummy being away? I love Mummy being away! I love it! I love it!—and with each “love” her teeth sank deeper into the rare, luscious thing; the cream spurted with bounteous prodigality across her cheeks, and she didn’t even have to wipe them, because she was alone. Alone, alone, alone: the nearest thing to Paradise.

  *

  Outside, the spring evening was fading. The sob and thrum of Lorna’s favourite records mingled first with a pink sunset light in the pale room; then with a pearly, silvery greyness against which the firelight glowed ever more orange and alive; and at last, curtains drawn, lamps switched on, coal piled recklessly into a roaring blaze, it was night; and still the records played on, over and over again. It was too lovely a time, this time of firelight and perfect solitude, to waste on anything less beautiful than the music which her parents hated so.

  It was nearly nine o’clock when the telephone began to ring. It began just as Lorna had settled herself cosily by the fire with her tray of chicken salad, new rolls, and a huge mug of boiling hot, sweet black coffee, whose deliciousness was enhanced by the fact that Mummy would have said: Don’t have it black, dear, not at this time of night, it’ll keep you awake.

  Damn! she thought, setting down the mug just in the middle of the first glorious sip. Damn! and then: Why don’t I just not answer it? Why don’t I ignore it? I bet it’ll just be Mummy, fussing about something. Yes, driving along those monotonous miles of motorway, she’ll have been thinking up some new things to fuss about: Have I latched the kitchen window? Have I brought the milk in off the step? Will I be sure and shut the spare room window if it rains? Fuss, fuss, fuss, an expensive long-distance fuss from a roadside callbox … I won’t answer, why should I? I’ll just let it ring, serve her right, teach her a lesson, show her I’m not a baby … Defiantly, Lorna raised the mug to her lips once more, and calmly, leisurely, she resumed her sipping.

  But how the telephone kept on! It was irritating, it was spoiling this solitary, delightful meal which she had planned to savour to the full. She laid down her knife and fork restlessly. Weren’t they ever going to ring off? How long do people go on ringing before they finally give up? … and just then, at last, with a despairing little hiccup, the telephone ceased ringing.

  Silence swung back into the room, and flooded Lorna with relief. She picked up her knife and fork once more, and prepared to recapture her interrupted bliss. Having a meal alone by the fire like this. Alone! The joy of it! No table-manners. No conversation. Just peace, delicious peace.

  But somehow it had all been spoiled. The slow, savoury mouthfuls tasted of almost nothing now; the new, favourite magazine propped against the coffee-pot could not hold her attention; and she was conscious of an odd tenseness, a waiting, listening unease in every nerve. She finished the meal without enjoyment, and as she carried the tray out to the kitchen the telephone began again.

  The shock was somehow extraordinary. Almost dropping the tray on to the kitchen table, Lorna turned and ran headlong back into the sitting-room slamming the door behind her as if that would somehow protect her from the imperious, nagging summons. All her sense of guilt and unease at not having answered before seemed to make it doubly impossible to answer now; and the longer she let it ring, the more impossible it became. Why should anybody ring so long, and so persistently? If it was Mummy, then surely she would have assumed by now that Lorna had gone in to the Holdens? Who
else could it be who would ring, and ring, and ring like this? Surely no one goes on ringing a number for ever? Oh, please God, make it stop!

  And at last, of course, it did stop; and again the silence filled her ears in a great flood, but this time there was no relief in it. She felt herself so tense, so tightly listening, it was almost as if she knew, deep in her knotted stomach, just what was going to happen next.

  It was a light, a very light footstep on the garden path that next caught at her hearing; lightly up the steps, and then a fumbling at the front door. Not a knock; not a ring; just a fumbling, as of someone trying to unlock the door; someone too weak, or too blind, to turn the key.

  “Be sure you bolt all the doors …” In her head Lorna seemed to hear these boring, familiar instructions not for the fiftieth time, but for the first … “Be sure you latch the kitchen window … Don’t answer the door to anyone you don’t know …”

  Lorna tiptoed out into the hall, and for a few moments she fancied that she must have imagined the sounds, for all was quiet. No shadowy silhouette could be seen looming against the frosted panels of the door, palely glittering in the light of the street lamp. But even as she stood there, the flap of the letter-box began to stir, slowly. Lorna was looking into an eye.

  A single eye, of course, as it would be if anyone is peering through a letter-box; and yet, irrationally, it was this singleness that shocked most, carrying one back, in an instant, beyond the civilized centuries, right back to the Cyclops, to the mad, mythical beginnings of mankind. Lorna began to scream.

  “Don’t be frightened,” came a voice from outside—a young voice, Lorna registered with gasping thankfulness and surprise. Why, it was a girl’s voice: a girl no older than herself by the sound of it! “Don’t be frightened, Lorna—but do please let me in!”

  Reassured completely by the sound of her own name, Lorna ran to the door and flung it open.

  “Oh, you did give me a fright—” she was beginning, but then stopped, puzzled. For though the girl standing there looked vaguely familiar, and was roughly her own age, Lorna did not know her. She had taken for granted, when she heard herself addressed by name, that she would be bound to recognize the speaker.

  “Hallo! I—that is, I’m awfully sorry, I’m sure I ought to know you—?” she began uncertainly.

  “It’s all right; I didn’t think you would recognize me at once,” answered the girl, stepping confidently into the hall, and looking round her. “I hope you don’t mind my coming out of the blue like this; but I used to live here, you see.”

  She was a forceful looking girl, Lorna could see now, standing there under the hall light; with strong black hair springing from a high, very white forehead, and her eyes were dark, and snapping bright; as if, thought Lorna, she had a quick temper and a quick wit, and very much a will of her own.

  “Oh, I see.” Lorna tried to collect her wits. This must be the daughter of the family who had lived here before Lorna’s family had moved in, seven or eight years ago. “Oh, I see—Fancy you remembering my name! Do come in—I expect you’d like to look at everything, see how it’s changed since you were here.” Already she felt that she was going to like this girl, who was looking round with such bright interest, and seemed so friendly. “I’ll show you my room first, shall I; I wonder if it was the same one you had? It’s the little back one that looks out on the garden.”

  By the time they had explored the house, Lorna felt as if she and this other girl had known each other for years. They seemed to have so much the same tastes, the same loves and hates; and as they sat over the fire afterwards, with a newly made pot of coffee between them, Lorna found herself confiding in her new friend all her troubles: Daddy’s tempers; Mummy’s doormat submission to him, her anxious, fussy housekeeping.

  “I wouldn’t mind,” she explained, “if Mummy was really a houseproud sort of person—if she really got any pleasure out of making the house look nice. But she doesn’t. She does it in a desperate sort of way. She clutters everything up with flowers, and hideous ornaments—”

  “—as if it was a substitute for making you and your father happy, you mean?” put in the other girl quickly. “You mean, since she can’t give you a happy home, she’s determined to give you a neat, clean one, full of things?”

  “That’s it! That’s it exactly!” cried Lorna. “How well you understand! But why such ugly things?” Her eyes swept the mantelpiece and the crowded corner cupboard. “It’s as if she collected ugly things on purpose.”

  “I don’t think so,” said the other girl quickly, glancing rapidly round the room. “They’re not actually ugly, you know—not each of them taken singly. It’s just that nobody loves them—your mother and father never chose any of them together, in a little dark shop, on holiday when they were enjoying themselves. I expect your mother bought them pretending it was like that when it wasn’t.”

  “Why, yes! I expect she did! That would be exactly like her!” cried Lorna, enchanted. Never had she found anyone before who could understand the way this girl understood. “That’s why I hate them so—”

  “So let’s smash them,” said the other girl, in the same quiet, thoughtful tones. “Let’s bash them to pieces on the marble fireplace there. Think how they’d crash and shatter!” There was a strange gleam in her dark eyes, and Lorna stared at her, for the first time uneasy. But she was joking—of course she was.

  “Wouldn’t I just love to!” Lorna gave a little laugh appropriate to such nonsense. “Have some more coffee?”

  “No. I mean it. Let’s! You hate them—you are right to hate them. Hateful things should be s-s-s-s-mashed!” And snatching a china shepherdess from the mantelpiece, the girl flung it with all her force into the grate.

  The splintering, shocking, unimaginable crash shocked Lorna speechless. “Stop!” she tried to cry as a teapot and two vases burst like spray across the hearthrug; and then, even as she gasped out her protests, something extraordinary began to seep into her soul. Shock, yes; but what was this joy, this exultation, this long pent-up anger, as crash followed crash and splinters of china rebounded across the room like hail?

  “Smash them! Smash them!” the girl was crying, her dark face alight with extraordinary joy. “Rip up the cushions! Tear down the curtains—they were sewn in misery, not in love, every stitch was stitched in misery!” With a great rending, ripping sigh, the curtains huddled to the floor; and by now both girls were upon them, ripping, tearing. A madness not her own was in Lorna now, and she too was tearing, smashing, hurling, in an ecstasy of shared destruction such as she had never dreamed.

  Dreamed? Was she dreaming, then? Was this the telephone waking her, ringing, ringing, ringing across the devastated room? This time, Lorna ran instantly to answer, snatched it from its hook and waited.

  Yes. Yes, this was the home of Mrs Mary Webster. Yes, I’m her daughter. No, I’m afraid my father is not in. You rang several times before? Oh. Yes what is it? What is it?

  An accident. My dear, I’m very, very sorry to have to tell you … an accident … your mother. Yes. Your mother … a lorry out of a side road … it must have been instantaneous … And a lot more, kindly, helpful, sympathetic, kind people on their way to Lorna right now. Lorna couldn’t really take it in.

  She was not surprised, when she went slowly back to the sitting-room, to find that her new friend was gone. She had known that she would be gone, for she knew, now, who it must have been. For who else was there who could have hated the room as Lorna hated it, and would have come back, at the last, to destroy it?

  And, after all, the destruction was not so very great; for a ghost, even using all its strength, is not strong as a living person is strong. A few things were broken, the curtains crumpled and awry; and as Lorna sat down among the mussed cushions she was crying: crying with happiness because she and her mother—her real mother, the one hidden beneath the doormat exterior for all these years—had understood each other at the last.

  The New House

  Look
ing back, I find it hard to say just when it was that I first began to feel anxious about my niece, Linda. No—anxious is not quite the right word, for of course I have been anxious about her many times during the ten years she has been in my care. You see, she has never been a robust girl, and when she first came to live with me, a nervous, delicate child of twelve, she seemed so frail that I really wondered sometimes if she would survive to grow up. However, I am happy to say that she grew stronger as the years passed, and I flatter myself that by gentle, common-sense handling and abundant affection I have turned her into as strong and healthy a young woman as she could ever have hoped to be. Stronger, I am sure, (though perhaps I shouldn’t say this) than she would have been if my poor sister had lived to bring her up.

  No, it was not anxiety about Linda’s health that had troubled me during the past weeks; nor was it simply a natural anxiety about the wisdom of her engagement to John Barlow. He seemed a pleasant enough young man, with his freckled, snub-nosed face and ginger hair. Though I have to admit I didn’t really take to him myself—he made me uneasy in some way I can’t describe. But I would not dream of allowing this queer prejudice of mine to stand in the way of the young couple—there is nothing I detest more than this sort of interference by the older generation.

  All the same, I must face the fact that it was only after I heard of their engagement that I began to experience any qualms of fear about Linda—those first tremors of a fear that was to grow and grow until it became an icy terror that never left me, day or night.

  I think it was in September that I first became aware of my uneasiness—a gusty September evening with autumn in the wind—in the trees—everywhere. I was cycling up the long gentle hill from the village after a particularly wearisome and inconclusive committee meeting of the Women’s Institute. I was tired—so tired that before I reached the turning into our lane I found myself getting off my bicycle to push it up the remainder of the slope—a thing I have never done before. For in spite of my fifty-four years I am a strong woman, and a busy one. I cycle everywhere, in all weathers, and it is rare indeed for me to feel tired, certainly the gentle incline between the village and our house had never troubled me before. But tonight, somehow, the bicycle might have been made of lead—I felt as if I had cycled fifteen miles instead of the bare one and a half from the village; and when I turned into the dripping lane, and the evening became almost night under the overhanging trees, I became aware not only of tiredness, but of an indefinable foreboding. The dampness and the autumn dusk seemed to have crept into my very soul, bringing their darkness with them.