Ghostly Stories Page 3

  As I stood there, bewildered and shaken, the telephone rang indoors. It was Linda, and she sounded tense, distraught.

  “Auntie, will you do something for me? Will you come with me to the house tonight, and stay there while I do the painting and—and sort of keep watch for me? I expect you’ll think it’s silly but I know there was somebody there last night—and I’m frightened. Will you come, Auntie?”

  There could be only one answer. I got through my day’s work as fast as I could, and by six o’clock I was waiting for Linda on the steps of her office. As we hurried through the darkening streets, Linda was apologetic and anxious.

  “I know it’s awfully silly, Auntie, but John’s still working late, and he doesn’t even know if he’ll finish in time to come and fetch me. I feel scared there without him. And the upstairs lights won’t go on again—John hasn’t had time to see the electricity people about it yet—and it’s so dark and lonely. Do you think someone really was there last night, Auntie?”

  I didn’t tell her about the mud on my bicycle. There seemed no point in alarming her further. Besides, what was there to tell? There was no reason to suppose it had any connection …

  “Watch out, Auntie, it’s terribly muddy along this bit where the builders have been.”

  I stared down at the thick yellow clay already clinging heavily to my shoes; and straight in front of us, among a cluster of partially finished red brick houses, stood Linda’s future home. It stared at us with its little empty windows out of the October dusk. A light breeze rose, but stirred nothing in that wilderness of mud, raw brickwork and scaffolding. Linda and I hesitated, looked at each other.

  “Come on,” I said, and a minute later we were in the empty house.

  We arranged that she should settle down to her painting in the downstairs front room just as if she was alone, and I was to sit on the stairs, near the top, where I could command a view of both upstairs and down. If anyone should come in, by either front or back door, I should see them before they could reach Linda.

  It was very quiet as I sat there in the darkness. The light streamed out of the downstairs room where Linda was working, and I could see her through the open door, with her back to me, just as she had been in my dream. How like poor Angela she was, with her pale hair and her white, fragile neck! She was working steadily now, absorbed, confident; reassured, I suppose, by my presence in the house. As I sat, I could feel the step of the stair behind me pressing a little into my spine—a strangely familiar pressure. My whole pose indeed seemed familiar—every muscle seemed to fall into place, as if by long practice, as I sat there, half leaning against the banisters, staring down into the glare of light.

  And then, suddenly, I knew. I knew who it was who had cycled in black hatred through the rainy darkness and the yellow mud. I knew who had waited here, night after night, watching Linda as a cat watches a mouse. I knew what was the horror closing in even now on this poor, fragile child—on this sickly, puny brat who had kept my lovely, sturdy children from coming into the world; the sons and daughters I could have given Richard, tall and strong—the children he should have had—the children I could have borne him.

  I was creeping downstairs now, on tiptoe, in my stockinged feet, with a light, almost prancing movement, yet silent as a shadow. I could see my hands, clutching in front of me like a lobster’s claws, itching for the feel of her white neck. At the foot of the stairs now … At the door of the room, and still she worked on, her back to me, oblivious. I tried to cry out, to warn her. “She’s coming, Linda!” I tried to scream; “I can see her hands clawing behind you!” But no sound came from my drawn-back lips, no sound from my swift, light feet.

  Then, just as in my dream, there were footsteps through the house, quick and loud; a man’s foot-steps, hurrying—running—rushing. Rushing to save Linda; to save us both.

  About Faber Stories

  Faber Stories, a landmark series of gem-like volumes, presents masters of the short-story form at work in a range of genres and styles. From precious rediscoveries to gender-playful fictions, fabular futurism to uncanny imaginings, there are stories by a new generation of Faber authors alongside Faber classics. Bringing together past, present and future in our ninetieth year, Faber Stories is a celebratory compendium of collectable work.

  Robert Aickman: The Inner Room

  Brian Aldiss: Three Types of Solitude

  Djuna Barnes: The Lydia Steptoe Stories

  Samuel Beckett: Dante and the Lobster

  Alan Bennett: The Shielding of Mrs Forbes

  Anna Burns: Mostly Hero

  Vikram Chandra: Shanti

  Juno Diaz: A Cheater’s Guide to Love

  Celia Fremlin: Ghostly Stories

  Petina Gappah: An Elegy for Easterly

  Sarah Hall: Mrs Fox

  Kazuo Ishiguro: Come Rain or Come Shine

  P. D. James: The Victim

  Thom Jones: Sonny Liston Was a Friend of Mine

  James Joyce: Giacomo Joyce

  Claire Keegan: The Forester’s Daughter

  Barbara Kingsolver: Homeland

  Milan Kundera: Let the Old Dead Make Room for the Young Dead

  Hanif Kureishi: My Son the Fanatic

  John McGahern: The Country Funeral

  David Means: A River in Egypt

  Lorrie Moore: Terrific Mother

  Marianne Moore: Fairy Tales

  Edna O’Brien: Paradise

  Flannery O’Connor: A Good Man Is Hard to Find

  Julia O’Faolain: Daughters of Passion

  Sylvia Plath: Mary Ventura and the Ninth Kingdom

  Sally Rooney: Mr Salary

  Akhil Sharma: Cosmopolitan

  Adrian Tomine: Intruders

  About the Author

  Celia Fremlin (1914–2009) was born in Kent. Her first published novel of suspense was The Hours Before Dawn (1958), which went on to win the Mystery Writers of America’s Edgar Award for Best Novel in 1960. Over the next thirty-five years Fremlin published a further eighteen titles.

  Copyright

  First published in this single edition in 2019

  by Faber & Faber Ltd

  Bloomsbury House

  74–77 Great Russell Street

  London WC1B 3DA

  The Hated House © 1970 The Literary Estate of Celia Fremlin The New House © 1968 The Literary Estate of Celia Fremlin

  This ebook edition first published in 2019

  All rights reserved

  © Celia Fremlin, 1968

  Series design by Faber

  Cover illustration © Faber

  The right of Celia Fremlin to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly

  ISBN 978–0–571–35685–0

 

 

  Celia Fremlin, Ghostly Stories

 

 

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