cw: death
At least she isn’t the first one to find him. That makes a nice change.

Moss says he called while she was out. She’ll call back after supper. But work was hard today. She looks out the window; she shakes hot sauce onto stale bread; she falls asleep halfway through her sandwich.

Work is hard again. Still, she makes for the phone. “Get some food into you first,” says her brother. “I have work tonight.”

“Fine,” she defers. He gives her a sandwich. She looks out the window; she sits down on the good chair; she’s asleep before she can pick up her mealtime reading.

Something jolts her awake to a dark house. Moss is home, asleep. She calls back.

The call rings out. “I’d say everyone’s asleep,” says the operator. “Why don’t you call tomorrow?”

“Thank you, Miss,” she defers. She hangs up. She looks out the window; she puts away her periodicals; she leaves her sandwich by the sink for Moss. Her stomach hurts. Something’s wrong, something’s happened, something —— she stamps her foot. The sandwich plate rattles on the counter.

She calls again. “You don’t want to bother them,” the operator tells her, and won’t put her through.

“You’re right, Miss,” she defers. She hangs up. She looks out the window; she takes out her Burnett; she’s asleep after two random paragraphs.

The morning light is thin, the sun devoid of warmth. She knocks on the front door. (She always pounds on the front door, he says, as if she’s attempting to summon all the armies of — and this is his word — Hell. Well, rubbish.)

She knocks harder, to spite him. No armies of heck.

She looks up at the house. She looks around at the neighboring mansions. She’d bet that godda—— (she stomps down the porch steps) gosh-darned operator wouldn’t be so uncooperative if any of those neighbors were trying to, for example, call the cops on a woman of her complexion spending too long in the good part of town.

Good luck to them.

She circles around to the back. The kitchen door is locked. She follows the back porch to the corner and looks up. How’d she scale this so confidently back in the day? She hikes up her skirt, gets a handhold on the siding, and starts to climb.

That insipid morning sun is a lot hotter when you’re struggling up the side of a fancy house that wasn’t designed for climbing.

The attic is a long way up.

She sits down hard on the roof, scared her shaking legs will give way and send her tumbling. Her arms tremble, her heart pounds. (Still no armies of heck.)

The window’s ajar (that had better not be a matter of still — how many years has it been?). She tugs at it; the hinges protest; it swings open. She slides through.

Maybe the not-quite-closed window is a matter of still. Everything else in here looks the same. At least that means it’s not dusty.

She hears something.

It’s cold on the steep attic stairs. It’s cold in the room below. It’s cold in the corridor. It’s cold, exactly like it shouldn’t be, and the sound is dreadful and unceasing.

She stops in the doorway.

Well.

That’s why nobody was picking up.

“Get up,” she says (to William). He doesn’t; she reaches around him to perform the checks she needs to perform, to confirm what she really doesn’t need to confirm. The sunlight is margarine spread too thinly over their little tableau as she feels wrists, throat, chest, cheek.

“Get up,” she says (to whomever). Nobody does; she reaches an arm around William’s chest and pulls him to his feet, holds him half-upright at her side. The day has done nothing to warm the room. Even William is cold to the touch. Perhaps he’s a vampire.

She walks him to the bathroom. She finds a washcloth. She wets it; she wrings it out; she wipes his face. She finds a comb. He stares at nothing. She turns him around and runs the comb through his honey hair. She was so smitten with that hair, when they were kids. Knight’s hair. He’s pliant.

She doesn’t know where to sit him. She walks him to the landing. “Sit down,” she says. She settles him on the top step. He stays where he’s put, softly keening.

She finds another washcloth. She wets it; she wrings it out; she goes back to the chamber. Stray droplets from the cloth dampen the runner. She frowns at them.

The chamber is quiet. There’s something spilt across the floor. A meal, probably. What a mess, and such a waste, too. She frowns at it.

She stands by the bed. There are books on the nightstand: Conan Doyle, Stoker, Burnett. An empty glass. A crumpled handkerchief. Nobody ever tidies up around here, then? Do they want a maid, or something?

The sound of her own voice surprises her. She’s muttering to herself. She frowns at him. “Shut up,” she says. The cloth drips some more, onto the rug.

She sits on the edge of the mattress. She warms the washcloth between her hands. She wipes his wrists, throat, chest, cheek. She finds a comb while he stares at nothing. She supports his head and runs the comb through his stupid hair. How she’d coveted it, until he’d told her he was envious of hers. Very flattering, but his is still easier to comb. As you’d hope, he’s pliant.

Stray droplets from the damp cloth cling to those long lashes. What a waste, giving eyelashes like that to a boy. Then letting him go and die. She catches the droplets on one fingertip.

She sits on her hands. “I’m not sorry,” she says, or finds herself saying. “This is all your fault.”

She’ll take the silence as agreement. She says as much. This never fails to get a rise out of him, but today must be the exception. “The exception that proves the rule,” she says. It doesn’t sound like her voice. Perhaps she’s possessed.

She folds the washcloth. She gets to her feet. She picks up the glass but leaves the rest. “I’m not your maid,” she says. Chastened, he’s silent.

She steps past William. She takes the stairs two at a time. The kitchen is even colder than the rest of the house, but it smells warm. The air is sweet. There’s food cooling on the counter. Cooled, by this point. At least there’s no dishes in the sink. She washes the glass.

She’ll call work. She’ll call Moss. She’ll call that attorney. She’ll call an undertaker. She had a good reason not to call him back. She was tired. She washes the glass again. What are the odds on getting a cooperative operator? She dries the glass and puts it away. 

She stomps up the stairs. She kneels by William on the landing. He’s alive; he’s grieving; he’s wearing the ring. She exhales. There are things to do.

She gets up. She steps past him. There are things to do. The air is sweet. Her legs don’t work.

She sinks to the floor. She exhales, harder. Her lungs don’t work. Do anyone’s?

William’s shoulder is cold against her cheek. He’s a vampire, definitely.

His hand is shaking. She pushes at the ring. Work was hard.

Her cheek is wet against his shoulder. She was tired.

At least she wasn’t the first one to find him.

She exhales, exhales, all airless.

She’s possessed, definitely.

Well.

There are things to do.
***
She sees William, sometimes. She’d rather not. In his presence the air grows leaden with familiarity but still he’s out of reach. Those two always were off skating in their own world, somewhere away from everyone else’s; this feeling is amplified. William’s around town, but he’s not. And then he’s really not.

She doesn’t bother to say, “Get up.” So he doesn’t. She reaches around his chest to perform the checks they need her to perform, to confirm what nobody needs her to confirm. Rain forms in the mist. People scream, clamor, mill around.

She kneels by the other man. He’s alive; he’s bleeding; he’s wearing the ring. She breathes. Rain ribbons down around her. People shout, press closer, take photos.

Someone grabs her. “Get up,” they say.

So she does.
​​Eliza Bowen-Smyth is a linguist, wag, and irrepressible melancholiac. She lives with her author wife in Australia. Her writing often explores themes of detachment, interconnection, and succor.
header image: Festina Muhaxheri via Pexels