Reasons for my Abscondence
11th November 1906
Dear Mrs. Dunne,
I feel I owe you an explanation for my sudden departure. I realise it may have come as quite a shock for you, and for that I can only apologise. I also wanted to put in writing my gratitude for the opportunity to come to Minsterfield House and to have some part in the education of Thomas and Geoffrey, your two handsome boys.
So as not to waste too much of your precious time, I shall begin to explain without formality. Forgive my brevity.
It was in only my third week at Minsterfield House that I was taking rest in my chambers. It was a cold week, if you remember, and I had been assisting Mr. Jackson with the delivery of wood for the fire. Despite the cold, it was a bright day, and I clearly remember opening the curtains in my bedroom before reclining on the bed and resting my eyes.
It can’t have been more than fifteen minutes before I opened them again, whereupon I had a strong sensation of someone’s eyes upon me. It sent a shiver down my spine, and, naturally, I looked this way and that and, as one might expect, I was quite alone in the room. But then, from the corner of my eye, in the looking glass that sat atop the old teak dresser, I caught sight of a figure. I turned my head to get a better look, so confused was I, and then it became clear to me that the figure was a woman.
I would age her at perhaps fifty years. She wore a stern expression—not one of malice, mind you—and she looked at me, her eyes remarkably still, unblinking. My natural reaction was to turn away from the mirror to the place where she stood, to enquire as to her presence there in my chamber. I felt quite faint to discover that there was nobody there. I closed my eyes at that point, feeling a little foolish, and certain that this was some overlap from a daydream that my quarter of an hour of rest had dug up. When I looked back to the mirror, however, there she remained, that same hard glare wrought across her grey features.
On this occasion I wasted no time in thought, immediately turning my head, yet once again there was no sign of her. I sat up, clasping my hands together—whether in prayer or by happy accident, I’m still not sure—and glanced back to the mirror. Once again she was present, but now she stepped forward. The thin lips of her mouth parted as if to speak, and I have no shame in telling you that I ran from my chambers and down the stairs.
In the weeks that followed, through a combination of my mind suppressing that most unsettling of experiences and being so caught up in getting to know your boys, I had almost forgotten the incident. But it was all to come flooding back.
I was preparing myself for bed late one night. It was after midnight, I believe. I had been selecting passages for Thomas and Geoffrey’s instruction the following morning. As I was washing at the basin in the bathroom on my landing, I heard a faint tune from the ground floor, below. I dried off my hands and slipped on my robe. Then I opened the door a crack and listened. I was quite certain it was the piano from the school room, where I taught the boys. I remember being surprised as Mr. Jackson, despite being a kind man, seemed a little too rustic to know much about musical instruments.
I crept down the stairs, not wishing to disturb his recital, and pressed my hand to the door of the schoolroom. I gave it a gentle shove, and it creaked open. The music continued to play, so I ventured inside and switched on one of the lamps. Yellow light bathed the old piano, its keys rising and falling in time with the intricacies of the melody that floated on the air. Yet nobody sat at the stool in front of the piano.
A voice came from behind me then, startling me. It was Mr. Jackson. I told him that I’d had no idea that it was a player piano. His expression was grave as he explained that it wasn’t. I tried to ask half a dozen questions at once and managed none of them, so Mr. Jackson led me to the staff dining room and poured us each a glass of his homemade damson wine. The liquor cleared my head, my thoughts no longer swimming as he explained to me about the origins of Minsterfield House; partially built, as it was, on the cemetery of the medieval minster that had stood there until the civil war.
He informed me far worse than phantom pianists had occupied the house when in the hands of the Blythes, before you and Mr Dunne bought the estate. The rector of the village church had banished the maleficent spirits and blessed the ground just before the turn of the century. For some reason though, the pianist, along with a few other anomalies, had remained.
Perhaps the alcohol had lubricated my tongue, but something made me speak out then, for the first time, about the visitor in my room. No sooner had I begun my description of the old woman than Mr. Jackson had completed it, down to the fine details of the woman’s attire, expression, and the neatness with which she had tied her hair into its bun.
I must confess to being a little shocked. I had prepared myself for a great many changes in life, moving from Southwold to the outskirts of London, but disembodied spirits of this nature had not been one of them. Mr. Jackson though, ever the pragmatist, had the words to calm me. He described some of the frightful events which had taken place prior to the blessing. Indeed, now that the only phantoms remaining were the placid old woman and the pianist, I had little to concern myself with. I agreed, thanked him for his time, and made my way to bed.
That conversation was months ago now. Very little in the way of ungodly activity had happened in the house since that night. I was beginning to feel at home among your family and had sparked up quite the friendship with one of the serving girls whose chambers were below mine. It is for this reason that I implore you to take me at my word when I say that I fully intended to remain at Minsterfield House until Thomas and Geoffrey were old enough to go on to grammar school, as we had originally agreed.
Indeed, the events that prompted my abscondence involved the boys, and that, more than anything, was why I felt I could stay no longer.
When you and Mr Dunne announced your trip to York to see Mr Dunne’s uncle last week, I was entirely unconcerned. Mrs. Jackson is a formidable housekeeper, and I had no doubt that the house would continue to function like a Swiss timepiece in your absence. On Monday morning, the boys arrived for lessons at the customary time. I coached them in arithmetic and handwriting, as always, and they worked with their usual blend of curiosity and diligence.
After their interval for milk and biscuits, Geoffrey produced a poem, which he’d written, from his pocket. I try to encourage the boys to write in their leisure time, so I was keen to hear it. I sat next to Thomas at the desk and Geoffrey took my place at the front. He began to read the poem—a quite beautiful piece about autumn—but was interrupted by a loud thump at the schoolroom door.
I told the boys they should ignore it and gestured for Geoffrey to continue, but the very instant he began to speak the sound came again. Someone was pounding at the door, more sustained this time. The boys were startled by the ferocity of it. I stood and strode over, furious that Mr. Jackson or one of the other staff would disturb us during lesson time. I reached for the handle and yanked it open. There was nothing there. The hallway was empty. Silence hung in the air, along with the savoury smell of roasting meat emanating from whatever the staff were preparing for lunch. I eased the door closed and returned to my seat. I asked Geoffrey if he would read again, and, fighting against his fear somewhat, he managed to recite his poem. Thomas and I both applauded when he had finished.
I looked over at the clock then, noticing it was almost eleven, and instructed the boys to take out their Latin grammar books. I had barely read them the first line of the chapter when the noise returned. This time the door warped inward with the force of each strike. I told the boys to close their books and remain seated. I paced to the door, fury colouring my cheeks.
I heaved the door open and there, before me, was a column of dense, black smoke. It spun and undulated, without seeming to disperse at all. Indeed, at either side, I could see uncorrupted air. At first I thought I was imagining it, until I looked back into the school room and saw Thomas’ eyes, wide with disbelief.
I warned them to stay away from the door—bellowed really—and then took a single step closer to the rotating column. I heard it then. A voice. But not any language I have ever encountered. Harsh consonants, smashed together into words that were unintelligible and yet somehow projected images into my mind. Profane images I do not dare to describe on these pages.
Without warning, the speed of the spinning increased, and I felt a force exerted upon me, pulling me in, closer to the smoke. Closer to the words, such as they were, and the God forsaken etchings they engraved in my imagination. I tried to scream, but no sound would come. I reached out with my right hand, my palm pushing through, into the whirling maelstrom, as though breaking through a liquid barrier. I was overcome with the heat of it. My hair stood on end, and my heart beat at double time in my chest.
At that moment, Mr. Jackson came in from the outhouse. He screamed my name and the pillar of smoke dispersed, seemingly into nothingness. He was beside me in two strides, taking my outstretched hand in both of his and looking it over. The burns to the skin must have looked dreadful, much as they do today, but I felt nothing at the time.
He asked me time and again if I was alright. All I could do was shake my head until I saw the grey morning light through the glass in the front door. Then I ran. I ran and didn’t stop until I reached the railway. I begged a gentleman there for my fare and boarded the first train for London.
I hope now that you know my story you can find it in your heart to forgive me. Please don’t try to look for me, as I’ve since taken a pseudonym. I shan’t be returning, and I encourage you to flee with your family, before it is too late.
Yours affectionately,
Elizabeth Wait
Kev Harrison
Kev Harrison is an English teacher and writer of dark fiction, living in Lisbon, Portugal. In the last twelve months he has had work published in the Below the Stairs: Tales from the Cellar anthology from Things in the Well, Terror Tree Press’ Mummy Knows Best and Two Eyes Open from Mackenzie Publishing, among others. He is currently putting the finishing touches to a supernatural horror novella and has a variety of short stories scheduled for publishing in anthologies and magazines this year.