Juliana Fuller had just turned thirty when she ran her hands over the ornamented leaf decoration at the base of the wide staircase in Beaconsfield, Buckinghamshire; white chalk dust covered her hands and she wiped them with a tissue she pulled from her tweed jacket pocket. Climbing the bare wooden stairs, she listened to the gentle creak as her feet steadily moved up the staircase. On the first landing she stopped and stared at the gloomy shadows cast by the tall banisters on the worn blue carpet. She hadn’t imagined the house would be hers and now it was, no one could tell her to leave, no one could take it away from her. She’d spent her life depending on other people to help her financially, but now that wasn’t the case. She owned something; there was a feeling of freedom with this thought.
The faces of ancestors from old portraits looked down on her from the walls on the landing as she passed, their expressions appeared stern and critical; she wondered why very few of them smiled. Perhaps that was just the way they took photographs in the past, she thought, still, their watchful eyes unnerved her, as a child she’d always found these photographs intimidating.
She continued climbing the stairs to the second floor. It was here in the middle of the house facing west, that she found the strangest room of all; the one the solicitor had spoken about, her Grandmother had always called this the sacred room. She stood for a moment on the precipice tentatively, unsure of herself. As a child she had been given strict instructions never to enter this room. The door groaned as she pushed it open as if it were warning her not to enter.
Inside the room she inhaled an overpowering putrid scent of flowers long dead. She flicked the light on. A pale light illuminated the hushed room. She stared at the antique table adorned with a gleaming gold bowl and overflowing with decaying mouldy fruit. On the right hand side by some candles was a gold necklace. She picked it up; it felt weighty and cold in her hands. On the other side of the room on a bookcase stood miniature photographs in silver frames of her ancestors, they seemed to be arranged in a neat precise order. Some of them she recognized. Her aunt’s photograph depicted her as she had been in youth; she looked at the top row, her Grandmother and Grandfather as well as her parents who had died last year in a car accident. And there at the bottom was a photograph of her Grandmother. Had she placed her own photograph here? Had she already known that her time was up? More offerings had been placed in small delicate china bowls: rings and chains, pretty trinkets and vibrant gemstones. She wondered what the purpose was. The air felt thick as if a misty thick fog was sweeping over everything and pressing against her chest. She closed her eyes momentarily steadying herself and gently touched her face, it felt clammy and cold. What was wrong with her? She leaned against the wall for a moment and caught her breath. She had to get out of this room.
A door downstairs slammed shut. She could hear someone moving around in the living room two floors below. She took one swift last look around the room then closed the door and hurried downstairs.
“Miss Fuller, are you alright?” The solicitor greeted her as she rushed into the room. She smiled, realising her cheeks were flushed.
Mr Sampson was a short tubby man with a receding hairline and squinting eyes, he reminded her of chubby friendly badger.
“Fine. I just felt a little faint for a moment.”
He took her arm and drew her to the green velvet couch. She slumped into seat willingly suddenly aware of how tired she was.
“Thank you for agreeing to bring the documents here.” She said.
“No problem. It was a long drive for you, no wonder you feel ill. I must say it’s quite a house isn’t it. It has both character and grace.”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“You found the room we talked about upstairs?”
She leaned back further into the couch and smoothed her skirt. “I don’t understand why my Grandmother created such a room.”
He placed his leather briefcase by the side of the armchair and sat down opposite her. “Your Grandmother was an eccentric woman Juliana, but she was also half-chinese you must remember that. She spent part of her childhood in China with her relatives. Coming back to England wasn’t easy for her, people in that age frowned on mixed race relationships even now it’s not always seen as a good union. In the will she says you must abide by her instructions for the room. She believed that the spirits of ancestors would be angry if the room were changed.”
“Yes I know, I read her letter.”
He smiled. “Don’t let it worry you.”
“I don’t recall ever seeing that room, she always kept it locked. I sneaked inside once as a child but I was scolded and never went back.” She laughed lightly.
Mr Sampson smiled. “Families all of their strange quirks Juliana, in my years as a family solicitor you’d be amazed at some of the things I’ve seen. It’s up to you what you do with the room. Although it is stated as a wish in the will by your Grandmother, there is nothing anyone can do to enforce it.”
Juliana didn’t know what to say, she reflected on what he’d said. It wouldn’t be a hardship keeping the room the way her Grandmother had wanted it, after all she had to respect her Grandmothers requests. She had left her this house and she was grateful. She decided she’d clean the room tomorrow but not change anything in it.
“I’ll sign the papers now.” She said.
He rifled through the briefcase and took out some paperwork. He passed the documents to her one by one. She read them carefully before signing them. She stared at his round friendly face and realised she did not want him to leave. After he’d gone she’d be alone here, the thought intimidated her; it was a big rambling house. She’d spent the last five years in a small apartment with Edward in Manchester.
“If you need anything else give me a call. I believe your fiancé is here tomorrow” He said, standing up.
She straightened up. “Yes he should be arriving in the morning. Thank you for all your help.” She said, shaking his hand.
She walked him to the door and watched him climb into his battleship grey Porsche. He waved as he drove out through the open iron gates. She stepped outside her flat shoes crunching on the gravel pathway. She pulled the heavy metal gates closed and locked them. Now she was alone. Just her and the house, she thought.
Back inside she stared around the spacious living room; the wallpaper was an elegant restrained jacquard blue. An oak writing bureau with a pile of antique books leaned against the wall, on the mantelpiece stood an empty bottle of Chablis next to an ornate beehive clock that ticked softly. Her gaze moved to the ceiling and she stared at the dusty waterfall cutglass chandelier with its timeless elegance that drew your eyes to it. White stained glass windows in the living room doors featured an intricate triangular shape; in the centre, a deep red and blue oval. White shafts of light steamed through the white glass into the living room.
She stood up and stepped to the writing bureau lifting a couple of the books. One was very old. She flicked it open and breathed in the musty smell of age; the pages were lightly sprinkled with minute specks of dirt. She read the title out loud. “Animism.”
A strange name, she thought.
The steady hypnotic tapping of dripping water from the corner of the ceiling caught her attention. She found a bowl in the kitchen cupboard and placed it under the drips; the sound changed and became tinnier. It sounded like the drips were playing to the beat of a silent song. She’d have to get someone in to see to it. There were two couches. The green velvet one she’d been seated on, and the two seated Chesterfield leather couch on the other side of the room. The windows were wide and tall, the curtains a pallid yellow that hung from ceiling to ground.
Her eyes moved back to the book. The word animism, she read, derives from the Latin word anima, meaning soul or breath. In animism the world is filled with spirit. She found it interesting but could not understand why her Grandmother had a book on this subject. She wanted to read more, but right now she was tired. She had driven five hours with a car full of belongings from Manchester. She needed to rest.
Upstairs she showered, tugging the pea-green shower curtain across the bath. She let the water wash over her body and face, scrubbing with the bar of soap she’d brought with her. It smelt lemony and refreshing. She’d chosen a bedroom on the first floor. It was one she’d stayed in when she visited her Grandmother in the past. The bed had a bright purple silk bedspread and matching pillow cases. She slipped out of her dressing gown and climbed naked under the soft covers. A heavy tiredness began to seep through her body. She snuggled down to sleep.
She wasn’t sure what had awoken her at first, but she could hear a scratching noise coming from somewhere in the house. She sat up in bed, suddenly alert. Pushing the covers away she switched on the bedside lamp and stared around the room. The noise was frantic, scratch, scratch, scratch like an animal desperate to escape its confines. She shrugged on her dressing gown, cautiously opened the bedroom door and stepped into the hallway. She had a vision of herself as a little girl in long white socks and a flowery print skirt. She’d spent many hours in this house running through these rooms. She stood by the staircase listening. The sound was coming from the second floor.
She slowly climbed the stairs.
Outside the sacred room she could hear the sound emanating from behind the door. It was even louder here, what kind of animal could make a sound like this? She wondered. Her hand trembled on the doorknob. She remembered long ago standing here outside the door listening. Taking a deep breath she flung the door wide open. The sound stopped dead. The room was eerily silent. Her eyes darted around the room. Nothing. But she felt something here, although there was no name she could put to it. It felt like something unwholesome, something that should not exist. As soon as these thoughts passed through her mind she laughed nervously. Shivering, she hurried out.
Back in her bedroom she caught her reflection in the tall standing mirror. Her face looked ashen; her blue eyes startled. She didn’t look like her ancestors in the photographs. Her jet black hair and contrasting green eyes didn’t match the blonde hair of most of her relatives. But their blood flowed through hers; their unique genetics were part of her. Her state of mind was unnerved and for a fraction of time she thought perhaps she’d not be able to pull herself together.
The next morning she woke to the piercing sound of the doorbell. Downstairs Edward waited for her at the front door. He bounded past her holding his suitcase.
He dropped the case in the hallway, turning to look at her for the first time properly.
“I had to park the car on the street.” He announced with mounting irritation.
“Sorry I’ll unlock the gates in a moment.” She replied.
He stood in the middle of the hallway hands tucked deep into his beige trouser pockets. He wore a loose white shirt; his brown hair looked as ruffled and unkempt as usual.
“So this is the family home. It’s very pleasant, a beautiful house. It could do with some work but we’ll have it restored to its finery in no time.” He said.
She didn’t answer him as he strolled into the living room. He’s making himself comfortable here, she thought. Somehow the thought made her feel uneasy. Often she felt more content when he was away. She knew that this wasn’t a good thought. Still it was the truth.
She picked up the keys for the gate on the hook in the hallway; outside she unlocked the gates and pulled them wide open.
Back inside she heard him shout. “I could do with a drink Jules.”
“Okay.” She moved to the kitchen and switched on the kettle. She wouldn’t tell him about the room. He was a practical man, a man who’d never been emotional. He’d only say she was being over imaginative. Sometimes she wondered why they were together but she knew the answer of course. There union had been an arrangement, no different than religious arranged marriages.
Pouring his coffee she placed it on the kitchen table.
She pulled out one of the wooden kitchen chairs and collapsed into it, her head felt heavy with exhaustion.
After a few minutes Edward hurried into the kitchen. “This house definitely needs plastering and painting.”
“Yes.” She agreed.
“So what do you think about your inheritance?”
She smiled faintly. “Good.” She said, desperately trying to hide her lack of enthusiasm. She’d slept listlessly after she’d heard the noise in the night.
“I thought I’d take a good look around the house and the gardens in a moment and assess the amount of work that needs doing.”
She nodded. “I’ll start unpacking my suitcases I was too tired to do it last night.”
He carried her cases upstairs, dropped them on the bed and left the room. He was a building surveyor, so buildings were his forte. She hoped he could come up with some economical ways to fix the repairs, as the little savings she had were dwindling.
She unzipped the suitcase and took out the jumpers and shirts folding them neatly she placed them in the dresser drawers, after she’d packed everything she decided to have a bath.
Letting her body sink into the water, she rested her head against a fluffy towel. The steam from the hot water penetrated her muscles unloosening them; she leaned back letting the steam unknot all the tension from her body. She wiped her eyes and looked at the mirror above the sink, and it was then that she saw it. It was a strange shape that had appeared in the steam. She stood up abruptly and climbed out of the bath. She looked at the symbol in the steam and ran her finger across its contours, water slid in droplets down her small hand. It was oval with two circles joined together. She’d seen it before in the book she’d found downstairs.
She dried herself and dressed quickly. Downstairs she spied Edward through the windows in the garden. He stood tall and slim with one hand on his hip gauging the garden with quick alert eyes.
She picked up the book she’d found the night before and sat on the leather couch flicking through the pages heatedly.
Animism she read was the belief that supernatural beings or souls inhabit objects and people; at death the soul was free to wander or enter the world of spirits. The spirits of ancestors participate in the daily live of family members. Not honouring them could have severe consequences. If there had been a terrible crime in the past she read practising animism could change the fate of the family members. It all sounded so archaic, people believed they could use the spirits of dead ancestors to create a happier existence for those left, sometimes the practise was even used to eliminate sickness in families.
At that moment Edward burst into the room, he was holding a plant in his hands.
“Hellebarous Niger, it’s the only living thing out there and it’s in a pot. Everything else is dried and dead, even the grass has no green left in it, most strange.”
She stared at the plant.
“What are you reading?” He asked.
She quickly told him about the book and the symbol in the bathroom, she couldn’t keep it a secret anymore. He put the potted plant down on the coffee table and flopped onto the couch with her, leaning back he stretched his arms over the sides of the couch.
“It all sounds primitive, but you must remember your Grandmother was probably going senile in her old age Jules.”
“But what if she really believed in all this?”
“What does it matter now?” He shrugged arrogantly.
She realised she hadn’t asked him what he thought of the house. “I’m just worried, something doesn’t feel right here.”
“Jules believe me the spirits of ancestors are not haunting this house.” He laughed out loud; it was his usual haughty arrogant laugh, the one she hated.
She didn’t reply. Gently she put the book down on the arm of the couch and pursed her lips. “I wish you wouldn’t laugh at me like that.”
He rolled his eyes and leaned over rubbing her arm roughly. “Look Jules, I’m sorry for being insensitive but you have nothing to worry about. The symbol in the bathroom seemed sinister but it was just a shape. You could imagine all sorts of macabre elements to simple things in life.”
She stared into his amused eyes and felt deflated and decided to abandon the topic. It would do no good trying to change his mind; Edward had to be the one who was right most of the time.
“What about the house?” She asked. “Do you have any ideas for repairs?”
“We are going to need about twenty thousand pounds for repairs. The roof needs some work a few new tiles at least. The attic is filled with boxes of stuff you’ll need to throw out. You have a bad damp problem up there that will need sorting out; it’s probably spread to other parts of the house.”
She sighed, running a deft hand through her black hair.
“I’m starving, I thought I’d go and pick us up a takeaway for dinner.” He said.
“Okay.” She said.
She watched him leave. “Put the car in the driveway.” She yelled after him.
After he’d shut the front door she picked up the book again. It said that at death the soul would have three choices, to wander near the grave, to travel the earth or to enter the world of spirits. The spirits of the ancestors participated in the daily lives of family members. Neglecting to honour them has severe consequences. Souls of the departed who did not live fulfilled lives or died tragic deaths become ghosts. Ghosts search for bodies to inhabit and often to inflict pain.
What kind of pain, she wondered. It was interesting but also creepy.
She wondered what was in the attic in the boxes Edward had mentioned, she’d like to take a look now but she’d have to wait.
That evening they ate an Indian takeaway and she listened to him talk about a new house he was working on in London. She nodded in all the appropriate places but noticed that her mind was not really on the conversation.
At bed time she slipped under the covers waiting for him to get in bed. He fell asleep in the first five minutes. She stared around the darkened room staring at the patches of pale light on the ceiling that were shining through gaps in the curtains; she could see tree branches moving gently across the ceiling like strange creatures with long probing fingers. She stared at them mesmerised, watching them change and mutate. She remembered a game she’d played as a child, making shapes in the light with her hands, she would pretend to be a character and sometimes have two animals talking to each other.
She closed her eyes and fell into a deep sleep.
At two in the morning she heard it, that scratching sound. She turned over and gently pushed Edward trying to wake him.
“What is it?” He said.
“Can’t you hear it?” She asked.
He sat up in bed and listened. “Rats.” He said.
“Rats. Is that what you think it is? I heard the same noise last night? It’s coming from a room upstairs.”
Edward climbed out of bed. “I’ll go and check it out.”
“I’m going with you.” She said.
They both climbed to the second floor and stood outside the door of the shrine. Sure enough they could hear the scratching sound, it was frenzied. Edward swung the door open and stared into the room. The noise had stopped. He stared at the rotten fruit in the bowl.
“Well that’s your answer.” He said pointing at the bowl. “Rats, they must have found an opening. He bent down to examine the skirting boards and pointed to a big hole in the wall. You see nothing macabre just animals. I’ll seal it in the morning. “
“Okay.” She said.
“This is one weird room Jules you need to clear this room out.”
“But my Grandmother wanted me to keep it the way it is.”
He grabbed her by the shoulders and stared into her eyes. “Jules you cannot keep a creepy room like this, it has to go.”
She sighed but didn’t say anything else.
Back in bed she listened for any other sounds, but there were none.
The next day after he’d left for work she stood back in the room and looked around. She stared at the sealed hole he’d filled in early this morning. Picking up the bowl of rotten fruit she took it downstairs. In the kitchen she scrubbed it clean and dried it, without thinking she had already opened the fridge and taken out some fruit dropping into the bowl. She laughed at herself but returned the bowl to its rightful place.
It was time to visit the attic, she thought.
She lowered the attic stairs down, they squeaked as they collapsed open. She pushed open the hatch; dust blew into her face making her cough for a moment. She squeezed her eyes shut tight feeling sharp dust sting her eyes making them watery. Climbing into the room she stared above at the big wooden beams, she breathed in an intense stagnant smell of mould. She could see mildew dusting the huge beams. In the right hand corner was an old rolled up carpet, a few broken picture frames, a wooden chest full of old toys and piles of old boxes. She was glad she’d put on some old jeans and a sweatshirt. She stood by the wooden chest and took out a doll with golden curls, it made a mama cry as she held it. Its face was filthy; she gently wiped the dirt from its eyes as they flicked open and stared at her in surprise. An old teddy bear with stuffing overflowing from its chest stared at her with a haughty expression. She picked it up and smiled; she could take these toys downstairs and clean them up. She put them in a pile by the hatch.
She carefully opened a box on the floor and she pulled out some large black and white photographs of a young beautiful Chinese woman, her great grandmother, she had a sad-smile and gentle oriental dark eyes. She was wearing a white Chinese silk dress with tiny white flowers. She ran her fingers over the picture. “Life wasn’t easy for you either.” She murmured. Her candid eyes stared at the other photographs of her Great Grandmother; she was hugging a kitten in her hands sat in the living room downstairs.
She remember all the stories about Jiao, how hard she’d found it on her return to England, the appalling way she’d been treated as an outcast by her own people and by her husband’s English family, her Great Grandfather. Her life had been desperately hard and at thirty-four years old they’d found her hanging from one of the beams in this very house. She’d waited until the early hours of the morning before she’d killed herself. That was the day Jiao had become a secret. All the photographs had been hidden for a long time. It wasn’t just the fact she was Asian although that was part of it, she had committed a sin in the families by committing suicide. Only her daughter, Juliana’s grandmother Alice had kept up any of the Asian traditions. The rest of the family had distanced themselves from anything Asian as if it were something dirty that could never be mentioned.
Once when she was small, a cousin had shouted ‘Chink’ at her in the garden. Everyone had looked at her; she was the only one in the family with the jet black hair. She remembered how she’d flushed with embarrassment.
If her parents had not died, this house would belong to them now. It had only been through their death that this house had come to her. She’d never really found a true connection with her parents, although she’d tried hard. They were strict authoritarians with very little time for their children. She took some of the photographs of Jiao from the box and placed them neatly by the hatch opening, she wanted to get frames for them. Why should they be hidden up here in the attic, forgotten? The thought angered her.
“I won’t forget you Jiao.” She spoke out aloud.
A bang sounded behind her; she jumped almost dropping the photograph in her hands. It was too dark too see into that corner easily, she lifted the torch she’d brought with her and shined it into the space, watching the corner light up magically. A box had fallen open. She stepped towards it and lifted it up, inside was a leather notebook. She flipped it open and stared at the Chinese writing inside. She couldn’t read Chinese. She took it and gently placed it into the box of photographs and toys and carried them downstairs.
She spent the afternoon shopping for frames and at home she hung a photograph of her Grandmother in the living room. She also placed at photograph of her holding a kitten on the ancestry wall.
Edward came home late that evening; she’d fallen asleep on the couch.
“Client problems.” He said flinging his laptop bag across the floor.
Edward could have a vicious temper at times; she’d spent the last eight years putting up with his severe mood swings. I am not in the mood for one of his episodes tonight, she thought.
“I’m sorry you’ve had a hard day.” She spoke softly. “Would you like a coffee?”
He slammed his hand down on the coffee table. “Hard would hardly describe it Jules.”
“Sorry.”
He stared at the teddy bear and doll on the couch. “What on earth are those filthy things?”
She watched as he picked them up and flung them across the floor.
“What the hell would you know about a bad day. You sit here in this house without any pressures or worries talking about spirits.” His voice was rising.
She closed her eyes for a moment and felt her heart pounding as it always did when he lost his temper.
“Edward I know you are feeling bad but I’m not in the mood for an argument.”
He reached over and grabbed her arm pinching it hard. “You know sometimes you can be a real bitch did you know that, a useless bitch.”
“You’re hurting me.”
He slapped her across the face. She felt the harsh sting warming her cheek.
She knew it would only get worse but at that moment there was a crash in the hallway. She hurried towards the sound, one of the ancestor photographs had fallen on the floor. She picked it up gently. It was the photograph of her Great Grandfather. How odd, she thought, staring at his face. He had cold eyes, like Edward, she thought suddenly.
“I’m going to bed.” Edward announced, pushing past her. “Don’t disturb me you, know how I hate my sleep being disturbed.”
She watched him going up the stairs relieved; she’d sleep in her Grandmother’s room tonight. At times she wondered why she had never told people about the mental abuse she put up with; she’d always kept it a secret. The problem was the embarrassment factor. How do you explain to people why you put up with a situation? It was better to keep quiet about such things. People would only ask why she hadn’t left. What they didn’t understand was her situation had meant it was impossible to leave. Now things were different, she looked around the house with pride. Perhaps she’d thought that moving here would quieten Edwards’s moods. But she could see that was never going to happen. What she needed was the strength to leave him, but she didn’t feel she could do it on her own. She would have to build her strength piece by piece.
It happened gradually; at first she didn’t pay attention to it. But after a week she realised she was spending more and more time in the sacred room on the second floor of the house. Often she’d take a book up there and read in the silent room. She felt safe there, at peace somehow. She’d hung her Great Grandmother’s picture from the wall of the sacred room. Underneath Jiao’s picture she put a small bowl of offerings, her gold cross necklace, and two diamond rings given her by an aunty. She’d never had any interest in jewellery.
It wasn’t long after this that she began to notice changes. She took an interest in the history of China; she began to read books about the Chinese language. At night she struggled to sleep next to Edward, sometimes she woke and saw a black moving shadow in the room; it flitted very fast, from one side of the room to the other. That very night she woke up feverish and found it surrounding it surrounding her, she didn’t know whether she was dreaming or not. But it felt real. Her mouth was open and she felt something moving down her throat and woke up choking.
She continued to read the book on animism.
It stated that one should never offer any gifts to an ancestor that has become a ghost. It said that doing this would give them the strength to return to the world and enter and control the lives of the descendents. Ghosts, she thought. To become a ghost one had to die tragically like Jiao. She’d now integrated Jiao into the family shrine. She laughed at herself, the idea was ridiculous.
She began to tie her hair in a different way, tying it up and sweeping it from her face. She chose a new coloured lipstick a deep red that she began to wear every day. Edward was becoming more and more aggressive. Things were just as bad as they’d always been; sometimes she couldn’t bear to look at him. He ranted abuse at her at every given moment. He poked fun at her and called her unattractive. She had little confidence because of his meanness. To Edward she was something he owned, it was plain and simple. She was no different than his car or his stereo. He owned her and no one else would.
Once when she’d discussed them having a separation, he’d become even more violent.
“Who is going to want you?” He’d asked.
“I don’t need anyone.” She’d said.
“Well that’s good because no one would want you.”
She’d tried to reason with him. “Look this isn’t working out I’m not happy.”
“Oh you’re not happy how sad. Well I’m not going anywhere so you better get used to that.” He’d said smugly.
She’d decided not to push it with him.
On a Friday lunchtime she’d made an appointment with a Chinese translator called Ethan Pickering. She’d agreed to pay him for an hour of his time if he could translate her notebook piece by piece. He was waiting in the French restaurant for her. A frail smartly dressed elderly man with white hair, his hand sometimes shook as he held the book. He began to read the diary.
“She is very distressed. This was your great-Grandmother?”
“Yes.”
“She says she doesn’t like being different but knows she is. She feels isolated and alone and cannot find anyone in her husband’s family to talk to” He paused for a moment and carried on reading silently.
“What is it?” She asked.
“She says without her children she would be lost. She says that she has been thinking of leaving, of taking the children back to China with her. But her husband has refused. She doesn’t know what to do but she feels she is running out of time. The situation at home is becoming intolerable.”
He carried on talking about Jiao’s feelings, and the more he talked the more she could see Jiao speaking next to him as if she were sat at the table. All that pain, all that sadness and fear. Jiao hadn’t deserved that life, but then neither had she? Life did not pick and choose in fairness. Sometimes it was just a case of survival for some. She thanked Mr Pickering and slipped the notebook back into her bag.
Edward was waiting in the living room when she returned home.
“You’re late.” He stated. His face was flushed in anger.
“Yes.”
“Where have you been?”
She put her bag down.
He came up behind her and tugged her hair pulling her head back. “You know I don’t like you to go wandering without telling me.” He said.
She screeched in pain as he pulled hard on her hair.
And it was then that she felt it, a strange feeling as if something was moving inside her, under her skin and flesh. Someone else was inside her. Someone or something. She could feel it shifting and moving although when she looked at her arms and hands she could see nothing. She felt an incredible strength fill up inside her. She took hold of his hand and twisted it back. Even though she knew it was her hand touching his, it was not her that was physically doing it. She had become a mechanical doll for something else breathing inside her, another energy, a spirit. She pushed Edward up against the wall.
Edward’s face was contorted in rage. She moved out the way as he flung himself towards her. He fell into the table and hit his head hard. She watched as the blood spilled from his forehead on the floor. But she felt nothing, nothing at all. That was the scariest thing. She stood there completely still, watching everything as if it were on a cinema screen. As if we’re not really happening to her in this room.
He had stopped moving, but she made no move to go towards him. Instead she went to the kitchen and poured herself a coffee from the decanter and began to drink, her hands trembled. He would wake up sooner or later and that would be the end of her, unless she did something now. Phone the police, she thought, she knew that was the logical answer. But she didn’t do this. She stood there strangely calm and stepped upstairs to the sacred room.
There she could feel the presence. It was stronger than ever. Instinctively she knew it was Jiao’s ghost. Bringing her back into the house and offering her spirit gifts had brought Jiao’s spirit out into the open. She hadn’t deserted her children and killed herself she realised. Jiao’s husband, her great Grandfather had killed her and made it look like a suicide. She didn’t know how she knew this, she just did.
“That’s what happened isn’t it?” She spoke aloud.
Jiao’s picture crashed to the ground.
“I don’t know what to do?” she said.
She felt the presence moving inside her body again. She opened the door and climbed down the stairs. She could see Edward twitching, he was beginning to move.
“You’re going to pay bitch.” He shouted.
She looked down at her hands and realised she was holding the heavy gold bowl from the sacred room, the family shrine. She stood above Edward and brought the bowl crashing down on his head over and over again. Blood and brain tissue spattered everywhere. She stared in shock at his body finally stopped moving and became deathly still. She grabbed his arms and pulled them, the ghost was much stronger than any man. She dragged him outside easily. She lifted him without a struggle and pushed him into his own car. She closed the car door and drove to a deserted area out of town. It was pitch black outside. She hauled the body from the car and onto the wasteland and dumped it. She took a rag from the back of the car and cleaned the steering wheel and gearbox.
Back home she scrubbed the blood with a strong detergent and water. She kneeled on the floor cleaning as hard as she could, a few hours later the room looked immaculate. But the rug he’d fallen on would have to go. She took it outside in the garden and burned it along with her clothes.
She felt the spirit move from her body, she took a deep breath of air as it left her. Upstairs she showered and changed.
She could feel Jiao’s presence all around her now. She accepted the ghost as part of her, part of the house. She wasn’t scared. The scratching in the sacred room stopped that very night. Detectives visited numerous times questioning her, they looked around the house but when she jested lightly about them thinking she was the killer, the head detective only shook his head and smiled.
“No woman could have carried a man’s body and dropped it where we found it.”
After three months the visits finally petered out, she was told they’d blamed it on some of Edward’s shadier deals that he’d made after work hours. He also had numerous gambling debts.
Every few days she cleaned the family shrine and took offerings and gifts including candy. She lit the candles in the family shrine and prayed for her relatives and ancestors hoping they would bring her future happiness. She slept better than she ever had. Animism had become a strong feature of her life and she wasn’t afraid of it, in fact she welcomed it. And Jiao seemed content to roam the house in her ghostly form, sometimes she’d hear her pacing on the floorboards above in the attic, moving around. Perhaps even a ghost can find peace, she thought.
She didn’t look for a relationship; men had always let her down in one way or another through the years. She’d never really been loved in her life. Men had spoken of love to her now and again but none of them ever came through when it mattered. Their words seemed like empty promises. Perhaps through the practise of animism she’d find someone to share her life with. She was patient. She had time.