Room of Secrets Wayne Summers Originally published in Issue XVII of Vulgata, October 2007.

Arthur Longmore, tall and pale, appeared through the thick fog like a spectre. Well-dressed for the crisp morning and carrying nothing more than a battered valise, he made his way along the lamp-lit cobblestones of Haring Street, stopping before the white wooden door of number thirty-five.

From the fob pocket in his waistcoat he extracted a shiny, new fob watch and glanced at the time. It was eight-thirty and slightly too early to be calling upon a person he was meeting for only the second time. He looked up once again at the door, then turned and looked up and down the deserted street. The fog made it impossible for him to see anything more than a metre away, so with nothing more to do while he waited, he sat down on the steps and occupied his mind with whatever stray thought entered it. Though it wasn’t long before the cold air infiltrated his heavy overcoat and he had to wrap his arms around himself and hunch forward to keep warm.

Behind him, at one of the windows, the face of a woman in her mid-fifties peered through the curtains. Her face was rather plain and had about it a subtle sternness due to unfortunately thin lips and a permanent crease between her two hedge-like eyebrows. Her hair was up, as was the style of the day, and a cameo sat uncomfortably at her flabby throat, a thing of beauty lost completely in the plainness of its surroundings.

In the time it took her to move from the drawing room to the front door she had managed to create a smile of sorts which revealed yellowing teeth and a distinct lack of talent in the skill. Nevertheless, she greeted Arthur with a warm hello and the offer of a freshly lit fire to warm himself by.

“Why thank you Mrs Collins,” he said taking off his hat and performing a small bow. “That’s very kind of you indeed.”

Edith Collins had met Arthur two days previously, after he had responded to her advertisement for a lodger. Arthur had only recently arrived in London from Leeds. He had accepted a position at a sizeable printing and publishing firm, but aside from cheap hotels, he had nowhere to stay. It seems he had stumbled upon Edith’s advertisement at just the right time.

The interview had been brief but productive. Edith liked the fact that she would once again, after many long years, have a man around the house and Arthur appreciated having a place, albeit a bed in an attic, to call his own.

After a steaming hot cup of tea and a thorough revision of the house rules, Edith escorted Arthur up the two flights of stairs to the attic bedroom.

“This is your room. It hasn’t changed since the last time you were here,” she said with an amused snort. “Now put your bag down and I’ll show you the bathroom.”

Arthur did as he was instructed and followed Edith to a small room to the left of his bedroom. Inside there was a small stove with a large copper kettle sitting in readiness upon it, an adequate tin bath and a white enamel chamber pot.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to take care of that yourself,” she informed him, noticing Arthur's eyes had found the pot sitting in the corner. “You’ll find the lavatory out the back, behind the clothes line.”

Arthur nodded silently.

“Right then,” Edith announced. “I’ll leave you to it. If you need anything just come down and I’ll see what I can do. Remember, lunch is at precisely twelve o’clock and dinner at precisely six. I’m not a woman who demands much from life, but I do demand good manners and punctuality.”

“As well you should. And I must thank you here and now for your generosity, kind lady,” smiled Arthur, as charming as the devil himself.

Edith blushed and didn’t quite know where to look. Arthur could tell his words had been a treat for her ears. On the face of things, one could easily be forgiven for assuming that this woman wouldn’t ordinarily be exposed to such compliments and the evidence at hand would support such an opinion. But Arthur only had first impressions to go by and felt sure that time would reveal a different side to Mrs Edith Collins.

“Call me Edith,” she invited him, regaining her composure. “And remember, twelve o’clock sharp.”

With a rustle of satin she turned and left Arthur standing on the landing, watching as she disappeared down the staircase. Arthur turned and took the few steps back to his room and once inside he closed the door behind him and examined the room more carefully. There were two windows, both in the opposite wall, which looked out over Haring Street. Between the windows stood a small bedside table and a single metal-framed bed, which managed to appear both fragile and comfortable at the same time. Two large pillows sat atop freshly starched and ironed white sheets and what looked like a handmade feather quilt lay rolled up at the foot of the bed. Beneath the bed itself, covering a good deal of the polished wooden floorboards, lay a carpet of rich red and gold wool, woven together to create an Eastern motif and finished with a white fringed border.

In the corner to his right there stood an impressive wooden wardrobe with a three-quarter length mirror running down its centre between two elaborately carved doors. A small key, hardly looking up to the job, sat in readiness in each keyhole and a single drawer immediately beneath the doors completed the antique.

Beside the wardrobe, on the wall opposite the windows, was a single shelf. Two thin, dusty volumes shared a portion of the available space along with a cheap case on which a spider had woven a silky home for itself. A picture of the King in an elaborate faux gold frame hung forgotten on the wall to Arthur’s left, behind the door, and next to it, looking rather like an old married couple, stood a worn and chipped hat stand and a wooden chair.

Finally, standing snugly in the far left corner was an antique table on which stood an oil lamp and a candlestick holder, complete with a new, white candle; it was also possessed of a drawer and a lower shelf with a porcelain ewer and bowl only just visible in the shadows.

Satisfied with his surroundings, Arthur proceeded to find homes for the contents of his valise. His socks and underclothes he tucked away in the bottom drawer of the wardrobe. His toiletries he unloaded into the drawer of the antique table and his copy of Shakespeare’s ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’ was then placed, with a slight reverence, on top of the bedside table. He took out a white shirt, hung it on a hanger and deposited it in the wardrobe along with his collection of five cravats and a red dressing gown. His pyjamas went under the pillows. Until Friday, when the remainder of his possessions arrived from Leeds, this was all he had; a practical assortment of items and enough to see him through.

With five more days remaining until he commenced his new position, Arthur found himself with plenty of time to familiarise himself with the local neighbourhood, and in his travels he could also pick out the quickest route from home to work. Edith had given him some suggestions during their first meeting and since there was no time like the present, he took his hat from the hatstand and left the room, taking good care to close the door after him.

At the foot of the stairs he called out a quick farewell to Edith, who by the sound of it was busy in the kitchen. She called back her goodbye and within a few seconds Arthur was out in the street, where the fog had lifted somewhat enabling him to gain a whole new perspective of the street where he now lived.

For an hour or so Arthur wandered up and down one street after another, finding tiny shops tucked away between larger, more commercial buildings. He found a public bar which he promised himself he would visit at the very first opportunity, and a bookshop. On every second street there were children playing, for although it was Wednesday, the children were on holiday from school. Their mothers chatted to each other over low brick fences as they came out to collect the milk and the mail.

At eleven forty he concluded his meandering and walked back to number thirty-five. He went directly up to his room and took off his hat and coat. He removed the ewer and bowl from its shelf and placed it on the table beside the lamp and candlestick holder. He poured some water into the bowl then splashed the cool liquid onto his face; soon realising he had nothing to dry himself on. He made his way blindly into the small side bathroom and fumbled around until he found the towel he was looking for. When he’d finished, he leaned into his room to pull the door shut, but was distracted by something on the bed.

The book which he had so carefully placed on the bedside table was now sitting squarely on the bed. He walked over and picked it up. Puzzled, he examined the book briefly before replacing it on the bedside table. He furrowed his brow. There could only be two possible explanations for the strange occurrence.

The first was that he, himself, had absent-mindedly moved the book, though for the life of him he couldn't remember having done so. Besides, he hadn’t gone anywhere near the bedside table or the book since his return and could not, therefore, have even knocked the book onto the bed. The second explanation, for which he felt a tinge of guilt for even entertaining, was that Edith had been up to his room in his absence. The only problem with that theory was that Edith seemed both methodical and upstanding. Had she been up to his room and moved the book, for whatever reason, she would have certainly put it back.

He descended the stairs lost in thought and managed to arrive at the dinner table with thirty seconds to spare. Edith shuffled out of the kitchen carrying a large silver tray, which she placed with a puff in front of Arthur, with an invitation for him to carve.

“You’re the man of the house now,” she said as she removed the heavy silver lid to reveal a roasted chicken surrounded by an assortment of roasted vegetables. “So while you’re doing that, I’ll go and get the gravy and greens. Not too much meat for me. That old bird will do us for lunch tomorrow too if we’re careful.”

Arthur carved off two neat slices of breast meat for Edith and allowed himself three. He then portioned out some stuffing and vegetables, while Edith served the peas and beans and smothered the whole lot in a thick, rich gravy.

After five minutes of awkward silence during which time Edith looked at Arthur several times in the hope that a conversation might be kindled, Arthur finally did say something - something that had been weighing heavily on his mind since he had first noticed the book on his bed.

“Mrs Collins....,” he began.

“Edith,” she interrupted.

“Edith,” he began again. “Did you happen to go up to my room while I was out this morning? To clean or to tidy, for instance?”

Edith’s whole posture and expression took on an unmistakeable air of indignation. She promptly put her knife and fork down and looked sternly at Arthur.

“I am not the sort of person to go snooping through the possessions of others, if that’s what you’re asking! I did not go into your room for any purpose! As I have clearly explained already, I clean on Saturdays and that is the only time I shall ever enter your room.”

Arthur felt his face redden.

“I didn’t mean to suggest.....” he started.

“I don’t care what you meant. However, I suppose it is better to get these things straightened out from the outset,” she stated. “I feel it is my duty to inform you that I always keep my nose out of the affairs of others and expect others to grant me the same consideration.”

“I’m terribly sorry,” Arthur apologised. “I’ve upset you now.”

“I’m sure I’ll live through it,” she snapped, resuming her meal. “Now eat your lunch before it gets cold.”

Arthur had quite lost his appetite. He struggled to think of something to say to restore the peace, but he couldn’t. The uncomfortable silence hung heavily in the air. This time it was Arthur who couldn’t stop looking at Edith, hoping that she would speak to him and relieve him of the tremendous guilt he was suffering. But Edith’s feelings had been hurt and she was not going to make it easy for him. Her eyes remained glued to the plate in front of her and not once did she remove them.

Outside, in the front hallway, the grandfather clock ticked away slowly, while the small ornamental clock on the drawing room mantelpiece seemed to be racing it. The two sounds were dominant and discordant in the silence, making the dinner table seem an even lonelier place than it already was.

After he had swallowed the last mouthful of his lunch, Arthur excused himself and made his way up the stairs to his bedroom. Since a light rain had begun to fall, he spent the rest of the afternoon reading on his bed. Then, as night fell, he came downstairs and shared another silent meal with Edith. She ignored all his attempts at conversation, speaking only when absolutely necessary. Deciding that any further attempts to mend Edith’s damaged pride would be futile, he returned to his room immediately after dinner. He took off his clothes and hung them carefully in the wardrobe, and smiled to himself as he thought of Edith sitting obstinately downstairs, alone at the dinner table. Tomorrow he would go down to the markets and buy her some flowers. Hopefully they would warm the cold shoulder she was showing him.

Arthur turned the covers down and climbed into bed. The cool, starched sheets felt soothing against his weary body. He leaned over and blew out the candle, plunging the room into darkness, broken only by four thin rays of moonlight which stole into the room through gaps in the curtains. Now there was nothing to do but snuggle into the mattress and sleep.

Beyond the confines of the bedroom walls the street lamps burned brightly in the quiet street below. Across the road a stray tabby fossicked through a tin rubbish bin it had managed to upend. It sat gorging itself on the kitchen scraps that had spilled out onto the cobbled street, apparently oblivious to its surroundings.

Above this scene, dark shadows floated eerily through the night sky, momentarily obscuring the full moon as they passed. Smoke from fireplace chimneys leaked into the darkness, filling the air with soot. Night birds fluttered from shadow to shadow, catching and feeding on the abundant mice and rats which scurried in the filth below.

An owl flew onto the window ledge of one of Arthur’s windows, sat there watching and listening for a few seconds before flying off again. Its keen hearing had detected the movement of a large rat as it scuttled away from the feasting tabby, but while it had successfully managed to escape one set of claws, it had inadvertently run into another. The screech of the owl and the flapping of its wings as it attacked startled the feline, who turned and fled down the street.

It may have been this small commotion that roused Arthur from a restful slumber, but whatever the cause, he found himself wide awake in the middle of the night. He sat up and reached for his gold fob watch lying on the bedside table and discovered that it was half past two.

He groaned and lay back down, though was suddenly aware of another presence in the room. He sat bolt upright, eyes wide open and alert.

“Mrs Collins?” he called in a semi-whisper. “Is that you?”

No-one answered.

He was about to get out of bed when he noticed the back of someone’s head through the railing at the foot of the bed. He leaned forward to get a better look.

“Hello?” he called out tentatively.

At first there was no response then the head turned, revealing the face of a young girl.

Arthur jerked back, nearly falling into the pillows as he did so. Gathering his composure he leaned forward once again to ensure his eyes weren't playing a trick on him.

The girl was still looking at him.

“Who are you?” she whispered nervously. “This is my room.”

Arthur could hardly believe his ears. Or his eyes. Aside from the question of how this waifish creature had come to be in his room, especially since she looked barely strong enough to stand upright, there was an additional, indescribable strangeness about her.

“Your room?” he huffed.

“Yes. This is Emily’s room,” she replied, her voice so soft it was barely audible.

Arthur didn’t know what to think. He rubbed the fresh stubble on his chin as he grappled for some understanding of the perplexing situation.

“Well if this is your room, why aren’t you sleeping in this bed?” he asked hoping to catch her out.

The girl looked puzzled for a second or two. Some of those words she had never heard before, yet within a moment she was ready with an answer.

“You’re in Emily’s bed,” she answered with a giggle that quickly faded.

Arthur had to admit that the quality of the answer he’d received was in direct proportion to the quality of the question he had asked.

“Why weren’t you at dinner then? Or at lunch? Why is this the first time I’ve seen you? I was led to believe your grandmother lived alone.”

“Grandmother?” the little girl echoed screwing up her face.

“Yes,” said Arthur in confirmation. “Mrs Collins. Your grandmother.”

“Not grandmother,” Emily corrected him. “Ma’am.”

Arthur was astonished.

‘Her mother?’ he thought to himself. ‘How could that be?’ It was all too much. Arthur was beginning to get more than a little annoyed. He was tired and was not in the mood for cryptic puzzles in the middle of the night.

“I see,” he snapped, not really seeing at all. “It seems to me that the only way to resolve this bothersome situation is to go and fetch the lady herself!”

Emily shrunk back and started to tremble.

“Ma’am?” she whimpered. “You want Ma’am?”

Arthur nodded determinedly.

“Yes. I don’t think this can wait until the morning and if your, er, Ma’am, has misled me in any way, I feel I am quite within my rights to go and wake her up immediately for some answers.”

“Don’t! Don’t!” Emily cried, reaching out with long, skinny arms to try and pull him back. “Emily’s a good girl. She’ll sleep on the floor.”

Arthur sprang out of bed and marched over to the wardrobe where his dressing gown was hanging.

“Nonsense!” he huffed. “Whoever heard of such a thing! A child sleeping on the floor. Preposterous! No. I’ve made up my mind. I'm going to....”

Arthur stopped mid-sentence as he turned to face Emily.

“What the...?” he gasped, a frown creasing his brow as he bent down to take a closer look.

The child, who was wearing only a light dress, was barefoot and chained to the end of the bed. The chain itself was attached to her ankle by a manacle, the other end woven through the railing of the bed and secured with an unnecessarily large padlock.

Emily lowered her head, embarrassed and ashamed. There was no sobbing and no comment. She bore her humiliation in silence.

Without another word Arthur stormed from the room, out onto the landing and down the stairs to Edith’s first-floor bedroom. With no thought for etiquette he pounded on the woman’s door and demanded that she open it immediately.

Edith, feeling groggy and looking irritated as she finished tying her dressing gown, opened her bedroom door and was instantly confronted by the furious Mr Longmore.

“What do you have to say for yourself!?” he demanded.

“What on earth are you going on about?” Edith snapped back.

“I’m talking about your shameful treatment of that child you’ve got chained up in the room that’s supposed to be mine!” he heatedly explained.

“What do you mean?” Edith asked. “What child?”

Arthur was becoming more exasperated with each second he spent talking to Edith.

“Confounded woman!” he snarled under his breath. “Emily! Your daughter, which for some reason only the Lord above knows, you have chained, like some beast, to my bed! Chained up as we speak.”

Edith froze. Her usually stern expression melted from her face as surely as the snow melted every spring. For a moment there was a heavy silence standing like a brick wall between them before Edith opened her mouth to speak, although she only managed an incoherent babble. Upon seeing the alarmed expression on the face of her house guest, she immediately reconstructed her composure, retrieved her oil lamp from a table by the door then pushed past Arthur with one powerful sweep of her arm and headed for the stairs.

“Let me have a look,” she mumbled to herself. Then she mumbled a few more things besides, which Arthur was grateful he didn’t hear.

He followed her up the stairs, though they arrived at his bedroom door at the same time. Of course, Edith, eager to see what all the fuss was about, marched in first with Arthur close behind. She looked at the bed, then under it and gave the rest of the room a cursory glance. Then still at a loss, she turned to Arthur and raised her eyebrows.

“Well?” she asked.

“I-I-I d-don’t understand,” Arthur stuttered. “She was right here,” he said pointing to the foot of the bed. “I was talking to her.”

Edith rolled her eyes then relented. There was much to lose by pursuing the matter and Edith was not a stupid woman.

“Look,” she began in a softer, less severe tone than she usually used. “You’ve had a long day and you’re in a strange room that you’re not used to. You probably dreamt the whole thing.”

But that statement only served to further baffle the usually unflappable Mr Longmore.

“She said she was your daughter and that this was her room. How could I have dreamed that? I mean I didn’t even know you had a daughter. That is, of course, forgetting the fact that the child, being only eight or nine years old, is closer in age, and please don’t take offence, to being your granddaughter than your daughter,” Arthur explained, pouring out everything that was going through his mind.

Edith’s eyes began to glisten in the light of the oil lamp she had brought up with her, though as quickly as the tears appeared, she blinked them away. She was determined not to get emotional. Not in this room. Not in front of Arthur. The past simply had to remain in the past.

“I think we’ve both had quite enough adventure for one night. I trust in the future when you have a dream, good, bad, or otherwise, that you’ll have the decency not to come bashing on my door with some wild fantasy at the ready,” she stated tersely before turning and leaving the room.

Arthur was confused. He didn’t quite know what to think. He closed his bedroom door, took off his dressing gown and hung it back up in the wardrobe, then climbed back into bed. The remainder of the night he spent in restless sleep. He could not get the image of Emily chained to the foot of the very bed he was now laying in out of his thoughts. Nor could he forget the tears in Edith’s eyes, which she had tried to hide from him.

At breakfast the next morning Edith was in a surprisingly cheerful mood. She was talking ten to the dozen at Arthur, who for his part, could not understand why. Nevertheless, he smiled and made the appropriate noises at the appropriate times. He ate his toast and orange marmalade, and drank his tea as Edith prattled on and on about one thing or another, none of which were related to the events of the previous night.

When he got the chance he excused himself from the table, informed Edith that he wouldn’t be in for lunch, and taking up his hat and coat, stepped out onto the cobblestones of Haring Street. He was going to buy himself two new suits for work on Monday since although the rest of his things would be arriving tomorrow; the only two suits he possessed were quite old and would only do for spare.

He had lunch at a small restaurant he happened across on his wanderings and after paying the bill he strolled across the street to a park, where he found a vacant seat by an ornamental lake. He sat in quiet contemplation for an hour or so thinking about Emily. It had not been a dream as Edith had suggested. It had been too real. Yet no other explanation came to mind. Little girls chained to beds simply did not vanish into thin air.

That night after dinner, Arthur read for a while in the sitting room. Edith sat opposite him knitting and smiling at the beautiful bunch of flowers Arthur had presented to her upon his return earlier that evening. The grandfather clock and the small ornamental clock on the mantelpiece continued their eternal ticking contest, and a luxurious fire crackled away in the fireplace.

At nine o’clock, Arthur retired for the evening. Reading always made him drowsy and so did the comforting heat of a healthy fire. He bid Edith goodnight and made his way up the two flights of stairs to his attic bedroom.

“Hello,” called a voice from behind the side of his wardrobe. “Is that the nice man?”

The voice startled him. He gasped. "You nearly gave me a heart attack, you little wretch!"

Emily shrunk back into the small corner, almost curling herself up into a ball.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur apologised. “Now I’ve scared you.”

Without thinking, he walked over to where she crouched and put his arm around her, but instead it passed through her as though she wasn’t there at all. Arthur recoiled. He was speechless for a second or two and found himself staring at the girl in wide-eyed disbelief from an almost recumbent position on the floor. The fact that Emily was a ghost made perfect sense, even to one who did not believe in them, though the confirmation of his suspicions made him realise he hadn’t been as prepared for the situation as he thought he might have been.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur apologised again. “Let’s say you and I become friends.”

Slowly Emily uncurled herself and looked up at Arthur. She looked him right in the eyes then whispered, “Yes.”

“Okay then,” smiled Arthur.

He took off his jacket, hung it in the wardrobe and then removed his shoes.

“So what would you like to talk about tonight?” he asked.

“Emily doesn’t have any friends,” she announced suddenly only a little louder than usual.

Arthur looked perplexed. He had found in the brief time he had known her that it was often difficult to understand exactly what Emily wanted to say, although he marvelled at how expressive her face could be.

“Do you mean to say you’ve never had any friends? Never?”

Emily shook her head slowly and dramatically.

“Emily has no friends,” she said with a pout. “Only her!”

Emily spat the last two words as though they had been some foul tasting morsel of food.

“Who?” Arthur asked, intrigued.

“Ma’am!” she replied.

“Edith?”

“Yes,” she said lowering her eyes.

“But why would she stop you from having any friends?” Arthur wanted to know.

“Emily’s a very bad girl. Bad girls stay in their rooms,” she replied, doing her best to explain with words she had heard from Edith many, many times.

Suddenly there was a noise at the door. Arthur spun around ready to give Edith permission to enter, except there was no knock. Arthur walked over to the door and opened it, but there was nobody on the other side, just an empty landing.

He closed the door and turned to face Emily, who had, by this time, disappeared.

“Damn!” he cursed thumping himself in the side of his leg.

In the space of two nights and two very brief encounters, Arthur felt that a connection had formed between himself and the girl - mortal man and spirit child. He felt her ease around him, but there were so many questions he wanted to ask her. There was an intriguing mystery to be solved and Emily, Edith and this room were all a part of it. Something very wrong had taken place in this house and he was determined to find out what it was.

The following night Emily didn’t appear. It may have been her fear of the prospect of encountering Edith, or it may have been the clutter of newly arrived trunks and boxes he had created that made her too nervous to appear. Whatever the reason, Arthur could not help but feel frustrated. He was not a patient man and there were so many things he wanted to know.

On Saturday night, after dinner, Arthur joined Edith in a glass of port by the fireside. As she gazed contentedly at the dancing flames, he sat across from her and looked at her, wondering what event, what tragedy in her life had turned her into the stern and bitter creature she now was. Had it been an absence of love, or lost love? Had there ever been love in her life? Even the lines etched deep in her face showed a life of anger and sorrow, yet he suspected that there was another Edith Collins buried somewhere beneath that frown, an Edith Collins who had not been allowed to shine for many, many years. And at that moment he felt a twinge of sympathy for her. Only a twinge.

At some point during their reverie, Edith looked up from the fire and caught him staring at her. She became flustered, turning her head this way and that, not knowing where to look. At last she poured the final few drops of port into her mouth and then stood up, smoothing down the creases in her dress as she did so.

“I suppose it must be time to turn in,” she announced. “I’ll see you in the morning then.”

Arthur stood up and bowed his head to her.

“Good night, Edith,” he said as she hurried from the room.

When Arthur got to his room he found it empty once more. Disappointed, he changed into his pyjamas and slid beneath the starched sheets. He lay there listening to the creaks and groans of the old terrace house and waited for sleep to claim him. Sooner than expected he felt his eyelids growing heavier and heavier, until he finally drifted off. His slow, heavy breathing filled the room and only then, at the foot of the bed, did the figure of a young girl appear.

Arthur had no idea how long he had been sleeping when he woke, though he was immediately aware that Emily was somewhere in the room. It was colder when she was around and a kind of energy, hard to describe, filled the room. He rolled over to get a better view of the room and found himself looking at her looking down at him from the side of the bed.

“Emily will show you,” she said in her quiet, mouse voice and before Arthur could ask her what she meant she climbed up on the bed and took Arthur’s hands in hers. He immediately felt a surge of energy pass along his forearms and into his chest. His whole body went rigid as the electricity found its way through his nervous system. A ghostly haze seemed to descend upon them and for the briefest of moments Arthur lost consciousness.

When he came to he knew immediately that he was looking at the world through Emily’s eyes and that it wasn’t his world he saw but the world she had inhabited when she had been alive. He was now on a bed with dirty sheets and there was an offensive odour of urine wafting up from them. As he looked around the room he noticed that everything seemed larger and that there were mice scampering across the bare wooden floorboards, picking at crumbs and remnants of past meals.

He felt her try to stand up though she unable. She looked down at her left ankle and showed him the manacle and chain he had seen on her earlier. He could feel that her body was thin and weak, and that the weight of the chain was so heavy that she found it almost impossible to move.

Somehow, she managed to roll out of bed, landing on the cold floor with a thud that sent waves of pain shooting up the arm on which she had landed. Yet she did not cry out. She began to rub the injured limb and he felt it giving her at least some relief.

As she struggled to lift her eight year-old frame from the floor he noticed, through her eyes, a mass of bruises covering her body. Black, purple and yellowy-brown marks, both fresh and fading, stained her pale white skin.

Loneliness. Sadness. Her whole being was soaked in them. He searched her memory and found only this room and sadness. No friends, no toys. But pain. Lots of pain. There was not a time when she hadn't felt pain. Pain from hunger, from beatings, and from neglect and suffering. If she had ever had any companion it was pain.

As he continued to look through her eyes, he noticed the two books on the bookshelf. He knew them to be full of colourful pictures and words, and although no-one had ever bothered to teach her how to read, he knew she loved looking at those pretty pictures. Animals, flowers and far-off places. They were all fantasies to her, patches of beautiful colour, for she had only ever known this room and the few meagre objects trapped, like her, within its four walls. She didn't even know that every picture, every object drawn in the books, had a name. To her they were just colourful shapes which made her feel good when she looked at them.

Then through her ears he heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Slow, heavy footsteps. He felt fear flood her body. He felt her crouch down by the foot of the bed trying to make herself small and invisible. The doorknob turned. She was trembling violently now and as the door opened he felt her close her eyes.

Although he couldn’t see who entered, he knew, through Emily, that it was Edith. The mother. He listened through her ears as Edith neared the bed and detected an overwhelming sense of expectation in Emily, an expectation that something terrible was about to happen.

“You dirty little girl!” Edith screamed, showering Emily’s frail body with slaps and punches. “Do you think I’ve got nothing better to do than clean up your mess?! Do you!? Do you!?”

The blows kept coming but Emily didn’t utter a sound. Arthur could feel her shut down inside. He felt her mind go blank. She went to a place devoid of objects and sound, a vast plain of emptiness where nothing could reach her. Light surrounded her, warming her and comforting her, and all the pain was a million miles away.

Edith ripped the soiled sheets from the bed and kicked Emily in the side.

“Evil child!” she snarled, hate glinting in her dull, brown eyes. “No wonder your father left. Soon as he knew you were on your way he took off. Didn’t even want to marry me! He hated you like I hate you, and now thanks to you, I have to go and wash these damned sheets. Well, you can sleep on the bare mattress tonight. I’m not going to get these dry before nightfall.”

She kicked Emily once more, in the back, knocking her crouching body over, before marching out of the room and slamming the door after her. Emily opened here eyes, crawled under the bed and fell asleep.

The problem now was that it was morning and Arthur would have to go down and have breakfast with someone he had come to despise overnight. However, he would have to pull himself together. He was sure that Emily had shown him only part of her miserable story. He would have to bide his time until he knew everything there was to know before he could make a decision as to what to do.

Following an uncomfortable breakfast, both Edith and Arthur went to church together. As they sat in the pew listening to the Reverend James extolling the virtues of charity from a simple stone pulpit, Arthur could not help stealing sideways glances at Edith as she sat there rigidly soaking up every word the Reverend uttered. Was it because of guilt that she even dared to show her face in such a holy place, or was it out of habit? Did she think that a lifetime of going to church could possibly atone for the horrific sins she had committed upon her own daughter?

That evening he retired early. It was his first day at work tomorrow and he wanted to be awake and alert. He also fully expected another visit from Emily, which meant the earlier he had his encounter with her, the earlier he could get some sleep. He was not disappointed.

Emily appeared, sitting on the side of the bed by Arthur’s knees.

“Emily.”

“Hello,” she greeted him sheepishly. “Are you angry with me?”

Arthur smiled warmly at her.

“Why would I be angry with you?”

“Emily’s a bad girl. Emily took you away without asking,” she explained as best she could, her head hanging down sorrowfully.

“My dear girl, that’s quite alright,” he said soothingly. “It was the only way you knew to show me what happened to you. I’m happy you did it.”

Emily looked up and smiled, revealing two missing front teeth and a black, rotten one at the side. He hadn’t noticed before, but then again there had been so much else to take in.

“Emily will show you more,” she said softly, yet with an air of seriousness. “Emily will show you a very bad thing. Very, very bad. Emily is tired. Emily wants to sleep, sleep, sleep.”

Arthur swallowed hard, not sure what was to follow.

Emily continued.

“Will you help Emily? Emily wants to sleep for ever and ever. No more Ma’am!”

Tears welled up in Arthur’s eyes and spilled over onto his cheeks. Emily’s eyes remained dry. What use were tears to her? She had no need for them. They wouldn’t stop the beatings and they wouldn't make anything better for her. Tears, for Emily, were useless.

“Don’t cry,” she whispered tenderly, bringing a small hand up to his face. “Emily’s friend. Yes? You are Emily’s friend? Emily will show you one more very bad thing.”

“I don’t care how bad it is,” he told her, blinking back the tears and smiling. “If I can help you, I will. I’ll help you sleep forever and ever.”

Emily beamed. “Hold Emily’s hand,” she instructed him. “Quickly.”

He did as she asked and once more she lay down and sank into him. Again he felt the energy of her spirit surge through his body, causing his nerve endings to fire, causing him to lose consciousness for a split second, and when he came to he was Emily once more, in the room that had been her whole world, many years ago.

This time she was sitting at the foot of the bed playing with an old rag doll. It was dirty and soiled like everything else in the room and only had one button eye remaining. The other had rolled into a crack in the floorboards. Its dress was simple and floral, rather like the one Emily had on, and the stitching which formed its mouth had begun to come undone. A short length of red cotton hung down from one uneven lip.

She was humming, but as she had never heard any music there was no tune, just a soft, low noise which comforted her.

The sound of footsteps from the stairs filled the room and he felt the terror rise in Emily like a tidal wave. Panic. Fear. Each step echoed in her head, amplified and booming.

The handle on the door turned and somehow Emily managed to slide under the bed. She lay there shaking, her eyes closed and her head buried in her arms. He could smell her stale urine in the floorboards and he felt her wanting to be sick.

“Get out from under there!” barked Edith. “Don’t give me any trouble, Missy! I’ve brought you something to drink.”

But Emily remained where she was. She didn’t move because she couldn’t move. Arthur could feel the fear paralysing every muscle in her body. He wanted to tell her to move and that if she moved she might escape another beating, but he couldn’t. He didn’t have a voice. He was Emily and would have to endure everything she did, and now he could feel her being dragged out by the chain.

“Come out of there you little bitch!” Edith fumed, letting go of the chain and taking a handful of hair. “Get out of there now!”

The handful of hair came away from Emily’s head. Malnutrition had ravaged every part of her body leaving it unhealthy and frail. Her hair fell out like petals from a bloom well past its prime.

Finally Edith managed to get hold of Emily by the arm and yank her out from beneath the bed.

“Are you thirsty?” Edith asked, glaring at the little girl.

“Yes,” Emily answered, almost inaudibly.

Her daughter’s weakness annoyed Edith. It was pathetic. Edith slapped her hard across the face with a force that spun Emily around before she fell to the floor.

“Yes what?!” Edith demanded.

Emily brought a tiny hand to her throbbing cheek and pressed on it with her open palm to make the stinging stop.

Edith stood looming over her with one hand hovering in the air by her shoulder in readiness.

“Yes what?!”

“Yes Ma’am,” she whispered.

That explained why she called her mother ‘Ma’am.’

“I beg your pardon? Stand up and say it so I can hear.”

Emily did as she was ordered, slowly managing to climb to her feet.

“Yes Ma’am,” she repeated only slightly louder, her head bowed and her eyes averted.

“That’s better,” Edith said, thrusting the glass at Emily and happy with her triumph over the poor girl.

Emily put her hand out to take the glass but Edith let go before she had a chance to get a secure grip on it. The glass fell to the floor, smashing to pieces and spilling the contents.

Edith stood looking at Emily’s down-turned head for a few seconds, intimidating her while she decided what to do.

Arthur could feel Emily’s body tighten. He knew she was going to take a battering this time and there was not a damn thing he could do to save her.

Edith clenched her hand, making it into a fist which she brought down on the back of Emily’s neck with such a force that she instantly broke it. Emily dropped to the cold, hard floor and Arthur felt all the life rush out of her through the crown of her head, reducing her to a pale, lifeless corpse on the floor at Edith’s feet.

Edith kicked the body.

“Get up!” she yelled.

She kicked the body again, noticing something strange about it.

“Get up!” she repeated, this time not so sure of herself. Her voice was tinged with panic.

Edith bent down and put a hand on Emily’s shoulder. She shook the body gently still imagining that her daughter was alive.

“If you get up now, I’ll go and get you another drink.”

Her voice began to quiver. A shiver ran down her spine and a tear fell from one eye.

“Stop playing silly games, young lady. You get up off that floor this instant!”

But Emily did not move. She just lay there, finally defeated.

It was at that moment the full force of panic hit Edith. She looked around the room. Her mind raced. She had to get rid of the body. But where? She couldn’t bury it in the back garden because someone would surely see her. There were always people watching over fences and out of back windows.

Then she had an idea. A brilliant idea. She ran downstairs and took a pair of large metal scissors from the kitchen and a small claw hammer from a cupboard she kept just outside the back door. With tools in hand she raced back up the stairs and began to dig the wood away from around the nails in the floorboards. Minute after minute ticked by and soon darkness fell. Edith took out the box of matches she always carried in her apron pocket and lit the candle by Emily’s bed. She continued to work by candlelight, digging away at the wood until she had exposed enough nail to be able to remove it with the claw of the hammer.

When she had removed enough floorboards and created a space large enough for Emily’s body, she took the bed sheets from Emily’s bed and wrapped her in them. Then, with a small amount of effort, she managed to carry the bundle towards the hole in the floor then carefully place it into the cavity. It was a snug fit but with a bit of poking and prodding, she was able to replace the floorboards and hammer the nails back into place.

Arthur, observing the gruesome scene from the ceiling where he hovered as part of Emily’s spirit, watched as Edith set about scrubbing and cleaning the room. He saw the sweat pouring from her forehead as she worked feverishly in the candlelight to remove all evidence of her daughter, and since she’d had to keep the pregnancy a secret in the first place, there would be no-one to ask after Emily’s whereabouts.

Monday morning was grey and wet. The rain poured down outside as Arthur stood shaving in the small bathroom beside his bedroom. Today was the first day at his new job. Unfortunately for him, all he could think about was Emily and those last few horrific minutes of her miserable life.

“Don’t worry Emily,” he thought to himself. “I know exactly what to do. That horrid woman will not get away with it.”

Arthur could barely speak to Edith at the breakfast table and refused to be drawn into any conversation with her. He buried his nose in the morning newspaper and did not once look at her.

“Nerves, I expect,” Edith muttered to herself when he did not answer her question about what he would like for dinner that night.

With his large black umbrella in hand, Arthur made his way to work. The walk gave him time to mentally prepare himself for his first day at work, despite the fact that he was more interested in formulating a course of action for that evening.

Nevertheless, he walked through the door of the publishing house as confidently as if he had worked there every day of his life. He strode up to the front desk and asked the young clerk sitting there if he might speak to Mr McGregor, the editor-in-chief. The young man smiled politely and immediately set off to find him.

The remainder of Arthur’s day was spent meeting staff and familiarising himself with company procedures. He was given his own desk and a pile of manuscripts, which he would have to look at before the month’s end, and finally, at the end of the day, he was asked to join a few of the unmarried men for dinner at a restaurant just around the corner. Arthur didn’t need to be asked twice since the prospect of having dinner with Edith left him cold.

It was well after nine o’clock when he arrived home and Edith was in a dark mood. The door had not even closed behind him when she called out from the sitting room.

“What time do you call this then? I hope you realise that your dinner’s stone cold by now. Maybe next time you’ll have manners enough to let me know when you’re going to be late. I’m not running a bleedin’ hotel!”

He ignored her and walked straight through the kitchen and out to the little cupboard by the back door. From it he took a claw hammer, no doubt the very same hammer that Edith herself had used all those years ago.

Edith came scuttling after him, craning her head to find out what he was up to. He merely brushed past her as if she wasn’t there and, keeping the hammer hidden from her, went upstairs to his room.

“Well I never!” she huffed before returning, spurned, to her chair by the sitting room fire.

Upstairs, Arthur took out the hammer and began to lever up the nails in the floorboards. Just as Edith had, all those years before, he laboured over the job, pulling each nail out one by one until he was able to finally remove the floorboards beneath which Emily's remains lay.

Unbeknownst to him, Edith, who had heard him banging about from downstairs, was now creeping up the stairs in the hopes of discovering the nature of Arthur’s flurry of activity. Being the cunning woman she was, however, she was fairly certain she knew the answer already. She hoped for his sake that she was wrong.

Arthur, meanwhile, had removed all the floorboards he needed to and was now looking down at a dusty, frayed bundle in the space between the first floor ceiling and his bedroom floor. He bent down and tugged the sheet, releasing a cloud of dust which made him sneeze. Very carefully he pulled enough of the sheet back to see that he had found what he had expected to find - a collection of bones, which due to their size, could only be those of Emily.

His thoughts were suddenly torn from the tragedy before him by a noise directly behind him. He turned just in time to see Edith standing there with the hammer he had discarded clenched firmly in her raised hand. Before he could react, she brought the hammer down hard, managing to connect with his shoulder as he tried to dodge it.

“You stupid man,” she hissed. “Couldn’t mind your own business, could you? Well you’re going to be sorry you ever meddled in my affairs.”

And with that she raised the hammer again and brought it down towards Arthur’s head. Somehow he was able to bring his hand up to protect his skull, the force of the hammer instead crushing several bones in his hand and creating a bloody wound.

“You can die just like she did,” Edith ranted. “You two deserve each other. Get ready to join her!”

He looked up at her from where he lay on the floor and saw a wildness in her eyes that alarmed him. She had snapped. The hammer came down again and again, each time connecting with Arthur’s body, weakening him and inflicting more bloody wounds.

Summoning up all the strength he had left, he reached out, caught her by the ankle and pulled her leg out from under her sending her crashing backwards, the hammer falling out of her hand and landing with a hard clunk on the floor. They both struggled to get to it, but Arthur got to it first. He wrapped his hand around it and smashed it into Edith’s temple.

Edith shrieked with pain. The blow had dazed her but only for a few seconds. Enraged, she began blindly clawing at him, ripping at his face and body with her bare hands. Like a mad thing she scratched at his face, trying to get her fingertips into his eye sockets. Arthur brought his arms up and managed to block most of her blows then, tiring of the assault, he lashed out with his fist. Edith shrieked as the blow sent her flying through the air. She grappled for something to break her fall yet there was nothing and Edith hit the door jamb with full force. Neverthless, she was powered by her rage and had soon scrambled to her feet, disappearing wailing and bleeding down the stairs.

Arthur followed her just far enough to see her fling the front door open and run out into the night. Such a commotion was bound to attract the attention of a wandering bobby and he would take care of her. As for himself he had other things on his mind, namely helping to put Emily’s soul to rest.

He turned the door knob to Edith’s room and entered, noticing almost immediately what he wanted – a suitcase, dusty and sitting atop Edith’s ornately carved wardrobe. Taking it back into the attic bedroom with him, he placed Emily’s remains carefully inside. When he’d finished, he grabbed his hat and coat off the bed and carried the suitcase downstairs with him, stopping only briefly to scrawl something on a piece of paper he’d found on Edith’s writing desk.

He closed the front door of number thirty-five behind him and stepped out into the cold night. The street was deserted and silent, and his footsteps echoed up and down the lonely road as he made his way to the nearby church. The very same church he had attended the day before.

Guilt rode heavily upon his shoulders. He hurried through one deserted street after another fully expecting that at any moment someone would stop him and know, just by looking at him, what was concealed in the suitcase he was gripping as best he could. He had to keep reminding himself that the streets were empty. Only the drunk and the promiscuous were out at such a late hour, and both groups were more than happy to keep to themselves as long as he kept to himself. He had nothing at all to worry about.

He arrived at the church gates sweating and somewhat breathless from the brisk pace he had been keeping. With a squeak of rusty hinge, he pushed the huge iron barrier open just enough to slide through, then, full of purpose, he walked up to the small manse. With a nervous swallow, he knocked loudly on the simple wooden door and upon hearing someone stir inside, he put the suitcase down on the doormat and carefully placed the small note he’d written on top of it. By the time the door opened, Arthur was once more outside on the street, watching through the bars of the church fence, shrouded in shadows.

The vicar, a thin, elderly man with snowy white hair and wearing a flannelette nightshirt, saw the suitcase immediately. He bent down to pick it up and noticed as he did so that something was fluttering to the ground. He picked up the piece of paper and took it inside, where there was a lamp burning, to read it.

                    To Whom It May Concern,

My name is Emily Collins of 35 Haring Road

                    My mother murdered me, then hid my body

                    I’m trusting you to help me find peace.

The vicar dashed out through the open front door and from his front step peered out into the moonlit churchyard and adjoining cemetery. Unfortunately, they were empty and Arthur himself was well down the road. He had managed to successfully deliver Emily’s remains to someone who would know what to do with them. He was satisfied that Emily was now, or soon would be, at peace. As for his own fate, he had decided to allow himself the rest of the evening before going to the police. Whatever his fate was to be he felt confident that he had done the right thing.

And those were his thoughts as he disappeared into the night.