"No man knows fear, until fear comes to him." A wise man.
Like all good Hallowe'en tales, this story is
true.
Recounted on many evenings such as this.
It requires no embellishment.
It is told just how it happened.
The Partick room and kitchen may not have been our dream semi-detached, but it was ours - my wife and I's. Our first home, a first floor tenement flat overlooking a tyre fitting yard. Our first son had arrived and we set his cot up in a wee nursery within the bedroom recess - the bed recess in the old days. Our bed sat in the middle of the floor, bathed in the light from the big bay window. It wasn't a big flat, just this bedroom, the kitchen/living room next door, a tiny inside toilet and a small hallway leading out to the landing. The old lady who'd lived there had recently died and her daughter had decided to sell it off. Humble beginnings, but we'd fought hard to get it, saving up the deposit, jumping through the hoops of all the legal beagles as they took their cut. We were happy and felt we were on our way.
But something wasn't right. It was M felt it first. While I was at work, especially on back-shifts or nights, she felt jumpy, insecure. But she didn't let on to me... until later.
Of course I knew of our strange neighbour, the old woman who lived in the ground floor flat below us. It wasn't just that she kept a Christmas tree in her window all year round. Or the fact she scolded me once on the stair for wearing a red pullover.
"Red is an angry colour."
She hissed, shaking her head to demonstrate her
disapproval.
"It annoys the spirits and leads to
aggression..."
She prattled on as I lumbered a heavy Silver Cross pram,
laden with baby paraphenalia, up to the first landing. But
it wasn't until the time I entered her house that I
discovered the true nature of the woman. I can't remember
why she invited me in. Perhaps she wanted to talk to me
about the baby crying or events in the close, memory fails
me on that count. I recall a cup of tea, in china cup and
saucer. I remember clearly how the conversation turned to
her 'friends'.
"Dont you see them?" She
asked.
"Eh? No, cant say I do." I
replied, sipping my tea and looking around the time capsule
of a room.
"They're all around us," she
went on "I talk to them and they talk
to me."
A Spiritualist, she spoke to me of her beliefs and the
after life, of portents and premonitions. Of the meaning of
the strange little ornaments displayed along her
mantlepiece and her ghostly residents and visitors.
"They can see you. They're looking and talking about you
right now. See, over there..."
She pointed to the sink as though someone were standing
there.
I grew uneasy as she explained how they came to her and
told her of the goings on in the building, of how she
didn't need to leave the house, how she was kept informed
by her...friends.
I told M little of this. She knew the old woman was a bit eccentric because of the all year Christmas tree and did her best to keep out of her way. So did I.
The burst pipe was just one of those things. A connection
came loose at the back of the washing machine in the middle
of the night, water seeped over the floor, and brought down
part of the ceiling downstairs.
The old lady was quietly livid. My mate and I did our best
to redecorate the damaged area, all the time joking about
the spirits watching us and how they were probably
critcising our brush strokes. It was tastless humour at the
auld yin's expense and she glowered at us, fingering the
pieces of one of the ornaments that had been broken by
falling plaster. We finally finished and left.
Then things started to happen...
Living up the hill, away from Partick's mainstream, we had
quickly become accustomed to the peace and quiet. The
street was virtually a dead end, the close rarely seeing
visitors. We harboured some concerns when we first moved in
that our collie dog, Lassie, might disturb the solitude by
barking, but this proved unfounded. Not so the baby and
when he began to sleep through the night it was bliss. He
would be wrapped cosily in his cot within the recess while
M and I snuggled up under the duvet on the double bed, dog
curled up at our feet, soft light of the street lamp
filtering through the big window. It was on such a night,
shortly after the burst pipe incident, when we were all
sound asleep and the night couldn't have been quieter, that
Lassie howled.
Not just a little whimper in her sleep type howl. No, this
was the full timber wolf baying at the moon type howl, as
though heralding the arrival of the Prince of Darkness
himself.
Both of us were bolt upright. From fast asleep to wide
awake, in less time than our brains could register what had
woken us, in a flurry of thrashing duvet cover, crashing
bedside lamp and verbal expletives. We stared, wide eyed,
through the gloom at the offending beast.
The dog was standing on the foot of the bed, eyes fixed on
the bed recess, her fur bristling, hackles raised. She
would thrust her head into the air as she howled, then curl
her lips back, bare her teeth and snarl at whatever held
her attention.
Neither of us had ever seen her like that before. Vicious,
threatening, terrifying.
M feared for the baby and, with a maternal courage, pulled
herself together and leapt for the cot, while I tried to
pacify the dog, trying to talk calmly, afraid to make any
sudden move for fear of being attacked.
As M stood, baby clutched to her chest, both of them crying
now, the dog turned and jumped from the bed. The howling
stopped and she appeared to calm down. With M and the baby
safely out of the room and the main light on, I approached
the trembling dog and began to pet her. I could hear the
baby crying in the next room. A search of the recess
uncovered nothing that could have explained the dog's
behaviour.
The incident shook us but was quickly cast to the realm of funny stories to be told over drinks in the pub. Lassie was relegated to the kitchen at night but there was no repeat of her howling episode. We slept in peace.
For a while.
Waking up with a feeling of weight on your chest is not
uncommon in a semi-sleeping state, and when it happened to
me a few nights later, although scary, it passed quickly
and I mentioned it to no one.
At first I thought Lassie had got into the room and was
sitting on top me while I lay on my back, but no. Thankful
not to have been suffering a heart atack I went back to
sleep.
But a few nights later, there would no return to sleep.
"Bob. Bob!"
The loud whisper roused me from whatever dream I was
immersed in and I became aware of M's anxious voice close
to my ear. I was on my side, facing the window with my back
to the recess. M was lying in front of me, head raised from
the pillow, looking over my shouder into the void behind
me.
"What's up?" I whispered in
return, unable to keep the annoyance from my voice.
"Behind you... in the
recess."
She was scared, really scared.
As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I could make out her
face. Her eyes were wide and she looked terrified. Her
fingers were gripping my arm until it hurt and I could feel
her trembling. She could hardly speak.
"What is it?" I continued to
whisper, feeling a coldness seep through my body.
At first she couldn't get the word out, then it came.
"It's an... an... eye!"
I suddenly realised that I lacked any great enthusiasm to
turn around and face the source of her fear. In fact the
last thing in the world I wanted to do at that moment was
turn over.
"Are you sure?" I stammered
lamely. My palms become sweaty and I felt icy cold.
"It's there. Oh my god. Over the cot. A
big... eye." Her voice signalling iminent hysteria.
Now both of us were terrified.
I lay for stretched seconds. Hoping she'd tell me it had
gone, that it was just her imagination. I recalled my scare
a couple of nights before and how it had quickly passed. It
was just sleep playing tricks. It would pass.
Then I remembered the dog, the howling, the recess.
"Is it still there?" I
asked.
M said nothing, just nodded. I was certain she was wide
awake. This was no waking dream. Perhaps a trick of the
light.
But I knew there were no mirrors in the recess, nothing
that would cause reflection.
"Turn around." She whispered.
These were the words I'd been dreading. I did
nothing.
"Turn around!" She
insisted.
As she continued to stare at a point behind me, I felt the
presence of whatever was there. I felt threatened. I felt
fear.
I began to turn my head. Slowly. Ever so slowly.
As I twisted around I began to wonder what I'd do when
confronted with this apparition. Would I attack it? What
with? Would it attack me? How could I defend myself, my
wife, my child?
Perhaps I could talk to it. What do you say to a
disembodied eye? Then the time for thought was over, and,
as my widely dilated pupils panned the dark hole that was
the object of our fear, I saw...
... darkness.
"It's gone." Said M tearfully. "Just as you turned around it disappeared."
We were out of bed like a shot. Lights on. Checked the
baby. Checked the cot and surrounding area.
I brought Lassie into the room. She sniffed around but
seemed unperturbed. We didn't go back to bed that night.
So what was it? Some trick of the light? Imagination? Waking nightmare? Or the supernatural? Who knows.
We moved house shortly after without any further occurences. But we slept lightly, and were nice to the lady downstairs.
Original story © Bob Wilson 2008
Layout, editing and additional material © Dave Sloan 2016
'tachras' and 'Winding Yarn' © Dave Sloan 2005, 2012, 2016