W B Aodh Gothic Ghost Stories

Forbidden

The iron gate was cold beneath my touch and a cloud of emptiness flooded me as I stared at the house shrouded in silence. Freshly baked bread, cake, and beef stew teased my nose. With a shake of my head the aroma of the past faded.  There was no one cooking inside. Not now they were gone. Grandad Joe died three years ago, and we buried Nana Jean at the beginning of the month. Now they were gone, so was part of my childhood. No longer would I be enveloped in a warmth of baked goods or find my fingers covered in soil from picking peas.

When the solicitor’s letter arrived, I read it twice. Surprised, but secretly pleased Nana Jean had left me the house as I could do with the extra cash for the nice little flat along the river in the Cotswolds, I had my eye on. With a deep inhale I forced the air out of my mouth. There was no point putting off the inevitable and pushed the gate latch down. It was time to step into the empty house.

The front door shut with a quiet click, as my gaze swept the hallway, and a shudder ran through me. This was the first time I had been inside the house by myself. I stayed by the door, my head cocked to the left as I listened, unsure what to expect. As I dropped the keys on the old mahogany telephone table with the padded seat, a door banged, and my body stilled as the steady beat of my heart increased in pace.  

A flash of a shadow caught my attention, pulling my gaze towards the cream painted, anaglypta walls, and carpeted stairs. A young boy, no more than four, wearing brown corduroy trousers and a pale blue and grey chequered shirt, stood at the top. His gaze skimmed over me. Then he giggled when a young girl of eight with tatty brown hair, wearing a red dress, chased him. They never noticed me as they slipped past me to run into the dining room. My heart beat furiously, but curiosity was a curse I was plagued with, and needing to know what they were doing, I followed them at a hesitant pace, wondering who they were. Yet, as I stepped into the dining room, watching their spindly legs, I knew them. I had grown up with them.

A flood of sweet memories assailed me as I looked around the room. The wallpaper was the same as it was ten years ago, green leaves with birds sketched in blue. The dining table I remembered so well. My fingers ran over the waxed mahogany top. It was older than my parents, but younger than my grandparents. Given to them as a wedding present. In the empty room I heard their laughter and followed the sound, passing through the simple kitchen with its high hooded gas cooker, and kitchen cabinets with yellow doors.

The children stood in a large walk-in larder. A biscuit in each hand, which they had taken from the old shortbread tin. The one with the tartan pattern and Merry Christmas 1965 embossed across the lid. My tongue glided over my lips as my fingers itched to reach out and touch it. To take the shortbread biscuit, and bite into the buttery, sugary substance. With their mouths crammed with biscuit crumbles, the boy lost in his own world, ran past me, followed by the girl.

The woman holding the biscuit tin, with hair as grey as silver thread, wearing an apron with a map of Devon printed on it, looked at me, and smiled. Then she faded, leaving just her scent of Lily of the Valley. With a shake of my head, I cleared the images away, and returned to the dining room. There were no sign of the children. Why should there be. I recognized them for what they were. Memories of when George, and I spent Christmas here twenty years ago.

A shudder ran through my body as I blinked. The house was no longer as bright as it was moments ago. The blue birds on the walls faded to dull grey. The plant on the table, wilted from lack of water. The tip of the leaves, a rusty brown. I strolled to the hallway. All was silent. Then I turned and stepped through the open doorway leading to the living room and stood at the entrance. Like the rest of the house, this room had not changed in several decades. Nets, a thing of the past, hung at the window. An old newspaper poked out from beneath a cream, and floral chair cushion. Beside the chair sat the ever-present knitting bag.

Memories stirred, bringing my attention back to the door, and my heart, which beat steadily, picked up its pace once more. There was something I must do. I had delayed long enough. For years there was somewhere I craved to go. My palms itched. My steps were slow as I mounted the stairs, and my lips were dry. When I reached the top step, my gaze swept over the landing. My throat was tight. All the doors, bar one, were open, allowing the air to circulate throughout the house.

I blinked. I was drowning in memories. Mum, so young then. Only a couple of years older than I am now, stood at the door. Her arms folded as she scowled at the twelve-year-old girl. She was telling me, this door was never to be opened, never to be unlocked. My thumb rubbed at the small scar on my index finger. The one time I found the key, giddiness swept through me as I ran up the stairs. As I stood at the door, wallowing in victory at my find, Grandad Joe had come upon me.  His smile fading when he snatched the key from my trembling hand, cutting the flesh of my finger. I rubbed my marred flesh once more. Now there was no one to stop me from opening the door and entering the room. To find what was hidden.

As much as I yearned to enter the room, my feet, which refused to move, held me back. My fingers tightened around the keys as I stared at the door. My breathing grew shallow as I counted each step I took. The click of a clock ticking echoed around me as it competed with my breathing for dominance.  The air was thick. A mist descended, hindering my progress to the door. Something or someone held me back. Preventing me from reaching my destination.

There was nothing special about this door. It was in the same plain style and colour as the others. I remembered when these doors were painted a fresh white gloss, now they were a dirty yellow. I was close now. If I stretched out my hand, I could touch the wood. Instead, I fumbled with the keys I collected from the telephone table, dropping them onto the faded floral pattern carpet. My nail caught on a loose thread as I grappled for the keys. When I managed to slip the key in the lock it turned with simple ease and with a gentle push the door swung open.

All my life we were forbidden entry to this room. The only person who ever came in here was Nana Jean, and that was only to clean it. Someone must still be cleaning it, for there was no dust on any surfaces and the small window above the larger pane was open a fraction. Not by much. Just enough to allow a slight breeze to flow through the room.

It was a child’s room. A single wood-based bedstead, with its slated headboard pushed against the thunderbird wallpaper was set in the middle of the room. An old homemade bookshelf was pushed up against another wall. Books cluttered several shelves. In the centre shelf, sitting proudly, without a scratch on it, was a green, cast iron, no 2 Thunderbird. At the end of the bed, a blue, homemade wooden box. When I raised the lid, I discovered it full of old cars and building bricks. The room belonged to a boy. But who was he and why had a shrine been created of the room.

I stepped further into the room, making my way to the solid chest of drawers. The top drawer opened easily. Striped tee-shirts lie folded in three piles. Three tee-shirts in each pile. The next drawer was full of underwear, white vests, and grey socks.

‘He was seven when he disappeared.’

Lost in my exploration of the room, I failed to hear the front door open or footsteps on the stairs. I turned, and expecting mum, I barely kept my balance as I dropped the pyjama top I was fiddling with, onto the floor. Nana Jean stood at the doorway. Her watery brown eyes stared at the piece of rumpled cloth on the floor. A chill filled the air. The memory from downstairs was nothing more than a fragment of my imagination. A memory of my childhood. As I watched Nana Jean enter the bedroom and stand by the bookshelf. Her fingers caressed the model no 2. I knew she was real. As real as an apparition could be. As I breathed in deep, a smile flittered at the corner of my lips. Lily of the Valley lingered under my nostrils. Another memory from my childhood.

‘Who was he?’ I asked.

My hands were clammy, and my fingers curled into my palms as Nana Jean walked further into the room. I was standing in a room I had been forbidden entry to all my life, talking to the ghost of a woman who died three weeks ago. Whose funeral, I arranged and attended a fortnight ago.

‘He was your mother’s older brother. Michael,’ Nana Jean said.

I shook my head, but she was still there. Her brown eyes watching me and there was a slight curve to her lips.

‘Brother. She never mentioned having a brother,’ I said. I scanned the room looking for clues. When I came up empty for what I was searching for, I turned to Nana Jean. ‘Where are his photographs?’

‘Packed.’

I licked my dry lips. ‘You kept his room while hiding all photographs of him. Denying all evidence of him. Why. What happened to him?’

Nana Jean’s finger clenched then she unfolded them. ‘We were so relaxed about life. We let our children walk to school on their own. Gave them freedom to come and go.’ She turned her gaze onto me, and the hairs on my arms prickled. ‘They were safe. Nothing could happen to them. We knew our neighbours. We talked to them. We ate with them. We drank with them.’

Nana Jean moved closer, and I stepped back. My legs brushed against the wooden box, and I stumbled. The hand I used to break my fall, hit the lid, jarring my wrist. As I straightened, I stepped around the toybox.

‘We were wrong.’ Nana Jean said. She was not looking at me. Her gaze was fixated on the box. ‘One day, he just never came home.’

My heart beat erratically. As a family, we never talked about the past. Mum and Dad live in the present. According to them, the past belonged to the past. I licked my dry lips as my mind scrambled. ‘Was it a car accident? Did he die? Was he killed?’ I asked.

Nana Jean shook her head ‘We don’t know. His body was never found.’

Mist and blood swirled in my head, and a faint drum beating in the distance, filled my ears. I wanted to hit something. To shout at the family for keeping secrets. For so many years my brother and I were lied to.

‘And the room. – Why keep it like this?’ I asked.

Nana Jean looked at me. There was a wry twist to her lips. ‘In the hope he’ll find his way home.’

She was beside me. Her cold hands lingered over mine as her fingers stroked my flesh. When her breath fluttered over my cheek, my stomach quivered as shivers slithered down my spine.

‘It’s why we left you the house.’ Her gaze bored into mine. ‘You must keep the room as it is. Promise. One-day, Michael will return. He’ll need something familiar. To know we never forgot him.’

W B Aodh

©2024

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