The Ghost of Riverston Cottage

Submitted into Contest #169 in response to: Write a story where someone sees the shadow of someone standing behind them.... view prompt

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Fiction Sad

 The night ended with a bitter dinner of knifes and forks clicking against plates, along with a serve of silence. The evening is clouded, as usual, with the silver-grey sky occasionally peeking through the clouds. Not a glimpse of sun at all. I decide to draw the evening tonight outside my bedroom window. I drag the patterned green lounge chair from the end of my bed to the window, where I sit with my sketchpad and pencil. I draw the swift lines with one stroke. After years of practice, my hand is as steady as anything. I try to ignore the sounds of scullery maids and household maids as they scuttle by my bedroom door, but when my personal Ladies maid, Gladys opens the door with a quick,

“Good evening, Miss Riverston”

I snap back. 

“Gladys would you please knock before you come in, I am trying to draw at the moment.”

I didn’t mean to, but I said what I said. She does a quick dip of the head, brushes her hands on her apron and scuttles out of the room with her head down. 

We are living like people did in the 18th century. My brain groans. Sometimes I think that it really is the 1800s. I have a hard time believing I am a ten-year-old living in 2022 in a small English cottage by a lake, with a few maids and a personal chef. I hear the floorboards creak. As the setting sun peeks through a gap in the clouds, there is a shadow behind me. They stand still, not moving.

If Gladys is here to do my hair I will-

I spin aroun. My heart jolts and I realise that the person standing before me isn’t Gladys or Grandmother or Mother. Her image flickers and her skin is pale, almost transparent. Her fingers are laced in white gloves, and a collared pink vintage dress flows around her knees. 

“Who a-are you?” I stammer, holding my pencil forward as a weapon.

Like she is going to be scared of a pencil.

The woman doesn’t say a thing, she just hovers over towards my rickety canopy bed and sits down, brushing down her dress out. I don’t know what to do. What am I supposed to do? She doesn’t even look real, with her transparent white skin and perfect dark chocolate pin curls. 

I walk over with the pencil still in the fist of my right hand. 

“I said, who are you?”

No response. She looks up at me and her lips curl into a soft smile. Her warm ocean eyes flicker and then look up past my shoulder. I see what she is looking at. Where the wall meets the ceiling, the turquoise floral wallpaper is peeled and blackened along with some other parts of the room. It’s always been there, and I have never really noticed it. The house is old anyways. I look back at the woman. She rubs her eyes that are watered with tears. I open my mouth, but she stops me. She holds out her laced hand and gestures for me to not call out for Gladys or Grandmother. 

“Eden, is it?” She says in a silvery voice. 

“How do you know my name?” I say with a spark of confidence in my tone. I am surprised. She reaches forward and takes the pencil from my hand easily. She sees my eyes widen. 

“You’re an artist, no?” She inspects my pencil like she hasn’t seen one in a long time. I nod. I look closely at her closely. She doesn’t look a day over thirty with her perfect smooth face, delicately powdered in pink and white. I still can’t figure out why she looks so- ghostly.

“Who are you?” I ask again, firm this time. I know she isn’t scared of a ten year old with a skinny figure and straight chocolate hair. She still doesn’t respond. 

“I said, who are you!? Can you not hear me?”

 She looks up, her eyes teary. She pats the cream quilt on my bed. 

“This was my room once.”

“What are you talking about?” I snap, grabbing the pencil from her lap. I’m not scared of her. I am probably just daydreaming. 

“Eden Emily Riverston, that’s your name, isn’t it?”

Eden, snap out of it. You are imagining things because you are bored. My brain tells me. But I do believe this is real. She is a petite lady with ocean eyes, perfect brown pin curls, transparent ghostly skin, and peachy lips. She isn’t scary, but I can still feel my heart thumping inside my chest. Here I am, in my room with a strange lady sitting on my bed, saying this was once her room. I am now interested. I sit down on my bed, a fair space away from her. A smile spreads across her face as I gingerly sit down. She looks back up at the roof where the wallpaper is peeled, frayed and crisp.

“I am Winifred Riverston, but everyone called me Winnie,”

She used past tense, called. Maybe, just maybe, she is a ghost? My mind hums.

And her last name is Riverston. I let her continue.

“This always used to be my bedroom. From when I was a young lady, to when I was fifty-three years old,”

“What happened, may I ask?”

Tears prick her eyes. 

“It was a cold night, very cold indeed. I had Grace put on the fire.” 

I don’t know who Grace is but I continue listening. 

“I went to bed like usual, but I didn’t realise the window was left open. The curtains must have been blowing about in the wind, and an ember must have flicked out of the fire and onto the floor. It caught fire while I was sound asleep. I woke up and the smoke tinged my nose, and it was already too late. Flames surrounded the room and I tried to open the door but it was too hot and I burnt my hands. The flames climbed up the walls and I was choking on smoke. Then it all went dark and I woke up, but no one else could hear me. I have spent years watching over my granddaughter and her family, until I saw you. You could hear me.” She takes off her white lace gloves. I can see burn marks, swollen and red, covered in dry, crusted blood. At this point she is in tears. I look up at the peeling wallpaper. They must’ve redone the room. She sobs and sobs. Now I just feel sorry for her. She is a ghost who died in her fifties in this bedroom. I stare at the fireplace. Gladys doesn’t ever put the fireplace on. She just gives me a hot water bottle and a thick extra blanket at night. I almost want to give her a hug, but Riverston’s don’t give strangers warm embraces. Winnie slips back on her gloves and wipes the tears off her face, smudging her makeup. Her image flickers again. 

“So, no one else can see you?” I ask.

She shakes her head. Right. She can only see me. How convenient.

“A lovely room this one is.” She whispers. I look around. This room is one of the brightest in the cottage. Turquoise antique floral wallpaper that is matching with the canopy on my Mahogany four poster bed. A golden framed mirror sits above my dark wood dressing stand and a gloomy family portrait of Mother, Grandmother, Grandfather and I sits above my bedside table. I gaze at it. Grandmother insisted that we take the photo, old fashioned style in our best dresses with a black and white camera. Because I am the youngest, I sat in the centre next to Mother and Grandmother. Our liver and white springer spaniel, Duke, lay at my feet obediently, his head and floppy ears rested on the ground. Grandfather stood behind me, resting one of his big rough hands on my shoulder. I remember that day vividly. Winnie follows my gaze to the family portrait and then traces her gaze back towards me. “I looked a lot like you when I was your age.”

I don’t know whether to take that as a compliment or not. I have never taken after mothers curled honey hair or small hazel eyes. Nor have I taken on Grandmothers fierce green eyes or Grandfathers long chin. I am me, with straight dark hair, pale rosy cheeks, Icy blue eyes, long skinny legs, a narrow chin, and small figure. Grandmother says I am the most stubborn, unladylike Riverston there ever was, and I’m glad. 

Winnie stands, brushing down her dress. 

“Come.” She says gently. I follow her. When we reach my bedroom door, she hesitates. Her hand carefully cups the doorknob, and she winces, expecting to feel something. This is where she burnt her hands. Nothing happens, and she continues to open the door. I follow her through the dark hallway, and then she stops before the stairs at the last bedroom. This is Grandfathers room

She opens the door and steps inside. I follow her. Grandfather is asleep, alone in his giant dusty bed, his face looking up to the ceiling. His breath is ragged. I shudder at the Drip, leaning against the side of the bed. Grandfather has Lung cancer, from smoking all of his life. I feel sorry for him. Winnie hovers forward and looks down at Grandfathers peaceful face. I am curious why she has taken me here. 

“I spend my days here,” She whispers, being careful not to wake Grandfather up. I don’t know why, because she said no one else can hear her. “He is my Granddaughters husband.”

I do the math in my head. If her granddaughter is married to Grandfather, then her granddaughter is my Grandmother, Margret. That makes my Mother Winnie’s Great Granddaughter, and that makes me her-

“I am your Great Great Granddaughter, aren’t I?” I say quietly. 

“Correct.”

  “Why are you still here Winnie?”

I don’t want to call her Great Great Grandmother yet. That sounds wrong. Winnie sounds better.

“I don’t know.” She admits. Now I wonder why I am the only one who cans see and hear her. Is it because I am gullible enough to believe she is just in my imagination, or is it because someone like Mother or Grandmother would be scared of a real ghost. Winnie seems like the person who would take care of anyone, not putting herself first. I don’t think she accepts how she died. 

“I just want people to hear me again.” She sobs. I usher her out of Grandfathers room and downstairs. The housemaids see me but continue on with their work. They can’t see Winnie. I look around the corner to make sure Grandmother isn’t there before heading out the front door. I don’t know where I’m taking her or why I am, but let me give you a tip. Don’t ask a ghost how they died.

October 29, 2022 01:58

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