The House on Echome Lane

2012

I wake up to fresh snow and an impeccable E minor scale.

A quick glance at the clock tells me it’s 7:12 AM. I already know, of course, but it’s habit—and habit is a winsome task. Either way, it’s far too early to be squinting at the pale gold sun slanting in through the window.

As much as I love Mary, I’ve never had any desire to develop a perfect pitch for E.

Reluctantly, I slip out of bed. Mondays are tedious, and this one especially.

Or is it Tuesday?

I’ve lost count. 

But that tends to happen to you, when every day is a rubber stamp copied from the last. Sometimes it’s even difficult to remember who I am—brief flashes of a blank past, darting out of my grasp momentarily. I used to panic. Now, it’s customary. 

My gaze lingers momentarily on the window beside me, an ornately framed glass arch that gives me clear view of the new snow outside. The grounds outside the manor have been carpeted in glimmering white, awash in dusky primrose; it is a colour that I would have once rushed to write an eager description of on my computer. But I feel no desire to do so now. In fact, the prospect of sleeping the entire day away is wholly appealing.

Unfortunately, I know that I won’t be able to fall asleep again until 10:03 tonight. Sharp.

Turning away from the dawn behind the glass, I make my way downstairs. The sound of the piano grows louder—it has moved on to arpeggios now, and each note jabs at my ears. I wish, briefly, that I do not share a house with a pianist. Or such a responsible one anyway. Her piano is an alarm clock that I cannot put on snooze and ignore.

I enter the warmly lit kitchen and pour myself a steaming cup of coffee from the kettle on the stove. Cream and sugar are added absentmindedly, monotonously. I have gone through these motions hundreds—thousands?—of times.

The kettle has never run out.

Mr. Callaway enters a moment later, yawning. The grey-haired man is still in plain striped pyjamas. I brush past him, making a conscious effort to avoid observing anything else about him. I don’t want to look for too long. I don’t trust myself not to break down.

Mr. Callaway is kind. He has a face that is lined with the countless memories of smiles, of laughter. He is the type of person who won’t kill the spider on his wall but will bring it outside to release into the wild. The type that young children see and immediately run to in hopes of earning a sweet. He has a good heart, the old man.

I take a gulp of coffee, ignoring the heat that sears my tongue. I am grateful for the distraction.

There are still a few more hours before I will sit down at my desk and write, so I wander the looming hallways with my mug in hand. Large, skillfully painted portraits hang on the wallpapered walls, staring down at me frostily. There’s Mary. Mr. Wright. Mr. Wright’s young daughter. My father. Me.

We are all much more welcoming in real life.

I find myself at the wide doorway to the sitting room. A Bach fugue is being played. I know Mary’s practice schedule by now—it would be impossible not to. She starts the day with technical studies: scales, arpeggios, other exercises I can’t name. Then Bach. Then Rachmaninoff. In the evening is Tchaikovsky and Chopin.

You know she has been doing this a long time if I know the names of the composers. 

I push open the door and step inside. The sitting room is luxuriously furnished; an ornate carpet sprawls across the floor, woven intricately in red and gold. A simple glass chandelier dangles from the ceiling, glittering faintly. The corner beside a comfortable leather armchair is dominated by a grand piano.

I have always thought the piano to be an aesthetically pleasing instrument. This one gleams in the shattered light of the chandelier, genuine ivory keys winking smooth white. A fine layer of dust rests upon the lid, but the piano stands as tall and proud as the young woman sitting regally at its bench—I marvel, for a moment, at her perfect posture. Are all musicians so composed?

I take a seat, perched on the edge of the armchair. 

It is a joy to watch Ms. Mary Evanson practice. Her fingers are a river flowing over the keys, fast and even and perpetually moving. Somehow, her bobbing wrists and sprite-like hands draw out the elaborate melodies of Baroque music in a way my eyes cannot track. There is no sheet music in front of her, and yet she does not appear to miss a single note. Her voice brings me from my admiring thoughts suddenly.

“Is something the matter, dear?”

I stay silent for a moment longer.

“Today’s the eighth,” I say finally.

“Yes.” The piece resolves and immediately another begins. Rachmaninoff.

I watch her hands on the keys. “The eighth of December.”

“I know.”

Rapid chords. In both hands, perfectly controlled yet seeming to shake the piano with their ferocity. I can’t imagine the technical skill needed. The farthest I ever got on piano was “Hot Cross Buns”, after which I begged my mother to let me quit.

I am not a musical person.

Finally, Mary speaks. I imagine it’s difficult while simultaneously playing piano, but she has had a very long time practicing this piece. “Are you anxious, Charity?”

“Me?” I blow on my coffee, eyebrows arching. “Why would I be anxious?”

“Why would you not?”

Mary, although only twenty-four or so in appearance, has the wisdom of decades more behind her. And she has just now, unsurprisingly, asked a question that I cannot answer.

I change the topic instead. “How is Julia?”

“Oh, the same as always. Decades in this manor, and still she has an unquenched curiosity for it all. Her questions are refreshing.”

“She is a special girl.”

Mary’s dark hazel eyes flick up from the piano to glance at me quickly. “Because of who she is? Or because of where she lives?”

Another question with no answer. I sip my coffee instead of replying. Neither of us speak for a time, air heavy around us. I am the one who eventually breaks the silence.

“Are you anxious?”

A chromatic scale, in roaring chords, fills the silence. Amply. But to me they seem just slightly more intense than usual.

The music changes. Her left hand taps three soft and impossibly low octaves, and then flits up the keyboard quietly, smoothly. Like a butterfly. All of a sudden the melody is high and sweet with longing, carried in tremulous right hand chords. Compared to the beginning, this section is only just above a whisper, and yet so easily swells and suffuses the entire room with music. I can only describe it as magic that Mary has coaxed from the piano. I have almost forgotten that we had been talking at all when Mary speaks.

“No.” Her voice drifts with the music.

“You aren’t?”

“Mr. Callaway will be a good companion. And yet it makes sense, if you worry. I understand.”

“I don’t doubt he will be.” I swallow some more coffee. “He is compassionate.”

There is a short lapse in the conversation as Mary focuses on the piano. “But?”

I hesitate, glancing out the large window at the manor grounds. The snow has begun falling once more, gently, flurrying like miniature swan feathers to the ground.

“But what of him?”

“What of him?”

“This is not something he chose. What if he doesn’t want it to happen? I know I didn’t. Not to me.”

“Not everything in life is a choice.” Mary looks sideways at me again. “But choosing to claim this house was a choice. Choosing to ignore the rumours was a choice.”

“They are rumours. Myths. Who would heed them, at the cost of a mansion?”

“True.” Mary sighs. “Humans are fickle, like that.”

“They are.” I raise my mug, watching with detached interest how the cold sunlight catches the silver sheen of my hands and passes through.

“So, will you answer? Are you anxious?”

“A little.” I’m honest. “But I’m not the one dying today.”

1960

[excerpt from The Daily Chronicle, ed. 8, December 1960]

“WIDELY ACCLAIMED CONCERT PIANIST FOUND DEAD IN ALLEY: For years, England has been clamouring of the talented Mary Evanson, a highly praised concert pianist from Salford. Evanson, known for her virtuosic interpretations of Rachmaninoff and Chopin, quickly grew in fame and success despite coming from a humble background. She even came to purchase the newly constructed manor on Echome Lane, a secluded and luxurious area. But on December the eighth, an anonymous source found her prone body in an alley while walking home one night—a traumatising discovery, we are sure, though it is the entire nation that grieves the loss of such a skillful young woman. Although the cause of death is yet uncertain, further details will…”

1973

[excerpt from The Daily Chronicle, ed. 156, December 1973]

“FATHER AND YOUNG DAUGHTER KILLED IN TRAGIC ACCIDENT: Charles Wright and twelve-year-old daughter Julia, recent occupants of the opulent manor on Echome Lane, were driving home on the night of December eighth when tragedy struck. In a devastating automobile collision in which the bonnet and windscreen were found completely crushed in, both father and daughter were killed instantly…”

1986

[excerpt from Evening Reports, special ed. 3, December 1986]

“AN EERIE DEATH: IS THE HOUSE ON ECHOME LANE CURSED?: Myth or Murder? Few individuals have ever occupied house number eight on Echome Lane, due mostly to its daunting price. Dr. James Pilsworth, its most recent owner, lived alone, coming into contact with few people besides his close family [see below image: daughter, Charity Pilsworth, 20], and so it was found out no less than three days afterwards that he had died. Although causes of death remain uncertain, there has already sprouted rumours and uneasy clamourings on and surrounding Echome Lane. So far, none of number eight’s previous occupants have died from natural causes. But what is most chilling is this: each have died on the same date, December eighth. 

Does this suggest planned murder, rather than freak accidents? Or is the increasingly popular myth true: that the house on Echome Lane is cursed, and its occupants are doomed to die on the same haunting date? Another part of the myth is, if possible, even eerier; it is said that the deceased previous owners are cursed to wander the halls of their manor as ghosts, repeating their actions from the day they died for eternity…”

1999

[excerpt from Evening Reports, ed. 214, December 1999]

“BEST-SELLING AUTHOR DROWNS IN THAMES; THE CURSE RESURFACES: The series of chilling tragedies continues; author of best-selling novels such as The Thornbush Charity Pilsworth drowned this Wednesday, December eighth, in the River Thames. Her body was found two days ago and is currently being investigated. With no known children, and therefore heirs, her home on Echome Lane is now vacant; what is left are reinforced superstitions. Each of its past occupants—including Pilsworth’s father, James Pilsworth—have died on the eighth of December, what is now becoming a date of paranoia for many.”

2012

It is December the eighth.

Mr. Callaway, a kind old man who lives alone, takes a comfortable seat in the sitting room of his manor to read away the evening with a cup of tea. After a few chapters, he will stand. He will be getting restless, beginning to want a breath of fresh air. After placing his tea in the kitchen, he will don his coat and pull out his walking cane. He will step outside into the cool night air, marvelling at the beauty of the glinting stars above him. The snow, soft shadow-grey in the evening, will be crisp and deep at his feet as he walks. Bending down slowly to fondle a resilient blue flower poking from the snow on the kerb, he will not realise he has stepped out onto the street. He will not see the hazy flash of headlights on the wide concrete. He will not feel the impact of the car slamming into him. He will be too busy appreciating the way that the frost clings to the cobalt petals, shining delicately silver.

Just before leaving his sitting room, however, Mr. Callaway pauses. He doesn’t quite know why, but just for a moment, he imagines he can hear a sad, lilting melody echo from the dusty, untouched piano in the corner. Chopin.

So sad, he thinks absentmindedly. So very sad.

Then he turns, teacup in hand, and leaves to take a walk.

Finis.