A Christmas together

The old woman, Lydia, was staring at herself in the bedroom mirror, the worn velvet sinking beneath her bony frame. Outside, the wind was howling, tree branches knocking on the windows, a mournful counterpoint to the silence within. Her first Christmas alone.

Lydia shivered, though the room was well heated. She was overcome by a deeper, more chilling fear. She had never felt that way before her husband died, but since his funeral her heart had been tightly gripped by the pointy and sharp talons of a monster from her nightmares.

George. Her George had come back to keep her company.

She glanced at the ornate mirror clearly carrying her fingerprints and dust. George's face, pale and gaunt, leered back at her, eyes hollow and black. Decay, like a creeping mold, had begun to mar his features, the skin stretched taut over bone, a grotesque parody of his former self.

George Paley, the man she'd spent a lifetime tormenting, the man whose life she'd been determined to derail. There was no love, at least not the love you picture in your imagination. He'd always been a means to an end, a comfortable provider, a sturdy oak against the storms of life, a conveniently silent shadow by her side. She'd married him for security, a random pick from the line of his friends.

And she'd never let him forget it.

Every meal was a battleground, every conversation a minefield. His jokes were met with withering disdain, his opinions dismissed as foolish and soon he chose to eat in silence letting her flood the kitchen with gossip and nonsense. His attempts to please her were met with icy indifference, his love met with a rebuke so he chose to go through the motions like a soulless creature. He had never been enough and she'd taken every opportunity to remind him about that.

"You're such an idiot, George," she'd sneer, her voice dripping with venom. "I should have chosen Tom or Gerry instead. They are the real men."

He'd wither under her gaze, his spirit crushed beneath the weight of her constant criticism. He'd try harder, desperate to win her approval not even love. But it was a futile effort, a Sisyphean task.

His only chance to shine was his life outside his marriage. He was a well-respected figure in his professional field and a man adored by women. The further he travelled from home, the brighter his eyes shone. He flourished and conquered in the world outside once spared his wife's poisonous presence.

One evening, he'd complained of chest pains.

It'd been a year since he retired and fell victim to her daily attacks, choosing to stare blankly at the TV screen blocking his wife out. The pain worsened but he refused to go to the hospital, listening to his heart skipping beats and looking at the doctor calmly. He'd never been so tired in his entire life.

The next morning, he was found slumped on the bathroom floor, cold and stiff.

If only Lydia could feel any guilt! Her screaming and crying, and shaking his body was done only to prove her despair to the invisible audience. She didn't feel sorry for George, she felt sorry for herself.

"I wish… I wish you were still here," she'd whispered, tears rolling down her sunken cheeks. "I've never allowed you to go!"

And so, he obeyed.

Every night from then on, the old woman heard the mournful whistle of the ghost train. It chugged along the ghostly rail track that ran through her back yard overgrown with weeds and shrouded in an eerie mist.

The train carried him back, night after night, a spectral passenger on a journey to torment.

He'd appear in the mirrors, a grotesque reflection of her own despair. His eyes, hollow and black, would follow her every move, a silent accusation.

She'd try to ignore him, to pretend he wasn't there, but his presence was a suffocating weight, a constant reminder of her cruelty, her indifference.

Sleep became a distant memory. The nights were filled with the sound of his labored breathing, his ghostly sighs echoing through the empty rooms.

She'd see him in the shadows, a fleeting glimpse of a gaunt figure lurking in the corners of the room. He'd stand at the foot of her bed, watching her sleep, his presence a chilling reminder of her guilt. She wouldn't get more than a few minutes of sleep woken up by him staring at her from the dark.

Terror gnawed at her as he found a way in, slithering through the cracks, a malevolent spirit haunting her every move.

"Be careful what you wish for, Lydia," his voice, a chilling whisper, would echo through the room.

She'd recoil in fear, her heart pounding against her ribs. She'd never truly understood the meaning of those words until now.

She'd yearned for his presence, so she could continue with her comfortable thought-free life knowing that he'd provide for her and swallow every accusation, every insult and never fight back. All he'd ever done was pleading. Once he'd tried to fight back though. She'd faced his anger and bitterness indifferently completely missing his pain. All she'd ever been capable of was feeling sorry for herself, wanting to be the centre of attention, the ever sick but never dying martyr, the misunderstood victim. Whatever he'd asked for was met with disgust as if it violated her rights.

But she'd lost her weapon for he'd crossed the scariest line that every living feared and was watching her from a place far beyond her reach rendering her helpless. And still she refused to look at her actions and feel any remorse whatsoever.

The ghost train continued its nightly journey, its mournful whistle a haunting reminder of her tyranny and vanity.

And George, the ghost, remained a constant, malevolent presence in her life, a chilling testament to the devastating consequences of a lifetime of cruelty. He was ready to stand by his marital vows even in death and remind Lydia that some debts could never be repaid.

Even in death. Even on Christmas.