HIS SECRET

HIS SECRET

A SHORT STORY

BY KAT GINLEY

Nothing much is visible on a day like today. The rolling hills and countryside, shrouded in thick mist, may or may not exist at all beyond the veil. The old dark stone houses lining the street are barely visible and create a sense of mystery.  And they are trying to do just that, she muses, as her sneaker clad feet crunch on the pavement, almost the only sound to be heard in the neighborhood. Not many people venture outside on this icy cold, foggy day. Warm within those very houses, heating and lights on, cozy and going about their business. It is still relatively early, perhaps some people have yet to rise to face this foggy day.

               A lack of coffee in the house motivated her to leave her own haven. The journey to the Supermarket, not a long walk, yet also not a short one, invigorates her and she is glad she ventured out after all. Coffee was most definitely needed; it was just not negotiable. She marvels at the houses as she passes by. Pumpkins appear in almost every doorway or entrance, gardens decorated with man-made spiderwebs, broken furniture, fake blood-stained objects, dismembered body parts and broken upside-down furniture, intensify the surreal feeling of otherworldliness.

               Passing the small pub on her right, she knows what lies ahead and challenges herself to walk by this morning, without stopping or pausing or being drawn in. She senses it before she sees it. The small church, silhouetted, wrapped and vague, nestled in the thick mist that surrounds it. It is not the church that draws her however, but rather the small cemetery that lies to its left. This morning, she can barely make out the old headstones that dot the field. She doesn’t need to. She can hear them, feel them, sense them in a way she would never be able to explain to anyone. Her pace slows as her eyes strain to see through the thick grey cloud that seems to be closing in, becoming denser rather than dissipating.

A deep silence alerts her to the fact that she has stopped walking, the small stones beneath her feet no longer crunching. Sighing deeply, her breath visible in the cold air, she slowly forces herself to move. Not along the pavement, but through the small wooden gate, down the muddy path towards the headstones that appear to be waiting for her arrival. She doesn’t stop as she reaches the first ones, doesn’t see or read the names and dates that map out their time on earth, wonder about their stories or imagine their lives. She makes her way to the far-left hand corner, to the headstone that is more absent than present, more invisible than visible. And although she knows the inscription by heart, her eyes skim over the words once again:

Thomas Frederick Henderson, 18 November 1869 to 11 November 1944.

Grandfather, father, brother. He took his secrets to the grave.

“There is something beyond the grave; death does not end all, and the pale ghost escapes from the vanquished pyre”.

What secrets did this man take to his grave, she wonders. She is so deep in thought that she fails to hear or see him approach.

               “Did you know the family?” the words come out of nowhere and are so unexpected and shocking that her whole body reacts, heart racing, the blood rushes to her face as she gasps, and jumps.

               “No,” she rasps, still breathing heavily. Peering through the mist at him, she is struck by his strong good looks, piercing blue eyes and his almost raven black curly hair. Longer than is fashionable, falling to his shoulders in an unruly fashion. He is tall and there is something about him that instantly intrigues her. His chiseled features, emphasized by a strong chin and high cheek bones, differentiate him immediately from anyone else she has encountered in the village so far.

               “Are you related in any way?” she asks him now, hesitatingly.

               He doesn’t answer, only inclining his head slightly, almost imperceptibly. He is staring at her intently, and she shifts away from him, ready to make her escape. Except she realizes almost instantly that she can’t. He is blocking the only small pathway between the grave and the pavement. Unless she bolted clumsily across the ancient graves, which she knew she wouldn’t do unless forced, she was well and truly trapped.

               Turning away from him now, breaking the uncomfortable eye contact, she turns back to the grave.

               “I wonder what his secrets were?” she murmurs, not really expecting an answer.

               “Yes, everyone does,” he answers in a deep rumbling voice. “Perhaps he wants to tell them now, but it is too late. There is no one that can hear him anymore.”

               “Perhaps,” she whispers.

                “I can tell you”, he rumbled deeply, surprising her.

               “Tell me!?”, she says quietly, her voice failing her. In her head it was a question, but as she says it, she realizes it sounds more like a command. She wants to turn to look at him, yet something is keeping her fixed in place, staring at the headstone, unable to move.  

               “The manor house on the hill,” he continues as though she hasn’t spoken. “The secret is to be found there. A ring of rocks and stones, in the far-left hand corner of the smallest of the gardens, will tell this story. Don’t tell anyone.”

               Whirling around finally, a question forming on her lips, she finds herself staring into nothingness. He is gone. Vanished. As though he had never been there at all. Peering through the mist, straining her eyes to see where he went, she can see nothing at all. A shiver runs down her spine, colder even than the air surrounding her.

               “Okay, enough now,” talking loudly to herself, needing to hear her own voice, she turns purposefully and walks quickly, very quickly, out and away from the graveyard.

               She knew there was no way on earth she could leave it at that, however.

               The manor house on top of the hill is not far from where she lives. She has passed it on her walk across the moors a few times. Now as she makes her way towards it, walking away from the store that sells her coffee, she wonders if it is open for visitors and if viewing it is even a possibility. She has to look of course, not only in the house, but also the gardens. One particular garden to be precise.

               She sees the signs before she reaches the manor house.  It is closed to visitors for the winter. Only to be reopened in March the following year. Sighing heavily, she walks alongside the castle walls, hoping to catch a glimpse of…… what exactly she couldn’t say.

               As she reaches the large entrance that leads the way in, ornate steel gates stop her from going any further. Sighing heavily, she turns to leave. There is nothing else to be achieved today, she decides. Shivering from the cold now, she draws her coat closer to her slim frame and runs her hands through her now damp, curly auburn hair.

               “Where are you going?” The words stop her in her tracks. Once again, she hadn’t seen him arrive or heard him for that matter.

               “It’s closed,” she states the obvious, staring at him.

               He doesn’t reply but beckons for her to follow him. Without thinking it through, she allows herself to fall into step besides him. Although she can think of at least thirty questions she would love the answer to, she says nothing. It feels like that silent kind of moment, the one where words would be out of place, hang in the air as thick as the mist surrounding them. For a moment she wonders if she is dreaming.

               She follows him through a small gate in the wall, she had failed to even notice it had been there all along. He walks straight up to the front door, opens it and disappears inside. After a short hesitation, she follows, welcoming the fact that she could escape the cold damp of the outdoors, even if just for a moment. It is not much warmer inside, only slightly. The lights are all turned off, and the windows let in only enough light to cast a gloomy half-light throughout the large house. Curiously she looks around. The large entrance hall appears to lead to various rooms and passages. She almost misses the fact that the stranger is waiting for her at the bottom of a large flight of stairs. Assuming that she must follow him, and now completely out of her depth, she hurries after him as he disappears out of her sight up the long stairway. Large chandeliers hang from the high ceilings above her, and the floorboards creak beneath her feet, making her wince slightly. Large portraits hang on the wall. Paintings of people, families, smiling children. She glances at them as she passes them, until suddenly one painting stops her in her tracks. Gasping for breath she stares at the painting, all colour draining from her face, her head spinning, uncomprehending.

               She knows this face. It is the man in the mist. The one she has been following. Or has he been following her? The tall, dark, mysterious man at her side. She turns to him now, a question half formed on her cold numb lips. Except the question is never spoken. There is no one to speak it to. The stranger, once again, has disappeared. She no longer looks for him. She knows she will not find him.

                She is not even sure if she is surprised, or whether she already knows the answer to her unformed question as, on a bronze plaque next to the portrait, she sees the engraved name.

Thomas Frederick Henderson 1869-1944 is staring intently back at her.