Mildred's Room

Mildred’s Room

It was much like it had been the last time Mildred was there. The walls were sparsely decorated with paintings of flowers and grassy meadows. A narrow wrought iron bed stood in the corner, underneath one of the two windows in the room, and covered with a homemade quilt in color blocks of pale yellow and pink. Next to it, a crude pine table with a delicate white doily covering the scars of daily use. The only other furniture in the room was a tall dresser, painted a fresh white to cover it’s age. It seemed as if time hadn’t moved within the room’s walls. 

She stepped into the room, carefully looking from one side to the other. The curtains above the bed fluttered gently as a morning breeze caught them through the open window. Why was she here after all this time? There had been grief and healing in this house. Even though she was welcomed as a guest, she felt as if her presence was tearing open an old wound. She had requested this room specifically and the owners, after a tense conversation between themselves, had agreed.

She left her overnight bag by the door, not knowing if she would bother to unpack. Spending the night here suddenly didn’t feel like the best idea, no matter how much she wanted to walk in Mildred’s footsteps. There was something unsettling about spending the night in a dead woman’s room. Especially when the idea itself felt like it came from the dead woman. And Mildred was dead. The whispers and gossip about it didn’t change that simple fact. 

It wasn’t that she was scared to stay in Mildred’s room. She just didn’t believe the stories about strange things happening here. If that made her a skeptic, so be it. It just wasn’t possible that Mildred, or her spirit, was still around. She approached the other window and drew back the curtain. There was a large crack in the glass that had been sealed with something like glue. It didn’t hinder the view though and she leaned into it for a better look. From here, she could see the backyard and the field beyond it. The field was dotted with patches of bright yellow dandelions and clusters of Queen Anne’s Lace bending gently with the wind. How strange to think that this idyllic landscape was the setting of such a horrible tragedy. 

She turned away, only to be startled by the appearance of the housekeeper standing in the doorway watching her with a gimlet eye. She let out a surprised “Oh!” And then laughed at herself. “You scared me!”

The housekeeper continued to watch her with a severe expression. “May I help you unpack, miss?” 

“Oh, well thank you, Mrs. Gramble, but that isn’t-” She cut herself off as the older woman ignored her completely and bent down to pick up the bag and hefted it to the bed. 

“Do you like the view?” Mrs. Gramble asked, opening the overnight bag. “Mildred used to sit by the window and stare at the field for hours.”

That caught her attention. “You knew Mildred?”

“Of course I knew her. Everyone around here did.” 

“What was she like?”

Mrs. Gramble lifted jeans and sneakers from the overnight bag, giving them a disapproving glance before tucking them into the top dresser drawer. “Mind you, I was just a teenager when Mildred lived here but I always thought she was too trusting and naive. Believed anything she was told. Always knew she would come to a bad end.”

“Oh.” Considering how long ago Mildred had died, she wondered how old Mrs. Gramble actually was. Pressing on, she asked, “Were you here when she...passed?”

Mrs. Gramble paused in her unpacking and turned to glare at her. “You’re not one of those ghost hunters are you? I keep telling you people that’s all nonsense. There’s no such thing as ghosts. When you’re dead, that’s it. You don’t linger around. Jesus died for us all to go to Heaven, not hang around a farm you lived at for a couple of summers.”

She was taken aback by Mrs. Gramble’s outburst. “No, of course I’m not a ghost hunter!” She offered her a small smile trying to reassure her. “I’m just curious, that’s all.”

“Curious? Hmpf.” She returned to unpacking. “Curiosity killed the cat. No good ever comes from picking at old wounds. What makes you want to know so much about Mildred anyhow?”

Well, that was a good question. How could she possibly explain the strange feeling that Mildred herself had drawn her to the farm? It sounded insane and saying it out loud wouldn’t endear her to the stern housekeeper. She turned back to the window and gazed out across the yard to the field beyond. “I read about the farm and Midlred’s death in a travel magazine. I suppose the mystery of it intrigued me. I mean, her death is still unsolved after all these years. And...I felt-” She broke off and looked back at Mrs. Gramble over her shoulder. “I felt sorry for her.”

Mrs. Gramble didn’t answer right away. She put the last of the clothes in the dresser and shoved it closed. “Lots of folks felt sorry for Mildred, even when she was alive, but let me tell you something,” she said, going to the door. Mrs. Gramble gripped the doorknob and gave her one last sharp look. “Sometimes it’s best to leave things in the past. Enjoy your stay.”

Alone again, she sat on the bed and looked around the room again. What exactly was she doing here? Dredging up some woman’s tragic death all because she had read some stupid article? All because after reading that stupid article, she felt some kind of empathy for a woman who had been gone for decades. And that empathy made her search Mildred out to connect with her. It was just so stupid.

With a sigh, she got up from the bed and wandered the room, skimming the bare furniture with her fingertips. She made a wide circle around the room, stopping at the closet door and staring at it. What if all of Mildred’s secrets were in there, hiding from the world in her room? She desperately wished it were so. Carefully, she turned the doorknob and opened it. Her breath caught in her throat for the briefest of moments. What if she did find Mildred’s secrets locked away?

There was a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling with a small chain that she tugged on gently. The dull yellow light illuminated a small closet with nothing but empty shelves and peeling wallpaper. Disappointed, she closed the door. Any secrets Mildred had left behind were long gone from this place. She closed the closet door, scolding herself for getting her hopes up over a dingy closet. Maybe Mrs. Gramble was right after all and Mildred didn’t linger in the place she had died. All the stories were just that, she thought. They were just stories from curious guests like herself. 

She returned to the broken window, outlining the crack with her finger. A flash of movement in the field caught her eye and she pressed herself against the window to see better. What looked like a young woman was standing in the field, one hand holding a straw hat to her head and the other waving to the house. To her, she thought suddenly. Her pulse raced with excitement. The young woman waved again, and put her hand to her mouth forming a word before disappearing from view. She heard the word float to her on the breeze. It was her name! 

She should have panicked at the sight of a woman just disappearing into thin air. Instead, she felt a sense of exhilaration. Any dread at staying in a dead woman’s room disappeared at the thought of what she had just seen! Her grim curiosity about Mildred and her room felt justified now because she knew that the young woman in the field was Mildred and she was calling to her. Just as she had done while reading the magazine article. 

She picked up a jacket and ran out of her room and down the stairs of the farm house. Pausing at the bottom, she looked to the front door briefly before deciding that there must be a faster way to get to the field. She sprinted down the hallway to another door, this one to the kitchen. Mrs. Gramble looked up from the bowl of potatoes she was peeling, taking in her wild expression. With a shake of her head and a flicker of comprehension, Mrs. Gramble jabbed her paring knife toward a screen door.

She pushed through it, racing across the backyard towards the field. The air around her felt still and heavy, as if a storm was waiting just off the horizon to unleash itself. When she thought she was close to where the young woman disappeared, she slowed and tried to catch her breath. The field was empty, save the dandelions and wildflowers. Even the breeze had died away. 

“Mildred!” She called out. “I’m here, Mildred! Where are you?” 

She spun in a circle looking for the young woman she had seen from the broken window. Please be here, she thought desperately. She had come all this way for Mildred and she was so close. She ran ahead into the field a little further but there was no one to be seen anywhere. Nothing living or dead. Frustrated, she let out an angry howl. Whatever she had seen was gone. A figment of her imagination. Was she actually losing her mind? 

Shoulders sagging, she turned back towards the house. Mrs. Gramble stood on the back porch, watching her. She must look like an idiot to the housekeeper. She waved to Mrs. Gramble and started her walk back to the house. So much for her weekend. The mystery of Mildred’s death would probably always be just that. No sense picking at an old wound, she thought hearing Mrs. Gramble’s voice in her ear. 

“No sense at all,” she repeated aloud, returning to the house. She kept her eyes down in defeat, not looking up to the broken window where the young woman watched her return to the house with a mischievous gleam in her eye.