The Visitor

The Visitor

I hope you’re all made of stern stuff as I’ve no wish to scare you, but I want to tell you what happened to me the other night. It was like this. It was very late, and I was in bed, settling down to sleep but still awake, if you know what I mean. I was at that point where I was warm and comfortable, although still conscious of the traffic noises outside. But if I heard something out of the ordinary, say, someone by my gate or footsteps on the drive I’d probably say, ‘Bu – blow it’ and turn over. I was that close to sleep. But I want you to know I wasn’t – asleep that is – because I heard the church clock strike the hour.

I could hear it chime quite clearly as the bedroom window was open and the church is only across the road from where I live. It struck twelve times; I know because I counted the strikes. It’s a habit I have. I know, it’s daft but if I hear a clock striking the hour I have to stop what I’m doing and count the strikes. They have a name for people like me, I’m sure and it’s not what you’re thinking. It’s more clinical but I’m not a doctor so I can’t bring it to mind. I had been reading and although I kept telling myself I’d put the book down when I reached the end of the next chapter I kept going because it was a good story and I couldn’t leave the characters in trouble, now could I? I had to read on until the drama had been resolved and I knew they were safe – for the time being anyway. So, here we have it, it was twelve o’clock and I was comfortable in bed but still awake.

I was thinking about the story I had just read when I was suddenly jolted out of my reverie by the sound of someone bounding up the stairs followed by skittering across the bedroom floor. It’s a wooden floor and a tad noisy. Then there was a hefty thump as something heavy landed by my left side.

You may think that I should have been frightened by that, living alone as I do but I wasn’t. Whoever it was wasn’t sneaking about trying to be quiet and I had been looking after my son’s little dog while he was on holiday with his family. Although why she suddenly decided to come upstairs, I didn’t know. She wasn’t allowed to do so in her home and had never attempted to come up to me when I’d looked after her before.  

Perhaps I should have been scared. Perhaps someone had broken in downstairs and frightened Lola, that’s her name. I hadn’t heard anything but then the rooms in my house are a series of additions over generations and all the walls are outside walls which does tend to deaden any noise. I have to carry one of those portable doorbells around with me so I can hear of anyone comes to visit. Nor does the house make any noises despite its age. She’s a solid old lady and I think she’s finished settling so the only sounds I get are the tick of the pipes when the heating comes on and a creak on the sixth stair if you step in the middle of it. There’s no thinking you can sneak upstairs if you come in late.

Anyway, back to the story. I felt the dog slither over me and curl up on my right side like she was making spoons with me. I put out my hand to give her a stroke. There was still no noise from anywhere else in the house so I wondered if perhaps she had woken up and wondered where she was. She’s an old dog and us oldies can get confused sometimes. Although, she’s stayed before and always seemed settled.

I could definitely feel the weight of the dog by my side and put out my hand to pat her and reassure her that everything was fine. Only there was nothing there. I felt around. I could still feel the weight of her, I swear to you, but there was nothing there. Then – then I remembered that she had gone home two days before. There was me, silly old thing, forgetting that and thinking that the weight was the dog when it must have been next door’s cat. She comes in through the open window when it suits. And it often suits.

Only… only the weight was too heavy to be the cat. She’s a slight little thing even though she sounds like she’s brought her pet elephant with her when she drops to the floor from the windowsill. And the window is to my right so if it had been the cat she would have jumped onto the bed to my right and slithered under the bedclothes because that’s what she does. And I hadn’t heard her drop to the floor. That would have startled me more than the church clock.

You were dreaming, you daft old woman I can hear you thinking. Perhaps I was asleep at first, but I was wide awake by now and I could still feel the weight by my side although I do admit it was diminishing by the second.

I got up. Well, I had to by then, just to check if anything was amiss. You’ll be pleased to know all was quiet. No intruder, no dog and no cat. I went back to bed, but it was a while before I fell asleep.

My son rang the next morning, first thing. He’s a good lad but doesn’t ring without reason and not just because he wants something, although there’s that as well.

‘I’ve got some bad news, mum,’ he says. No preamble. ‘Lola died yesterday.’

“Lola?” I think. Of course, the dog. I went suddenly cold and shivered as I felt the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck stand on end. So it was Lola who had visited me in the night, come to say goodbye.