No one saw and nothing was there

The autumn day dawned bleak, filthy with festering matter and half-lived souls clinging to existence.  A patchwork of rotting leaves, long strewn by wind and time, formed a sodden carpet over the silent dank streets, where an unnameable void hung in the air, an emptiness seeking to be filled, waiting for what it sought unknown.  Nothing was there on that hollow, thinly veiled November morning, looming in the cracks and crevices, dour and rotten.

Nothing had been there the day before, in the unoccupied corners filled only with shadows, when empty time and space seeped silently into the house of Mildred Speak and ceaselessly pounded her head against the sterile kitchen sink until the stainless steel draining board retracted with a feverish dent that glistened with a grotesque blend of cleaning products and Mildred’s battered and bloodied face.

The air was thick with silence, when on the previous Monday, a breath of pungent air whispered its way into the dimly lit workshop of Albert Goldthorpe and fingered his lank greasy grey hair.  Something damp and mildewed pondered for a moment, until it compelled the old grey head down into the shrieking circular saw, used just moments before to shape the roof of a doll's house, a gift for Albert’s granddaughter, now cloaked with a sticky, crimson sheen that glistened in the weak morning light.

No one was there to see the dark shape of nothingness and the rotting stench of decay as it trailed its way along the melancholy street on which moments earlier it had arrived.  Not a soul witnessed the urgent rapping on Dorothy Holland’s back door.  No one saw, or remembered, or knew.

“It’s you again.”  The old lady peered through the narrow crack in the doorway, the feeble brass safety chain strained as something unwanted pushed against it.

“Yes” came the cold and clammy response.

“You’d better come in.”  Dorothy’s heart quickened as she removed the safety chain and opened the door to the foreboding presence on the other side.  “I wasn’t expecting you again so soon.”

Noiselessly the visitor passed over the threshold into the small kitchen, the early morning gloom following.  The shape and size did not brush or touch its reluctant host and an unsettling aura of disfigurement and fetor from some other place permeated the air.  Dorothy hesitantly moved towards the stove where the kettle was rumbling to a boil.

“You won’t be wanting tea I don’t suppose,” Dorothy’s voice was strained.  Still in her faded quilted dressing gown and worn slippers, she turned her back to the unwelcome entity and quietly carried out her early morning routine of putting out food for her cat and brewing tea for herself.  Internally Dorothy prayed for this hideous intrusion to end, willing this to be just a horrific nightmare carried over from a deep and troubled sleep.

“Not for me thank you,” came the hollow, detached reply.  “Don’t rush on my behalf.”

“Don’t you worry, I won’t.”  Dorothy responded sternly, defying the overwhelming fear rising within her.  She put the cat’s dish in its usual place on the old worn linoleum with a soft clink and carefully placed her teacup on the formica kitchen table.  It rattled slightly in the saucer as Dorothy fought to still the trembling in her fragile old hands.  She took a deep breath and lowered her tired body onto the chair.

“I didn’t think you’d come back yet.”  Dorothy’s voice wavered and she lowered her rheumy eyes, focusing on the sanctuary of her teacup, its floral decoration a reminder of better times.

“We spoke on this the last time we met, Dorothy Holland.”  The voice was cool and indifferent, and there was a way in which her name was spoken out loud, the way the words were darkly emphasised, as though part of an ancient script, that made Dorothy shudder to the depths of her core. 

A clammy finger traced down her back and still gazing into the ghost of steam rising from her cup, Dorothy dragged words from the pit of her stomach, nauseous and terror-stricken, using all her will to overpower her trembling.  “It isn’t so long since Malcolm…”

“Ah, yes, Malcolm,” the voice almost held a hint of compassion but was devoid of any real warmth, “a good man.”

“He was a good man.  He went too soon.”

“He went at his allotted time,” the voice muttered, then with a more pointed tone, “he knew the rules.  As you say, a good man.”

“I miss him terribly.”  Dorothy murmured, brushing away a tear that was threatening to tumble from her eye.  She straightened her back, adjusting her weary shoulders.  All around her lay the familiarity of her small kitchen, the well worn objects and surfaces, entrenched with the weight of so many memories.  They crowded her mind, whispering amongst themselves, jostling for space in the recesses of her thoughts, so distant and yet so clear, so much time that had passed, so little that remained.

Dorothy was startled by the sudden sharp bang of the cat-flap in the back door.  It was Hester, her small brown tabby, timely as ever in readiness for her breakfast.  The cat immediately sensed that all was not as it should be and stayed by the door, arching her back, fur bristling, her tail thickened with fear.  A low, feral hissing sound escaped from her, an uncharacteristic stance, not the usual affectionate creature that would loop affectionately around Dorothy’s legs.

“A spirited creature… rather like yourself Dorothy.”  An unsettling sense of unfamiliarity filled the room, the homely kitchen became an otherly place, all warmth that had been there, now drained away completely.  The teacup rattled violently in its saucer as an uninvited gust forced its way through the slightly ajar window, dragging the net curtain with it.  The cat froze, for all but a moment, eyes wide in terror, then, compelled by the unseen force, she turned and fled through the cat-flap as it thudded shut in her wake.

“It would appear that your feline companion has left us.”  The guttering words came with a grim chortle that seemed to dissipate through the house and beyond, a sound such as Dorothy had never heard, as though all the birds of the dawn had been banished and something of a more disturbed nature was heralding in the day.

Dorothy took a slow and steady sip from her floral teacup and returned it to the saucer that continued to vibrate with a ceaseless energy.  Her hands steadied as her breaths slowed, measured and deliberate.  “I’m not ready,” her boldness shocked her as the words escaped her mouth.  “I know that last time we agreed that I would be, but I’m not,” then, finding strength from somewhere she knew not, “you’ll have to come another time.”

“But you know it doesn’t work like that Dorothy Holland,” the voice was churlish, tormenting, “we agreed on my previous visit, and now your time is with us.”  

Something brushed against Dorothy’s cheek, something slick and cold.  Around her, the once vibrant kitchen sank into a mournful palate of muted hues as the shadows deepened.  Her vision blurred, eyes filling with the murky haze that enveloped the room like a cloak.  Memories flickered at her mind's edges, sparkling brooks, fields alive with butterflies, chiming laughter and voices of the past, her and Malcolm, his warm smile, her mother’s hands, tugging and pulling towards a light, distant and blindingly bright.

“No, no,” Dorothy reeled.  The kitchen around her fell in and out of her consciousness, Malcolm’s smile, her mother’s arms, the teacup, the profound sense of finality that swam all around her.  Her head fell forwards and without pause, then snatched violently backwards, the bile within her stomach rose, something rotten from the recesses of the earth, and she forced it back down, fighting to bring strength to her aching limbs.  Through the swirling murk and memory of time, Dorothy could still see the rising mist from her teacup as it shook in its saucer, and with every last part of her, she hauled herself with all her being, back into the present of her kitchen.

The sinister presence who had been observing Dorothy with renewed fervour, sniped and growled, a guttural expulsion of furious disgust.  “You make this so much more difficult and torturous than it needs to be,” the terrible voice crawled into Dorothy’s ears, “I can make it painless, just as it was for Malcolm.”

Dorothy sat upright, her hands flat on the table, re-focusing on the entrenched memories, the warmth and sanctuary of her kitchen.  A flicker of defiance ignited within her,  “I can’t do it, it’s not the right time.”  She knew what this would mean, however dreadful and brutal it might be.  “I haven’t finished here yet.  You’ll have to wait a bit longer. As they say, it’s my life.”

Intimidating laughter rebounded from the walls, followed by a deathly roar, reverberating into every part of the room.  Cupboard doors were flung open by unseen hands, a cacophony of banging and clattering, as though all the beasts of hell were let loose in a macabre orchestra, cups smashed, glasses fell, one by one, shattering in tiny shards across the floor.  Rattling pans tumbled from their places as forks and knives spiralled through the air in a destructive onslaught.  Dorothy pressed her face against the inhospitable chill of the table top, shielding the back of her head with her vulnerable hands, paper thin skin, stretched frantically over old bones.

And then, in an instant, as though all dimensions had halted abruptly, everything became still.  The icy presence lingered for another chilling moment.  “I will see you again, Dorothy Holland.” a voice of bitter contempt, “I will see you again, soon.”  The window rattled in its frame as it slammed itself shut, the door flung open then swiftly banged closed, the safety chain swung angrily and then hung motionless.  Broken glass and bruised utensils lay strewn across the floor, the moment of terror hung heavy in the stillness, a layer of gloom remained, haunting the air with a ghastly, sickening miasma.

Dorothy lifted her frail head slowly from the table.  The cat-flap reverberated with a clunk as Hester returned to the kitchen, yowling and picking her way through the strewn glass in the direction of her bowl.  “It’s alright dear, it’s gone.” Dorothy whispered, as much to herself as to her cat.

That night, the sun set behind the hills in its usual way, and as dawn made its return to the earth the following morning, nothing moved and no one stirred.  The beckoning mortality of autumn formed a shiny wet backdrop to the village streets as a foul mist meandered its way from door to door, yard to window, moving silently and ominously through the pathways and snickets, along streets and lanes.

No one saw as a morbid hastening made its way grimly towards the back door, to the kitchen of Dorothy Holland.  The hiss and screech from her cat were heard by no one when the finite shroud of darkness hovered at the shoulder of Dorothy Holland as she prepared for her day, placing her kettle on the stove and taking a floral teacup from the cupboard.  Something watched and observed her for a fleeting moment.  An admirable woman of spirit and fight.  Not a soul knew or heard as the neck of Dorothy Holland was grasped silently and purposefully, and then in a single movement, like dry old twigs, the brittle bones snapped with a crack.  Quickly, and without resistance, and no one knew, not even Dorothy Holland.

The unseen and unwanted visitor hastened their departure and shifted back towards the unfolding dawn, in the direction in which it had earlier travelled, beyond the veil, returning towards the darkness.  And nobody, those forgotten people, those half remembered lives, nobody saw or heard.