Ding, Dong…

Mary Jenkins lived alone. This was not by choice, but by circumstance. Her husband, Patrick, died young, leaving Mary in a house on five acres just outside of town. In the early days of her widowhood, she hid from the world there, nursing her broken heart, keeping to herself. As time passed, it became habit, until, at sixty-three, she enjoyed her own company more than she endured the company of others, causing the children to call her the Witch of the West. No one knew her well enough to call her wicked.

Mary’s life had been spectacularly uneventful. The most exciting occurrence in her mundane existence was when the foxes got into the chicken coup, rousing her from sleep with the cackle and squawk of alarmed hens. But on this chilly February morning, in the small hours before dawn, when she was jolted awake, she realised she could hear no commotion from the hen-house. What she heard was footsteps, slow, deliberate and loud, echoing downstairs.

In her sleep befuddled state, Mary could not process the sound rationally and, without thought of safety or fear, she flew down the stairs in her nightgown, bare feet making no sound on the cold floors, to confront the intruder.

“Who the heck is breaking into my house!” she hollered as she grabbed the straw broom from the closet, brandishing it like a deadly weapon. In the dimly lit hallway, she saw the shadows move. “Get your ass off my property before I call the cops!”

The shadow stilled, hovering in the darkness between the front windows where pale moonlight pooled on the floor. It turned two luminous eyes toward her and she gasped, staggering backwards, her heart hammering in her chest as she realised just what a precarious position she had placed herself in.

“Mary, love,” the shadowy intruder said, its voice a harsh rasp like the wind scraping a branch against the windowpane.

“Get out!” Mary tried to sound firm, but the wavering tone that escaped her throat was at least an octave higher than usual.

“Love, it’s me.”

Mary brandished her broom firmly before her, but the bristles trembled. “Be gone. You’re not welcome here.”

The shadowy figure shuffled closer, and Mary took an involuntary step back.

“Now, love. Put the broom down and let’s talk about it.”

“Not on your life! Get out now. I’m warning you.”

The figure sighed and stepped closer, into the pool of moonlight that puddled under the window. “Be reasonable, love. It’s been a long time and I’m tired.”

The broom clattered to the floor. “Patrick?” Her heart stopped for a second and the room swam around Mary’s head as the darkness closed in.

When her eyelids fluttered open sometime later, Mary had a difficult time comprehending her surroundings. It was dark, she couldn’t see much, and her head throbbed. She gingerly reached into her hair to probe at a growing knot at the back of her head as she struggled to sit up. The world continued to spin in slow circles, but the gloomy shadows resolved themselves into her moonlit kitchen.

“Mary love, are you alright? You gave me a fright.”

Mary turned her head and screamed. Not two feet to her right, eyes glowing dimly in the moonlight, was her husband, Patrick. Her husband, Patrick, who’d been dead for over thirty years.

“Stop your yelling, woman!” he said rearing back, his hands covering his ears against the shrill sound.

“You’re dead!” Mary scrambled backwards.

“Now that’s not a nice thing to say to me after all this time!” He sat back on his haunches, staring at her with luminous eyes.

“Go away, you’re dead!” Mary’s head was pounding. Perhaps she had a concussion from her fall.

“After all the trouble I went through to see you, now you want me to go away? There’s no pleasing you, is there?” He shook his head.

“You can’t exist. You’re dead.”

“Would you just stop harping on about that, Mary, love? You’re giving me a headache.”

Mary squeezed her eyes closed and pressed both hands against her lids as she muttered, “This isn’t real. I’m having a dream. I’m going to wake up now.” When she removed her hands, Patrick was still there. “Just leave me alone.”

“That’s not quite the welcome I was expecting,” he said, folding his arms across his chest. He appeared as young and fit as she remembered him, although his eyes glowed with an eerie light as he captured her in his gaze.

Mary was a pragmatist. Patrick was long dead, therefore this wasn’t real. The only explanation was that she was not really awake, and that this was a dream. A painful dream, but a dream nonetheless. It was strange that she would be dreaming of him after all this time, but who knows what the brain does while sleeping? With this thought, she deliberately turned and trudged back upstairs. If she was indeed asleep, then the best place to wake up was in bed.

She closed her eyes and snuggled into the mattress, bundling the surrounding covers to block out any light or sound. Then she counted her breathing. It was a trick she’d discovered to help her fall asleep, a kind of meditation.

Only she couldn’t find her breath.

“Are you done, love?”

She whipped the cover from her head to see that Patrick had followed her and was sitting on the end of her bed, as nonchalant as ever.

She glared at him. “You are disturbing my peace. Now get out.” It amazed her that her voice was so level. “I’m not listening to you. I don’t believe in you, and I am hallucinating because I hit my head.”

“You weren’t always so abrasive.” Patrick stood and moved away into the shadows. “I thought you might have missed me a bit while I was gone. Thought you might like some company for your journey. I suppose I was wrong.” He dissolved into the shadowy darkness, leaving Mary alone and cold.

She closed her eyes in relief.

***

When the coroner examined the body, he was unable to determine the exact cause of death; the body had not been found for some weeks after death. Mary Jenkins had died in her bed, alone, as she had been for most of her life, and nobody had missed her. No one noticed until her normally immaculate front lawn grew tall weeds and the children commented that, “Ding, dong, the Witch was dead.”