Just one step at a time, she thought to herself in pitch darkness and, synchronised with each step she made along the wooden floorboards by which she walked, her heart thumped powerfully in her chest, serving as a cue for her progress. In the corner of her eye she saw me but pretended not to notice.
Maria Gavani was a widow, aged sixty-two and living alone, and nowadays (since seven years ago, to be exact), she dreaded night time because, as the brightness of the day dimmed, the engine of her imagination inevitably roared to life and she was filled with unpleasant thoughts. It was almost midnight and, at the moment, all she wanted to do was relieve herself but such an action proved to be very difficult. As silly as it may sound, she mostly imagined malignant ghosts, which seemed only intent on haunting her. She often wondered whether she was becoming insane, feeling like that dejected old woman in Misery. There was a reason for her apparent insanity, one that was based heavily on Ms. Gavani's past and one that she felt very reluctant to dwell upon. But sometimes she couldn't help herself. Now, as the dead of the night approached and the rev of her engine reached red-line levels, Maria began to reminisce.
Quite a long time ago, Mr. and Ms. Gavani had a strong and healthy relationship, one that was tied together by bonds so strong that many had often said the married couple would “die before they divorced”. The couple liked to feel they had a fairly fortunate share of life. Ms. Gavani had mothered eleven children, each of which had now gone on to become well-paid but modest professionals.
After the kids had left, Mr. and Ms. Gavani fell into a distinct and clear routine in terms of how they occupied themselves throughout the day. Maria became the housewife, taking care of the house chores and generally became a dependent but caring wife. John, her husband, left for work everyday in the morning, at half past nine, not too early, not too late. He would get home at exactly five minutes to six o'clock in the afternoon, when the day was still bright, and his wife would welcome him with open arms. Oh, how spoiled she had been. Oh, how ignorant she was of the true meaning of loneliness.
The couple would make love on the sweet, rare occasion, but they were content all the same. Their daily routine had turned into a pattern of life that Ms. Gavani wanted to hold for an eternity. She felt she was in a paradise that could only get better. The plan was that, in a year or two, her husband would retire and the two would find some resort on the beachside and live happily ever after. They would be together forever. Too bad the pattern was eventually broken; someone had to spoil it.
Seven years ago, on the 23rd of June 2002, at 5:45pm, John had got off the bus to arrive at Second Avenue, the name of the street where his house was located. He smelled the air, which he recognised to be fresher than ever. The day was a Friday and John had the weekend to look forward to. He looked at the trees which the Council planted just the other day alongside the fence that bounded the park. It was a stupid idea to plant them because eventually, once the trees would reach peak height, John knew they would block out valuable sunlight from entering his home. But on this Friday, for some reason, as John looked at them, he thought that they weren't exactly unappealing and he felt the Council had a right to blossom their area.
About this time, at home, Maria remembered she had been washing the dishes and listening to the calming classical music of Beethoven, before taking a backward glance at the clock on the oven: 5.50. A smile spread across her face – darling would be home soon, she was thinking – and anticipation washed over her in an unforgettable, awesome wave. She sat down on her side of the table and folded her arms with patience.
A slight bounce had developed in John's trot and he too had begun to smile, before whistling to some happy tune. As he reached the chorus –
Oi! Dipshit, wait up!
– he stopped mid-way. Had he heard something? John's eyes narrowed subtly but he told himself he wouldn't let some suspicious sound ruin his mood. And so he began to walk again, a little faster this time despite what he was thinking.
Oi! Mate, didn't you hear me, you shitter?
At age 57, John was a wise man and he wasn't going to dismiss that remark as friendly talk. Now John's bounce quickly died down and his reasonably fast-paced walk quickened. He thought, Why today, Lord?
Hey, don't run away. I just want to talk.
“I just want to talk”. Isn't that what the bad guys said in movies before they exterminated the protagonist? (Hasta la Vista, baby, your terminated) John knew he wasn't in a movie but he wasn't going to take his chances. He checked his watch (it was 5:54) as if he was suddenly in a great hurry, and sped up his pace yet again. But he couldn't get very far because right after he took his glance of his wrist, his eyes were met by the glint of a switchblade, which served as a vector towards a thugs face, and then towards his mouth which moved aggressively. 5:55.
Maria squinted her eyes, ready to hear the sweet knock on the door that indicated her husband was home, and meant her heart would be filled with joy. But it didn't come, and nor would it ever. With a puzzled expression (the stage before anger, which preceded worry), she made her way towards the door, half expecting her husband to open it.
When Maria was notified by the police of the accounts of what more or less served as the fate of her husband, she associated his death with one word, which she grew to despise for the rest of her life: Murder.
Just one step at a time, she thought again, suddenly withdrawing from her thoughts of the Bad Old Times and she tread back into reality. She made another step in the darkness, causing the floorboards to creak harshly. There's no such thing as ghosts. There's no such thing as ghosts. There's no such thing as ghosts. The engine was revving louder and her heart was skipping beats, no longer matching the sound of her steps.
Only now did Maria become aware that it was raining heavily outside and consequently she was frightened by the sudden crack of thunder. In the distance, the sound of many horrified animals could be heard and just above Maria's head, a crow screeched unpleasantly.
The lightning brightened the room in quick flashes, allowing Maria to take glimpses of her hallway: Old battered chair, with red and white coloured cushion; Painting of a love couple lying down in the park and smoking; Long thin carpet that stretched to the front doorway; Greenish- brownish plants that were evidently dying (I keep forgetting to change them); Spiral staircase made of wrought iron, approximately $5000 worth; and a Ghost.
Ghost.
I swear, the widow was going insane. She truly was.
“Please, leave me alone. Leave me alone”. The widow was speaking aloud now. “Leave me alone.” When the widow looked away and then took a second glance at the ghost, she noticed it didn't go away like it normally would have. Why should it have, anyway?
No, for the first time, this one seemed to remain existent because the engine still had a stack of petrol just waiting to be used up and the widow began to frantically wave her hands in front of her, quite like Lady Macbeth in the scene when she has blood on her hands (Out damned spot!), but she wasn't touching anything and anything wasn't touching her but she swore that she could see something and she suddenly found herself wishing John was here to save her because she was only the housewife but it was too late for her to be saved anyway because the widow couldn't be saved because she had lost it now, lost it forever, and now she was out of control, physically and emotionally, and the ghost was getting closer and closer and closer and the engine was revving higher and higher and higher –
Vrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!!!!!!!!!!!
– and now the widow was spinning and spinning and spinning, trying to protect herself but from what? And wasn't she supposed to have a fortunate life? And shouldn't she be living in a beachfront house by now? And why couldn't she live happily ever after? And what was that screechy sound –
Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
– her feet were making? Or was it the floorboards? Or the crow? The thunder? Why fool herself? Of course, it was the ghost.
The widow was becoming dizzy and she had developed a throbbing headache, and not just because she had been spinning around. She was now leaning on the staircase railing, wanting to throw up.
“Leave me alone. Not today, please. I just want to go to the toilet.” She was begging pathetically. And for the first time, I noticed the grey hairs that were in the roots of her hair. She was old, and deserved to die. I looked at her, unsympathetic, and she stared back, wide-eyed, engine running high (but it was capable of running higher). Thunder roared in a spine-chilling musical composition and when it reached a climatic pitch and volume, I pushed her over the rail and she fell, screaming all the way down until–
Crack!
– the widow's head hit the floor. After this, blood spilled onto the floorboards below in a uneven mess and she died. Finally, the ignition of the engine was turned off and, as a result, I vanished.
Murder?
