Havisham

They stand, hand in hand, in the fading entrance. Dust spins, twirling gracefully in the weak sunshine; a tarnished chandelier winks lazily above their heads; cobwebs hang listlessly like strips of glimmering gossamer.

‘Wow,’ says Lindsey; her voice echoes unsteadily. She turns, flushed and breathless. ‘Oh it is just perfect. Imagine living here after the wedding…’

‘Hmm’, says Peter, shuffling his feet nervously. ‘How much are they asking for it?’

‘Not sure. But the potential…’ she says. ‘Oh; where did you put the key?’

Peter rummages fretfully in his pocket.

‘Is this what you are looking for?’

He turns; his eyes lock with those of an elderly woman, standing behind them. He shivers; she has a sort of silvery pallor; her eyes are a clear, cold blue.

‘It was on the table,’ she says, holding the key up.

‘Sorry, we let ourselves in…’’ gushes Lindsey, apologetically.

‘Not at all,’ says the woman. ‘Come,’ she says, waving one spidery blue veined, hand. A cold prickle runs down Peter’s back.

***

He had heard of Havisham Hall, but never in his wildest dreams had he even visited it, let alone dreamed of living there. As they drove up the crumbling driveway, the shiny blue carapace of their Mazda contrasting strangely with the gaunt, rusty gates, Peter’s heart sank. Weeds clung to the crumbling pathway; the garden was a tangled mass of gnarled roots and thorny bushes. The hall loomed ominously, a still elegant, four storey Victorian edifice.

They parked in front of the house.  As they approached the ivy-covered front door, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a key. He sucked his breath in sharply.  With some trepidation, he gingerly inserted it.

Inside, the silence was overpowering. Dust danced in the sunlight pouring in from the large bay window; shadows seemed to claw their way towards them. Peter placed the key on the oak table; it glinted, at him, conspiratorially. He turned; a couple of beady eyed statues glared at him from across the hall; one a bearded man; the other a twisted mermaid.

Tell her. Tell her the damn thing’s off, said a voice, razor sharp, inside his head.

***

It had all happened so quickly. At first, there were small niggles; a toothbrush here, the odd lipstick there, but within months, her things were all over the place. Drinks with the lads became less and less frequent; football training fell by the wayside. Then a modest drunken proposal on his part somehow led to invitations being sent out; the church and a lavish wedding venue being booked. ‘So you’re an accountant,’ said her dad, approvingly. Peter nodded, briefly wondering when his vital particulars had been reduced to a pay slip. But it did not matter; after all, he loved her. And there she was, day after day, fresh from the shower, entreating him with her dark brown eyes and long legs. You lucky sod, said his mates. She is a cracker.

But she had it all mapped out. One day, she stroked his collar with her delicate finger and whispered about wanting to give up work and raise their children ‘properly’.  And for that, they would need somewhere else to live, wouldn’t they?   ‘And we’ll be needing a big house with lots of space, won’t we,’ she giggled, placing his hand provocatively onto her slender tummy. Then she saw an advertisement in some local newspaper for a ruined stately home. He protested, vehemently; after all, how on earth would they afford it?  But she pouted at him plaintively with her kohl rimmed eyes and glossy lips. ‘Darling,’ she smiled, gently readjusting his tie. ‘It would be a dream come true.’ So he nodded, dutifully; she kissed him and patted his belly as if it were a medium sized Christmas present. The future, it seemed, was sorted.

***

‘Are you local?’ inquires the old woman.

Peter gives a start; she has a hard, bright, penetrating stare.

‘Er, no. yes. Sort of,’ he stammers.

She smiles, and glides across the plush red carpet, bringing them to a door. She opens it; they are greeted by a white sheets draped like shrouds and mirrors gaping on all sides; a large ottoman sits in the corner like a coffin; a grand piano in the bay window. Peter glances uneasily at the mirrors; he can’t help feeling as if he is being watched.

Lindsey walks over to the piano; her hair gleams like burnished copper in the weak sunshine. ‘How long have you lived here?’

‘Oh. The truth is, I don’t know, dear,’ says their guide, vaguely. Her voice has a clipped, archaic tone; her face a sort of ethereal glow.

Peter squints at the piano. A Steinway and a beauty: ancient and proud.

‘I see the young man is a musician,’ says the woman and suddenly she is standing beside him, as if staring straight into his soul.

He flinches; turns abruptly. ‘Why exactly is it that you are selling?’

Their guide smiles, elusively; a cold, hollow smile, but says nothing. Lindsey frowns at him, shaking her head in the background.

Peter shrugs; walks moodily to the window. Through the misty pane, he can just make out the silvery trees, intertwining like pallid, diseased limbs.

No, he thinks. No way: I’m not doing this. Not for all the tea in China.

***

The kitchen is a glaze of eerie stillness. A thick layer of dust and grime covers everything, from the gloomy wine bottles to the sticky jars of what looks like pickled onions and gherkins. The couple grimace; the stench of rotting staleness is overwhelming.

The woman turns, her necklace gleaming like tears on her neck. ‘I do apologise for the mess….’ She says, softly.

‘Not at all,’ murmurs Lindsey. Peter coughs uneasily and eyes a rotting, skeletal bicycle perched jauntily behind her.

‘Would you like us to come back another time?’ says Lindsey, politely.

‘No,’ says their guide, her eyes glistening like watery jewels. Then she stifles a sob and rushes out.

Peter turns. ‘Lindsey,’ he says, hoarsely. I don’t want this.’

She looks at him, blankly. ‘What?’

‘I don’t know,’ he gesticulates, vaguely. ‘Don’t want it. Any of it.’

Why, she frowns, pleadingly. He shakes his head, helplessly.

‘Do you still want to get married?’ she says, falteringly.

Silence.

She glares at him, accusingly. ‘You know what? Forget it.’

Then the door slams; in an instant, he is all alone.

***

Strains of tinkling piano music are floating faintly from somewhere.  Chopin; he would recognise it anywhere, its soft chromaticism yielding wistfully to the air.

He finds himself walking towards the drawing room. He stops; a pool of bright light streams out from under the door.

He turns the brass knob; it opens into a flood of music and golden candlelight. Before him, on a velvet armchair, a young woman sits, her red curls cascading down her back.

She turns; she is achingly beautiful; her lovely face glistens with fresh tears.

Oh, he says, mesmerised. ‘I was looking for…’

‘Stay,’ she whispers.  He nods, heavily, noticing how her rustling white dress seems to be almost moving; creeping slowly towards him like the edge of a flickering shadow. She moans, stretching her exquisitely slender arm towards him.

Suddenly, she seizes his hand: icy terror sears through him: he sees hollow eyes, a blackened skull; her flaps of rotting skin and her dress, crawling with stinking maggots.  Marry me, she rasps, brokenly. ‘No!’ he screams; somehow manages to wrench himself free and run out.

***

The estate agent frowns. ‘I’m afraid that’s impossible. Havisham Hall has been empty for years.’

Lindsey purses her lips. ‘Well, we definitely had a viewing there.’

‘No,’ says the estate agent, and pushes her horn rimmed spectacles back, matter of factly.

‘Ah well, you could be wrong.’ A blonde secretary chirps from a nearby desk. ‘There’s some as say it’s haunted – by a woman who was dumped on her wedding day.’

She brandishes her pink nail file with an air of authority. ‘They say used to say she pickled dead men’s eyes,’ she says, gleefully.  ‘Among other things.’

Peter feels a familiar icy prickle.

But the estate agent sniffs, dismissively. ‘Well, I can categorically tell you that that hall has been abandoned for years. You were supposed to visit the house next door.’

The couple walk outside, thoughtfully. Peter wraps his arms protectively around Lindsey; she nestles into him.

‘Do you still want to get married?’ she says, faintly.

A sharp gust of wind; a skitter of dead leaves dances on the pavement. ‘ Yes,’ he says, weakly.

Something rustles nearby. And for just one second, Peter could swear to seeing something white flitting between the bushes in the twilight.