by Eric Day

Nature is a haunted house–but Art–is a house that tries to be haunted. – Emily Dickinson

Looking back, our house which was beside the river, was usually filled to the brim with people participating in social gatherings and activities. The house was painted in a pristine white and had a cold metal gate separating us from the rest of the city. It was almost perfect; however, there was one thing in that house, I recall now, that seemed to be out of place, something trapped inside. That night has always haunted me. It started with that voice calling.

A familiar voice bounced from the hallway, calling for me. Sarah hon, the guests are going to be arriving soon. Are you ready?

Yes, almost, I called, not knowing if I were sleeping or awake. I don’t think I was awake, as I leaned out of the open window and watched people pass by on the walkway. The city was a sober grey that day and ready to cry. Drops of rain started to form on the top of my forehead, and felt like a dreadful kiss; I finally woke up, not remembering being in the rain.

After promptly closing the window, I walked around in circles trying to figure out what I was going to wear for a party my father was hosting. I had invited Wenman Wynniatt, a young officer who was courting me – an extremely handsome man my family befriended when he first arrived from England. He was always so happy with my personal invitations. I hurried through dress changes, until I finally joined our guests, constantly looking for Wenman who, unlike him, was fashionably late. After an hour, I starting ticking like a clock counting down. Wenman hadn’t shown.

Working myself into a nervous fit, and on the verge of tears, I was amazed and so grateful that he finally arrived at the front door at precisely ten-fourteen. Wenman was in his full uniform; however, it was battered and stained in a grotesque manner with mud falling from his boots. Without concern, he proceeded through our home leaving a path of grime and filth. I..I was sickened he didn’t acknowledge me.

After a few minutes of looking around the room, I saw him and we quietly made eye contact. I slowly stepped toward him, but with every step forward, he simultaneously stepped backward. We danced back and forth until finally he broke eye contact and left the room promptly.

I was shocked at his rudeness.

In frustration, I chased him into the dinning room; he walked right past a group of elegantly tailored men in emerald green suits and casual loafers, who didn’t seem to notice Wenman as he passed, or even care that they were blocking my path.

“Excuse me, may I pass by?” I asked in a harsh voice bordering on extreme frustration.

“Oh of course, Miss Harris. We’re so sorry,” they said in unison while chuckling at my desperation. The laughter of everyone clouded my head as I entered the dining room and saw once again tracks of muck Wenman left behind that suddenly stopped in the middle of the room. How is that possible? I chased him here to this very spot, I thought as I searched. Then nothing.

Perplexed, I looked down toward the floor, hoping to find a path perhaps of footprints, but there was nothing. Eventually I asked a woman next to me if she had seen officer, Wenman Wynniatt.

“Who? I don’t think so. Maybe try in the gardens.”

I slipped out, thinking he had excused himself, because he was so dishevelled. As couples talked to each other, I made quiet inquiries. When I did not find him outside, I was again wandering through the house.

“Sarah, did I hear you say you saw Wenman? Were you inquiring about him?” A booming voice surrounded the room; it was my father. He had a sombre look on his face, as if someone had just died right there in front of us in the parlour.

“I saw him when he arrived, but now I can’t find him anywhere. Did you speak with him?”

“Are you sure it was Wenman? He seemed afraid and started to panic as sweat trickled down his face.

“Yes, I swear he was right here. He even left a trail of mud on the floor.” A sudden fear took hold, and a chill spread up the back of my head.“What’s happened? Why are you so serious?” “He’s gone, Sarah.”

“Gone! What are you talking about? Gone? He was just here.”

The shuddering in my voice, and laughter of the party echoed though my head, bouncing off the temples of my skull. As my father relayed the news, I couldn’t believe that moments ago I had seen him.

“Gone? Where?”

“They found him in the river, Sarah.”

“No! No, the trails of mud are still wet; every print is still here. I showed him the proof, vigorously grasping my father’s hand and dragging him around the house to inspect every trail of muck that was left, desperately proving he had been at the party.

My father stopped me, took me by the shoulders and sat me down. Staring at me, his eyes were cold and his voice broke. “He was pronounced dead at ten- fifteen, they told me he was covered in grime. He’s gone, Sarah.”

At this point the truth was trying to dig through my skin, but I wouldn’t let it. Hours passed, and eventually everyone left, saying their quiet goodbyes. Some stayed, and I could hear mumbles of distant small talk echo though the halls. I went to bed, feeling like I was drowning and rotting, hoping it had been a nightmare that would pass. Could he really be here in these halls? I wondered.

The noise ended as guests left; then in the silence, I was suddenly greeted with the sound of heavy footsteps coming from the darkness. A chill took hold, as they got louder, and with every step, I could feel the floors vibrate as though a heavy weight fell on every square inch. The sound stopped outside the bedroom door. And rhythmic tapping sounded.

“Sarah, may I come in?” The voice was low and gentle.

“Oh, of course, father.”

The knob started to rattle. “I think it’s stuck. Sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry,” the voice whispered distantly.

Again, the knob rattled and started shaking violently amidst the sound of desperate cries, cries for help. I knew it wasn’t father’s voice. Adrenaline shot through me like blood in a vein. The knob came apart from the door, falling and denting the floor.

“Please go away!” I begged.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry, “ the whispers cried and violently bounced off the walls and into my head, trapping that godforsaken voice within my memory. Suddenly they stopped and a whisper remained that I’ve heard everyday I live.

“You let me in.”