Harbinger
A hard wind howled through the eaves, and in the dark it waited: pensive, gravid with menace.
‘They said there’d be snow at Christmas,
‘They said there’d be peace on Earth,
‘But instead it just kept on raining,
‘A veil of tears for a Virgin Birth…’
Picking up the remote, Alec Cawdor switched the stereo onto the local radio station; he wasn’t in the mood for even the least festive song on his Christmas tape. The storm outside battered the antenna, raising a white noise echo of the squall over the phone-in.
‘Next, we’ve got Mike from Heswall,’ hiss, crackle. ‘You want to talk about the meaning of Christmas, don’t you, Mike?’ There was a short pause, filled with static, and then another voice, small and distant down the telephone line.
‘Yes, Pete, I think that over the last few- you fu…!’ The radio guttered like a dying candle, Alex knew what had happened. It happened every other week. When you ask the general public for their opinion, all too often, they will give it. Occasionally, cranks would try to beat the five second delay and tell the city about what they thought about the host’s ‘alternative’ lifestyle. The static faded away, returning the radio’s ghosts to Alec’s room.
‘…pathetic, absolutely pathetic.’ Noise bled through, like water through sand, distorting the host’s voice. ‘Now we have Megan on the line,’ a tempest of distortion rose and fell away in a heartbeat. ‘What would you like to talk about, Megan?’ The din rose to a crescendo, and then suddenly cut out. Half a second of silence hung in Cawdor’s tiny room.
‘Remember me, never cease.’ It was a young woman’s voice, heavy with sorrow. Just four words, eight syllables, then another half second before everything was drowned in static, louder than anything he had ever heard before. It rose higher and higher and higher in a deafening blaze then… pop. The radio was silent and the lights went off. Even time stood still as his alarm clock winked out. All Alec could hear was the distant bustle of people in the club downstairs.
Fumbling for his torch, Cawdor tripped over his boots, sliding the switch from off to on, he blinked three times to adjust his eyes to the twilight. Stepping into the hall, he rounded the corner. The flats were part of a converted office, branching off a main corridor that curved around to the kitchen and shower rooms. The weak torch cast more shadows than it illuminated, leaving the high ceilings as dark as the night sky outside and just as starless. Despite the vaulted roof and vista windows, the air was stiflingly close from the ceaseless radiators.
Two other doors cracked open as he crept towards the breakers. Alec didn’t really know his housemates, at the minute he was working all hours and sleeping as soon as he came in, before the club below could start blaring out loud house music. He’d gone for a drink with Sean, the brummie guy (who was a pretty sound lad), but other than brief conversations as they prepared their meals, he know nothing about them.
Together, they stood in the hallway, clustered around their torches as if the world were void beyond their light. They kept one beam trained on the breakers, Sally- an Aussie girl who worked in one of the landlord’s other bars- stared up at the fuse box. Both Sean and Alec were pretty tall, but the dead switch was still two feet out of reach.
‘I’ll get a chair from the living room.’ Cawdor wondered why he had called it that. They all stayed in their rooms, when they weren’t out working or drinking, there wasn’t much living going on at all. Picking up a table chair (long orphaned of its table), he held his torch in his teeth so that he had both hands free to carry the improvised set of steps and still see where he was going.
Navigating around the sofas, disused exercise bike and various pieces of forlorn clutter, Alec was amazed at how much the light bobbed and weaved with each step. Self-consciously, he paced into the hall. A figure was caught briefly in the torchlight, standing outside the showers, by the fire exit. She had long, dark hair and a loose dressing gown pulled around her slight shoulders. She seemed quite concerned. Passing the chair to Sean, Alec spat the torch into his free hand.
‘Belle looked a bit worried. I suppose I would too if there was a power cut while I was in the shower.’
‘You what?’ Sean was already reaching for the switch.
‘I just saw Belle, the Italian girl who lives between you two. She must have been having a shower when the power went out.’ With a sharp click, the lights came back on. The fluorescent tubes flickered and then hummed into life.
‘I’ll just check on her, see if she’s alright, eh?’ Sally then stepped around Sean, allowing him to climb down from the chair.
‘I thought she’d gone home for Christmas?’ He said dragging the chair back into the living room. Sally returned from the far shower room, a bemused expression on her face.
‘There’s no one there. Are you sure, it was Belle, mate?’
‘I don’t know. There was definitely someone there though.’ Alec finally switched his torch off.
‘Strewth. What are you on this weekend?’ Embarrassed and confused, Cawdor walked back to his room. Before he turned the corner, he looked back and said;
‘Eight ‘til six, I’m on eight ‘til six this weekend.’
‘Bloody hell, Alec! Who’s your boss? Ebenezer Scrooge?’ This was Sean’s parting quip of the night.
Lying on his bed, Alexander Duncan Cawdor wondered what he had seen. The fire door was alarmed, there was no way she could have gone out that way. And if it wasn’t Belle who was it? The other rooms were all empty.
The room was close and hot, despite the icy breeze that normally cut through the cracked window. Alec must have been asleep awhile, his alarm clock was blinking 5:27, and everything was quiet except for the pulse of the city beneath him.
Suddenly he had the feeling that he wasn’t alone. Turning in his bed, he saw his long winter coat hanging by his door. Then he saw that his coat was folded on the chair. With a rattle and a thud, the figure by the door raised its arms pleadingly. Sable hair hung over the outline of a face, obscuring everything except one emerald eye in a porcelain face. Alec was sure it was the woman from before. Her hair flowed over the white cerements she wore, tangling with the chains and fetters wrapped about her. Slowly, painfully slowly, the woman turned to face Alec, fixing him with her burning green gaze.
‘Remember me, never cease.’ Her voice seemed to come from somewhere deep within him, her lips pale and pink under the shadows of her tresses. This was the voice from the radio. He knew in every fibre of his being that she was dead. She stared expectantly at the supine man. Alec didn’t realise he was gripping the duvet until his knuckles began to hurt. He forced himself to relax, to breathe deeply and calmly, she didn’t seem to mean him any harm. The silence was deafening. Finally, he found his voice.
‘Are… Are you Megan?’ It seemed so stupid; of course she wouldn’t be Megan. That was only the woman whose call she had usurped. But much to Alec’s surprise, she smiled sweetly and nodded her head like an automaton. Megan knelt beside him the bed, moving like a reversed film or stop-motion effect. Leaning close, so close he could smell turned earth and lavender, she whispered;
‘Yes. My name is Megan Madison. You are making a mistake. You are not alone, but you are in danger if you stay here.’ Before he could answer, she rose, opened the door and silently closed it behind her. Alec lurched out of bed, oblivious to his modesty. He grabbed the handle and went to yank it open. The door was locked. From the inside. Scrabbling through his coat, Cawdor pulled out his keys and opened the door. Megan was gone… If she had ever been there at all.
The next day, Alec called in sick. It didn’t really matter; the office was winding down for Christmas anyway. In the New Year, he would hand in his notice. He packed a bag and then called home.
‘Hi, Mum? Guess who’s coming home for Christmas? Yeah, don’t worry. I’ll explain everything when I get home.’ Well, maybe not everything.
A few weeks later, on New Year’s Eve, Alec staggered home drunk, having crossed half of town in the driving rain. Feeling his bile rise, he dashed to the toilet. Voiding his stomach into the bowl worked wonders for his nascent hangover, everything ceased to spin with a sudden lurch. Staggering to the sink, he swilled mouthwash though his soiled teeth. The chemical taste made his vacant guts quake. Spitting out the foam, he ran the tap to cleanse the sink. His face felt greasy and hot, so he cupped his hands under the tap, splashing the water he collected onto his face.
Before his eyes could clear, he smelled lavender. Cawdor looked into the mirror. She was stood behind him. Alec always locked the bathroom door, it was an automatic habit. Megan’s hair was combed straight and smooth, woven with lilies. Her face was as white as the dress that billowed in a breeze he could not feel. She smiled and all nausea washed from Alec’s body.
‘Remember me, never cease.’ Again, the words echoed from inside of him, miles distant from her murmuring lips. Alec whirled around, but in his heart of hearts, he knew she would be gone. He went back to bed. He would need to be up early tomorrow. He was moving out.
Once he had loaded everything into the van, Alec handed his keys to his landlord. In return, he was given back his deposit. Stuffing the money into his pocket with one hand, Alec offered the other to his (now former) landlord.
‘Thanks for letting me stay here,’ he lied. ‘It’s a shame I’ve got to go so soon. But with my job going, there’s nothing to do, I can’t afford the rent.’
‘I know, I know. Who could fire a man so close to Christmas? It’s a crime, it really is.’ The older man’s thick Scottish burr reminded Alec of something from another life. Warm, wet metal in his hand. The sensation disconnected from all memory.
‘Well, there is nothing I can do about it.’ As he turned to leave, Alec said over his shoulder, as casually as he could manage; ‘By the way, Mr. Madison, do you know anyone named Megan?’ All about them, the busiest street in town seemed to stand still.
‘Why, yes. Megan was the name of my daughter. But she was murdered most horribly some years ago. Why did you ever ask that, Sandy?’
‘No reason, no reason at all, Mr Madison.’ Alec didn’t know why he had lied but when he looked at Madison, who had used a name Alec hadn’t heard since childhood, it was as if the old man had the devil in his eyes. As they drove away, Alec Cawdor though of the dead girl and her father, of murder most foul. Even until the end of his days, he would never forget her.
This is my homage to the Victorian tradition of the Christmas ghost story and is again about Alec Cawdor. Again, it is based in reality, but with added supernature. A big shout out to those former flatmates who may recognise themselves!
