An excerpt of the short story by Makeda Braithwaite

 

THE laughter sounds again. It’s louder this time. The sound comes from the walls. It’s tickling, molasses-thick, and quicksilver-slick. I try to shake him on my lap, but at this point, I’m not even sure he’s breathing. I follow the laughter, shaking in fear. The sound ends in the yellow room. I open it, and it’s just as if we had not cleared it out. In the shade of the closet, I see a silhouette.

Judith stands in the moonlight, red dress over her slender figure, with sunflowers in her hands.

Screams rip from my throat until the flesh is raw and my eyes burn. Then the sight disappears, and the white of the ceiling swirls above me. For a while, I just hear the sound of my screams and see the white. Then Lars appears above. He sits me up and realigns me to reality—pulls me back to him being alive and well.

I snatch at him, pulling him over me until I find my breathing. I focus on the smell of his skin, the feel of his cotton nightshirt, and the sound of the rain outside. The old house creaks in the night.

“What happened?”

“I had a horrible dream… I… Lars, we need to leave. We need to go somewhere.”

“This is my ancestral home, Juls.”

I cry. “Lars, please. Please.”

“Alright.” He strokes my back. “We’ll leave tomorrow.”

Lars pulls me down and holds me. We stay like this for a moment, and I try to find the words. I love you doesn’t seem enough. I don’t simply love him. The idea of losing him is tantamount to death. Lars is as much a part of me as I am of him; I adore him. Words are petty compared to what I feel, and this dream is too close. Arms around me let me know that I’m not floating in some treacherous outer space. He anchors me.

“I think she’s punishing me.”

“Judith?”

“She told me before she died that she stole you from me.”

He kisses my forehead. “Didn’t she?”

“She did. Judith was always selfish, but you let yourself be stolen.”

“I wish you’d stop saying that!”

“Why? Isn’t it true?”

“No. Well, no, it isn’t. I don’t even remember sleeping with her. That night of the picnic, she invited me over for a drink. I was heartbroken, so I went, and I barely had a glass of brandy when I was knocked out. In the morning, I was naked. So, no. It’s not fair, and I wish you’d stop saying it was.”

“That wretch. Jesus, Lars.”

Lars sighs. “She’s dead. You’re mine. We’ll leave in the morning, and whatever is haunting you will leave you. I promise.”

We hold each other. His hands stay on my skin, calloused and stern, almost lulling me to sleep. I don’t know how I ever slept before sharing a bed with him. The way Lars easily snores with me lets me know he feels the same way. I want to hold him forever. He’s mine now. I can protect him, I can love him. I will.

I’m almost asleep when laughter rings through the air. Jumping from Lars’s arms, I scramble to slip on my slippers. I hear him huff behind me and follow. The laughter grows louder.

“Aren’t you hearing it?”

Lars says nothing, his mouth twisted to the side. We stop at the room again—Judith’s yellow room. Despite me locking it, it’s ajar. I push into it, and it’s empty, but the windows are open, and the wind blows rain into the room, wetting the beds and furniture. Lars pushes past me to close them.

I go to the closet and find something on a hanger that I was certain I had thrown away—the elegant red dress. I grab the dress and fly out of the room. Her laughter rocks me. I know it’s her. Only Judith could get under my skin like this.

The rain pours on me, clouding my vision with grey shade so thick I can hardly see. The dress is over my shoulder. I open the greenhouse and take the shovel out, and make my way to Judith’s fresh grave.

Silk goes over her headstone—wife and daughter. The words mock me. Wife. How could she be the wife of a man she tricked into marriage? I dig but don’t get deep enough—my arms burn, and my eyes don’t stop crying. The wind blows the dress off, and I crawl in the mud to grasp it. The shovel lies on the ground.

Lars pulls me back, and the laughter stills.

“Don’t you hear it?”

Lars kisses my head, and he picks me up and takes me inside. He sets the kettle, puts a record on, and prepares tea for us. He turns the stove on, slices bread and toasts it. A jar of unlabeled jam is taken out, and he spreads it across the bread for us. While the kettle boils, he brings the plate with two jam-covered slices over to us.

“I don’t like grape. When did you even buy it?”

“Patsy made it before she… c’mon, eat something.”

I look at the thick layer. It smells good, but my stomach can’t take it. “No, thank you.”

“Alright.”

The kettle whistles, and he fills two mugs for us. I put my hands over our cups. “What tea are you using?”

“Darling, you’re worrying the hell out of me right now.”

“The tea, Lars! Just tell me what you used!”

“Alright. Shit!” He slams the kettle down and shows me a box of mint tea.

My dirt-crusted hands cover my face. I’m going insane.

He rubs my back, and I hear him pour the tea. “We’ll leave in a few hours. I promise.”

“You don’t believe me, though, do you?”

“I believe that this house—perhaps the grief of losing Judith and misplaced shame—has you spiralling. I believe that may have an effect. I don’t need anything else for that to be a reason.”

“If it continues when we leave?”

“Then we’ll find help.”

“You’d send me to the asylum?” I push back the chair and stand.

“Hey.” He raises his hands. “I would never do that. Listen, I’d never hurt you. I just got you. You think some dreams and hallucinations are going to keep you away from me? Never. There isn’t a way beyond death for us to be apart now.”

I believe him and sit again, taking the cup. The tea has grown lukewarm, but it’s mint. The black liquid in my cup comforts me. We sip slowly. Lars reaches for the toast and takes a bite. On the second, he falls back out of the chair. It’s my dream all over again.

The laughter rings again—low and musical.

I touch the jam and try to smell it; there’s a bitter note to it, and a rash rises on my skin. I can think of only one thing that may cause this: the berries from outside the last room Judith occupied. Lars is still breathing when I check. I take the risk of going for my medical bag, left in the room she died in. Ransacking the space, I don’t find it. My medical bag is not a small thing. I would have seen it in such a tiny space. I take the risk and go upstairs to the yellow room and see it on the bed.

The door shuts behind me as I enter. I put the bag on my shoulder and try to open the door, only to find it closed. I jam my shoulder into it, and it doesn’t budge. My fingernails scratch till they break and bleed.

Judith didn’t share—her laughter echoes more. It fills my head like a stereo pressed to my ears, dialled up at full volume. It is a laughter that echoes against the walls and chills my soul.

But Lars is dying, and I will not take it lying down.

I go through her drawers for something that wasn’t thrown out. A cigarette rolls around, matches, a broken perfume bottle, and mothballs. I grab the matches and throw the dress onto the ground—which was still around my neck—and light a match.

The windows fly open, rain and wind try to blow it out. I go back for the perfume bottle and throw the liquid onto the dress. It crackles and burns in magnificent destruction. Back to the door, I lean with barely any weight, and it pushes open.

Lars is still on the ground, comatose.

I take the bottle. It reads Physostigmine. I withdraw a dose with a needle and inject it into him. I stay there until it takes effect, until his speech stops slurring. The silence is noted. The house creaks on its own. The rain has no help in its fury. I hold Lars and know that he cannot be taken from me.