White Ink

White Ink

She wore black ballet slippers; they whispered to her as she ascended the lighthouse steps, her trailing lace sleeves brushed the banisters like cobwebs. She looked up at the spiral above her; the orb in the center was dim and motionless. The warmth of the light made her pale skin glow. In the shadows her lips appeared grey as though she were in a black and white photograph, though her hair really was black and had such a gloss to it, it almost looked liquid, like pouring ink.

She reached the top. The ghost was already there, waiting. A single moonbeam lit her misty silhouette as though the moon were hung there for that purpose alone: to spotlight her sitting place. The fireflies danced in the space like glitter moving in water. The ghost blinked, her white lashes pressed together gently. The girl came to sit by her on the dusty wood floor. 

“Eloise,” the girl said, looking up into the ghost’s luminous young face, “I have missed you.” Eloise’s smile was slow and kind. Though her colours were now like milk, it was still easy to tell that she was once a brilliant blonde, a beauty in both life and death. Her voice was as misty as her figure; “I know,” she said. “I’ve felt it, Ruby.”

*    *    *

My name is Eloise White. I am not dead, except for when I sleep. Though days of sunshine pass by my windows, the sun, everyone’s beloved sun, it mocks me when I wake, and sit, and wait, for the quiet night sky. There are no people. I have no friends. The lighthouse is not real.

I live far out in the countryside, in a cottage my husband built. I do not love him. The house lies on a man-made island surrounded by lake. Before I was married, my darling, as he bids me call him, told me he was an artist, and he longed to spend the rest of his days painting the lake, the cottage, and me… his beautiful treasure. But now he has left, to work in a town many miles away, and returns home far less often than he promised. It has been three weeks now, and I know, I’m part of a collection of his. I think he must have many treasures by now. But he has been clever, to trap me here where there is nowhere I can wander, and there is only one thing I can do. I can dream, and I always dream of her.

Shortly after I was married and had realized my mistake, my younger sister died. I was not allowed to go to her funeral. My husband insisted it would upset me far too much, and that I must stay home with him, to sit before a fire in silence, while Ruby was lowered to her grave. I watched the embers fading out. I could not hold the tears. When the splash of a teardrop met my lap, my husband heard it. He frowned, and told me to think other thoughts. He told me to smile or to go to sleep. I slept, and the dreams began. 

At first, I only saw her death. I had left her so far behind, abandoned her for a beast and a prison. I think she must have been too alone. She hanged herself in her room. The house was old and supported by great, thick beams of oak; she wrapped her scarf tightly round and round a beam on the ceiling. She kicked the chair over; she did not make a sound. At least, that is the way I saw it. Her suicide note was sent to me, it was addressed only to me. It took me four days to be able to unfold the paper.

Dear Eloise,

I have missed you. I miss my sister, the only person I could ever really talk to. I miss your stories that you whispered to me at night, and the way you laughed when I added my own silly details. Now I have no one and I know you cannot return. I tried to write my own stories, Eloise. Nothing would come. The paper stayed blank. I could stare at the paper for hours and hours, and imagine so many wonderful things in my head but I could never write them as I heard them. All my stories remained invisible, as though I’d written them in white ink, and could never read them back. I can’t live in a world without you. I want the stories more than I ever want the real world. I want the dreams more than I ever want to be awake. I’m going to sleep now Eloise, to dream. And I’ll always dream of you.

Love, Ruby

My sister could not live in a world without me. Yet here I am, living in a world without her, with no good reason. The most I can do is to dream as she does, and in the day I write. The curtains always stay closed; I hate the sun that fights its way in despite that. I hate the day. I hate the light. I write the stories for her; her name is in every title. Her face is in every dream. In the dreams, I am the one who died. I left her behind for the towering lighthouse, where the light will always find me and an Old Magick keeps me there. But she will come to visit me, and I will tell her my stories until morning.

I could never tell her what my death is like. That I sit alone each day and miss her, that sometimes my husband does come home, and then I truly wish I were dead. He seeks me out in the darkness and lights candles by my bed. They cast hollow shadows on his face and make his eyes stand out. The look stares right through my clothes, the hands undress me and squeeze my flesh a little too tight, leaving purple bruises to blossom. The love he makes is nothing like love. He can’t understand love. I bite him, so full of rich hate that it makes me sick. He likes to be bitten, but I would never dare to hate him so that he knew about it, I couldn’t bear to know what would happen to me then. I let him do what he will, and then I go to sleep.

*    *    *



Eloise rose from her chair, and lowered herself to the floor beside Ruby. “I’m not going to tell you a story tonight, Ruby.” Her misty voice lingered in the air. Ruby had been following a tiny spider with her eyes. With her eyes to the floor her hair had fallen to gently cover her face. She looked up, her lips slightly parted. Her eyes were big and sad. “Please…” she started. But Eloise was smiling so kindly. She stopped and waited for her to continue. “I’m not going to tell you a story tonight, you’re going to write me one.” Ruby looked for the spider again. “You know I can’t.” She whispered. Eloise stroked the hair from her eyes then, “But you can, because I’m here.” On a small round table lay a few sheets of paper, and an ink pen. Ruby noticed it and brought it to the floor between them. “What kind of story would you like?” Ruby asked. “Surprise me, and I shall read it tomorrow.” And so the two sisters sat together in the dust, one writing away, the other simply watching, and listening to the light scratching of the ink pen’s nib.

*    *    *

One night my dream was different. I had not told a story, Ruby and I had hardly spoken. But I was happy, because she had been able to write. I’d never know what her story was, but at least I had seen her happy in her own writing. I’d woken in the morning and stayed in bed until very late in the afternoon. I had no reason to get up; I was not in a writing mood myself. Beside the bed was a small desk where I made my stories. I noticed then that the inkpot was empty. It wasn’t when I had gone to bed. I rose to look, and there on the desk were pages of writing, in Ruby’s hand. I rubbed at my eyes but the picture could not be any clearer, and the tears fell so fast. All the tears that were forbidden at first were freed, and my legs gave up on me before I even reached out for the paper. I was on the floor, and I was shaking madly.



The dreams had become so real I almost believed them, but this was still too much of a shock. From the floor I reached up and felt for the edges of paper. I brought them to my lap. My eyes would not read until my heart had calmed, but then I discovered something. Ruby had not written me a story. She had written me a letter.

Dear Eloise

I have a story to tell, but it is a true one. I am sorry because it will hurt you very much, but you have to know.

I missed you so much when you left. I missed the stories, but I still had a life. I hoped to visit you in the countryside. I thought about when I would find a husband of my own, you seemed very happy with yours, he seemed so kind and lovely. He’s not, Eloise. He’s a monster. I think by now you must already know.

One day he came back to speak to father about you. Father was not in, but I was. I told him that he would be home soon and that he was welcome to come in and wait. He did come in, but he wouldn’t say what it was he needed to speak to father about. I asked how you were. He said you were fine, that you loved the house and would sit and feed the ducks on the lake all day. I imagined you very happy. I said I was happy for the both of you. He went very quiet then, and asked me a strange question. I wish I had not answered but I feel that it would have happened anyway. He asked if I looked forward to a marriage of my own, and whether there was perhaps someone I was hoping would ask me. I trusted him then and told him my answer that there was no one yet but I did hope to marry. He looked at me very hard. Then something awful happened.

He seemed quite mad Eloise, and he was too strong for me. He hurt me, and he ruined me. Your husband did this. I screamed and screamed, and said that father would kill him when I told him. But he said father would never know. He took up a knife and almost cut my throat. He gave me paper and told me to write a letter, to you. He said it must be a letter of goodbye, and I knew he was going to kill me; I had to write it, then. Or you would think I didn’t love you if I died without saying a thing. He said if I wrote what had happened he would know and burn it, and make me write it again. So I wrote as though I really did want to die. It satisfied him. He killed me then, and made it look as though he were never there.

I’m glad he is always away from you, you might be lonely but at least for now you are safe. I will still see you every night, but you need to leave the house. Walk away. Walk as long as you can until you find somewhere safe. Please go Eloise, go and find yourself some happiness.

Ruby

I breathed so lightly I became dizzy. I thought I hated my husband, but now I understood true hate. I never wanted to see his face again, or I would kill him. I did not want to be a murderess; I did not want to be as low as he was. So I started to pack up some things - only what I thought I could carry on what could be a very long walk. When I was done I went into the larder to find some light food to take. There was a small loaf of bread I had baked a few days before. It was dry, but I didn’t care. I heard a door close and panicked that I had locked myself in. I turned around and the door was open. I ran wildly through the house. I knew he was home.

He was standing in the hallway removing his coat. He was startled to see me run; I was out of breath. My husband smiled at me. “You really have missed me, haven’t you?” He walked towards me. “You have become so pale,” he said to me, “you look like a china doll… how beautiful, is that why you hide from the light all day my love? Is that what all the fashionable ladies do?” I ran at him. I pushed him right over and leapt on his body. I pulled at his coarse hair and spat in his face. After the shock wore off, he grabbed my wrists and flipped me onto my back. He crushed me with his weight and bared his teeth like a dog about to bite. “What the hell has got into you, you stupid bitch!” he hissed into my face. I became very calm. I whispered to him softly. “You killed Ruby. You killed me too.” He laughed in my face. “Oh did I?”

I told him that I had proof and he let me up, stepping far back from me whilst I rose from the floor. I ran to my room for the letter. I read it to him, every word. He watched curiously as my eyes scanned the lines, and then he snatched the letter away. He started to read it for himself, but he was laughing. “Have you gone mad?” my husband laughed. “These pages are blank.” I knew he was playing with me, but I had nothing left to say. I thought I was going to have to kill him then. He turned the letter over in his hands, and then cast them to the floor. He approached me, still laughing. “The pages are blank,” he said again, “there is no letter.”

“There is!” I screamed it, a sharp scream into his face. “She wrote to me!” and then my legs gave way for the second time. I sat in a heap. “In invisible ink, I suppose?” he mocked. I gasped suddenly. I looked at the paper. The words I could no longer see. But the pages were not blank; there was a letter there. Ruby had written to me in white ink.

I had no proof to show anyone, not that I had anyone to show it to. I gathered myself up off the floor one last time. I knew I wasn’t going to kill my husband, so I went back to my room. I don’t know what he did, or where he went, I locked the door and blocked out all the light. I had something to do, one last story idea. I sat peacefully at my desk and wrote my story, and dedicated it to Ruby. After several hours it was completed, I couldn’t wait to tell it to her. I put it away with all the other stories I had written, I washed my face, and I got ready for bed. The house was completely silent. It was time for me to sleep, and dream. I went to join Ruby.

*    *    *

Ruby sat feeding the ducks by starlight on a small island surrounded by lake. There were no houses for miles and miles around. She waited for Eloise to come. When she did, she arrived in a little rowing boat, and climbed out carefully. All was silent still apart from the rippling of the black water that reflected the stars so that it seemed they sat on an island floating in the middle of space. Something was quite different about Eloise that night; she had re-gained her colours. No longer a ghost, she sat with her sister who gazed in surprise. “You’re going to stay now, aren’t you?” Ruby asked. Eloise nodded. The moon pushed a cloud aside and picked them out on the grass, and Eloise began to tell her last story. But it didn’t matter that this was the last because Ruby knew it would be never ending, and the morning would not come.