Spirit in the Night

Looking toward the ceiling in the dark room, Roland sighed. He didn’t have to check the time as the tune riding in on the night time breeze told him it was nearly 3:00 AM. Again.

She has no consideration for my time anymore!

Throwing the covers off, he grabbed his lamp, snaked himself into his robe, gingerly pushed his feet into the bedside slippers, and went straight to the sideboard and the array of spirits on display. Settling on a thirteen-year-old scotch, Roland knocked back a quick one and immediately poured a second with the hope of nursing it for a few minutes.

Heavy tumbler in hand, he dragged himself to the window while leaving the small oil lamp on the sideboard. The gentle breeze caused the sheer curtains to appear as if beckoning him forward. With his free hand, he pushed aside the window dressings so he could look at the grounds below, at the cemetery roughly fifty yards north.

There, perched atop her tombstone, Roland easily saw Rebecca, his long-dead first wife. The tune she hummed resonated clearly through the night; he could feel it vibrate the glass in his hand. Though it was a simple lullaby, he always associated it with his younger 23-year-old self and the horrors that populated that year.

The fire that had killed his parents, the influenza which afflicted most of town and nearly took Roland himself across the River Styx, and worse yet, the year was bookended by Rebecca giving birth to stillborn infants. The second had been enough to inspire her to break from reality and start behaving as if the children had both survived.

Piercing hard through the night, the waning moon lighting the scene appropriately, Roland saw Rebecca move from her tombstone to the adjacent ones. The lullaby intensified, echoing throughout the night. The wind picked up ever so slightly, but he could hear her ghostly voice start to tremble as she moved closer to the stillborn graves.

* * *

“The doctor says your humors are out of balance, my love. He suggested some cumin as a possible—”

“What do the Greeks know about curing maladies, Rola?” He had once loved her nickname for him, but she only used it when she wasn’t handling herself appropriately, and now it was forever tainted. “They can’t even believe in one God Almighty. They have to have so many of them to turn to.”

“Becca.”

“And how mighty is this one God we worship? The townsfolk all say everything happens for a reason. Your parents, their sicknesses, you nearly dying last year? The Almighty chose that for us, did he?”

“Please, let’s go see Doctor Fairns.”

She paused, staring into her bassinet where Roland had found her gently singing the lullaby. “Under cover of the night, always in my sight, I shall not forsake thee.” With a snort she abruptly stopped, drew one hand to the other, resting them together against her front, and stared at the floor before her. “I need to refresh myself if I’m to see the good doctor. I’ll join you at the carriage shortly.”

Feeling a slight burst of hope blossom in his chest, Roland smiled and immediately began preparations for a trip into town.

In that moment, he didn’t realize he would never see Rebecca alive again.

* * *

The nights she sang to the stillborn children were becoming more frequent, or Roland only noticed it now that he was older and closer to death himself. He sipped some scotch, holding it in his mouth longer than he usually liked.

Father O’Hare said she lingered among the living because of the suicide; Saint Peter would not have allowed her into Heaven and she was filled with too much grief to be punished with the pits of Hell. But the priest never actually saw Rebecca in the dead of night, and Roland always felt his words were meant to comfort the imaginations of a grieving widower. He’d been unable to prove the musical haunting as she only chose to perform when he was alone.

And sound asleep.

As her lullaby came to its natural end down in the graveyard, Rebecca slowly met Roland’s gaze with her icy demeanor. He’d always been blessed with perfect eyesight but now cursed it as he could easily read every line of her haunted face even from this distance.

With a curt nod, she dissolved into the breeze and Roland finally swallowed his scotch. It burned going down when it usually didn’t; he coughed until he felt flush.

With breath regained, he settled back under the covers, silently praying to whichever deity would listen that tonight be the last that he had to endure that insufferable lullaby and all the pains associated with it.

Word Count: 788