The Stain

The Stain

    Don’t think me mad when I say that I welcome death, although mad I must truly be. I stand before you all with the most grievous confession to make. Please hear me through, and judge me as you will. For I have committed a most horrible crime and there will be no peace for me until I admit my guilt before my peers and suffer the supreme consequence. And especially before HER – she who stands silent amongst you, glaring my guilt back at me through tragic eyes. I cannot bear to see them any more, piercing my soul, spurning me, and compelling me to tell my tale.
    It was a week after my wife had died when the stain first appeared on the ceiling of the spare bedroom. Unable to sleep in the newly-empty ensemble in our own chamber, where she had slept so sweetly beside me for one delightful year of marriage, I had taken to the spare bedroom in an attempt to escape the very essence of her that permeated everything in our marriage suite. As the spare bed had no canopy, my wandering thoughts upon waking were aimed at the ceiling directly above.
    On this particular morning, having exhausted my usual area of ceiling with thoughts that bordered on the maudlin, if not quite on despair, I turned my attention to other parts of the room. I soon noticed, above the wardrobe opposite the bed, a grey patch on the white of the ceiling. As I watched, it seemed to darken in intensity, although at first I swore that was only my imagination at work. Thinking it to be nothing more than a patch of damp brought on by recent rain, I thought no more about it, except to make a note to get someone in to fix the roof. However, as I went about my schedule that day, I forgot completely the plan to take care of the damp patch, and found myself in bed and asleep without having done anything about it.
    The next morning I awoke and spent my usual few minutes staring at the ceiling as I pondered the misery the fates had seen fit to visit upon me. My eyes soon lit upon the area of ceiling above the wardrobe and sought out the shadow of dampness I’d seen the morning before. Strangely enough, it seemed to have disappeared, so my attention wandered elsewhere. Early morning sunlight filled the room with moving shadows caught from the elm tree outside. The ceiling was covered with patches of light and shade, and in one of these shadows, directly in the centre of the ceiling, I suddenly discerned a darker patch of grey.
    I was momentarily confused, wondering how the first patch of damp had disappeared and a second appeared without apparent cause, as the rain had departed some days prior. I dismissed the phenomena from my mind and got on with the days business, again forgetting to arrange for someone to come and fix the roof. Upon waking the next day, the strangeness of the occurrence arrested me anew. The dark patch was no longer in the centre of the ceiling – it was right over the foot of my bed! I gazed in fascination, unable to comprehend how a patch of damp could move from spot to spot like a phantom light on the moors, and determined to find an explanation for it.
    I immediately dressed and ascended to search the attic. It was cosy and snug, filled with glaring sunlight that poured in through the gabled windows. Nowhere could I find a place where the rain might have leaked in, not even the merest trace of damp on the walls or floor, though I searched long and hard. I was faintly disturbed at this turn of events, and went about my day’s business almost like a ghost. My position as chief bank clerk at one of the town’s more prestigious firms held little to rival the interest caused by the mystery at home, and I could scarcely wait to return there at the end of the day to ponder it anew.
    Sitting on the edge of the bed, candle held high, I speculated what might be causing the stain on the ceiling. For I now thought of it as a stain. It had indeed darkened in colour over the couple of days I had been aware of it, and although I’m not a man of wild fancies, I would have sworn the darkening patch now displayed the faintest traces of rusty brown. Never had I heard of a mere patch of damp changing colours. I felt curiously uneasy about the stain, and decided to move back into the main bedroom. I supped, then retired to bed. It felt strange and empty without Emily, so I turned myself away from what had been her side of the bed and tried to console myself.
    I spent a restless night, full of ragged ends of dreams, and awoke in the morning feeling anxious and unrefreshed. I had tossed and turned so much in the night that the bedclothes were all tangled, and I hurried to straighten them. I took solace in causing things to be neat – ordered surroundings, I believed, help to calm the mind. As I stood and surveyed the room, I felt a wave of senseless panic wash over me. Everything looked tidy, arranged to my liking and reflecting the neatness I was accustomed to live with. I couldn’t understand why I felt so disturbed, until my gaze rose to the ceiling.
    I gasped and trembled – the stain was now visible on the cornice above the wall separating the main bedchamber from the spare room. I hurried into the other room and searched for the spot – yes, there it was, high up on the cornice in exactly the right place – crossing into the main bedroom! It was beyond my comprehension what it was or how it was able to move so intently towards where I slept at night.
    For the rest of the day I was greatly distracted, unable to concentrate on anything for thought of that stain. Arriving home after work, I immediately ascended to the main bedchamber to check on its progress. The stain had traversed half the ceiling towards the canopy of the bed! Not only that, but it had turned a distinctly reddish colour that further unsettled me. I toyed with the idea of moving back to the spare room, but dismissed it as a groundless whim brought on by a completely senseless anxiety.
    And so I lay down to sleep exactly where I belonged – in my own marriage bed in my own bedchamber in my own house. After eating a light supper, I retired to read by candlelight until I felt sleepy. However, the book failed to keep my attention, as I constantly wondered where on the ceiling that infernal stain was. Finally I put the book down and tried to compose myself for sleep. The night outside was as restless as I felt. Wind tossed the branches of the elm tree shadowing that side of the house, causing patches of moonlight and shadow to constantly flicker across the room. Everything seemed unfamiliar and strange, and the sound of the wind moaning around the building made me feel unaccountably nervous.
    I had left the candle burning, hoping that it’s light would give me a comfort I knew I wouldn’t feel in the dark. The steady little flame did nothing to allay my misgivings, and finally I got up. I stood back and held the candle high. The stain was halfway over the bed, travelling, as I thought, towards its head. I shivered uncontrollably – the horror of it clawed at my brain, but I fought for control. I tried to convince myself of the foolishness of my fancies. The thing was no more than a stain, some perverse sort of patch of damp, apparently capable of locomotion from one spot to another but otherwise surely harmless. I calmed my feverish thoughts with a great effort, and climbed back into bed.
    Once more I tried to sleep, but the thought of that bloody stain, moving inexorably and unseen over the bed’s canopy, prevented it. A dozen times or more I almost sprang from where I lay, gripped with terror, and yet every time I managed to convince myself that no harm could possibly befall me there. A grim resolve took me – I would wait it out, all night if need be, just to prove that nothing would happen. It barely seemed to matter now whether I slept or not. Having made the resolve, lethargy overtook me. My limbs became heavy and my mind foggy, and I realised that all my nervous excitement had drained me completely. I welcomed the thought of sleep, an escape from the horrors I’d put myself through so needlessly. A kind of paralysis set in, and I remember smiling serenely as I lay back, looking up at the underside of the canopy, waiting for sleep to come.
    Oh horror! In the meagre candlelight I made out a patch of darkness on the canopy. It was of a pale green floral-patterned chintz, a material my wife had adored and insisted on for our bridal suite before we married. And now the stain was spreading, growing before my unbelieving eyes, a faintly glistening area of wetness pooling on the canopy. It seeped slowly through, and I discerned a globule of blackish liquid forming in the centre of the stain. My mind told me to leap out of bed, but my limbs would not obey. The droplet fell – down! Down! – and splattered on my feverish forehead.
    I screamed as the wetness trickled down my face, a strong smell of blood in my nostrils. Again I urged myself to move, but I seemed truly paralysed and could only lay there, screaming in panic, as drip after drip splashed down on my face, filling my mouth with the taste of iron, filling my eyes until everything I beheld in my tortured state seemed blood red…
    And so I stand before you today, a broken man, ready to confess my sin. You cannot guess the agony I went through in the minutes after I had murdered her up in the attic, my own sweet Emily – the guilt I felt at losing my temper over such a trivial thing as her habitual messiness, the emotions that shook me as I beheld what I’d done, my hands dripping with her innocent blood. The carelessly dropped letter knife that I had snatched up and used in my sudden rage, I threw in the river, and her pale, slim body, so like a fragile child’s, I buried under the elm tree in the yard.
    And although I washed the blood from my hands and scrubbed the attic floor until it seemed spotless, although I disposed of the means of the murder and the evidence of the body, although I successfully made excuses that my lovely wife had taken a sudden trip to visit a dying relative, I was not free of the deed. For there she stands amongst you, silently glaring at me with those dark, dead eyes, the finger of guilt pointing straight and true to send me to the gallows, and her blood dripping endlessly in condemnation of my foul deed. Yes, I welcome death!