The Girl in the White Dress

I caught myself thinking that the weather had never matched my mood so thoroughly, as I dragged my suitcase up the long drive. The high gothic windows glared down at me under the few weak rays of sun that escaped the suffocating sky. The large oak doors loomed at the end of the long drive, incongruous with my memories of the place. Usually, the proud figure of my Great Aunt Jean would be silhouetted in the doorway, waiting to embrace me. When I was very young, Frank would sweep me into his arms; giving me a piggy back into the house. This time the doors were shut and no one was waiting to welcome me.

I felt the windows glare at me as I fumbled for the key, almost dropping the letter that had accompanied the key onto the wet ground. Eventually, I managed to unlock the door, swinging it open into the vast, silent entrance hall. The sight that greeted me held me transfixed in the doorway. The warmth and light had fled from it, leaving a deep silence; it was as though the house had died with Jean. The entrance hall was so enormous that it used to double as a ball room almost a century before, complete with a grand sweeping staircase on the right side, wide enough for five people to walk shoulder to shoulder comfortably. The walls directly in front of me and on my left, held equally impressive high oak doorways, which lead off to more grand rooms.

Even though I had not crossed the threshold I could feel my breath catching, there was a pain in my chest that had replaced the hole the loss of them had left in me. This was not the home of my childhood anymore. Despite my plans to sell, I felt a little overwhelmed now I was face to face with the task ahead but I had to start somewhere, so I decided to make dinner. Wiping the tears from my face I picked up the bags abandoned at my feet and strode across the hall through the doorway on the far side. I passed the dining room they’d never used and found myself frozen in the doorway of the kitchen, the after image of Jean cooking flashing before my eyes. I stood there for a moment before I turned resolutely, abandoned my bags upon the table and retreated to the garden.

This was the fairy land that belonged to Frank and the memory of his death was not so raw, I had been very little when his heart gave out. I decided to walk along the long cobbled path that lead to the ornamental koi pond; hoping the swing Frank had installed for me at its edge was still working. The garden had changed so much without him to tend to it. The flower beds were truly wild now and the rose bushes had become gangly, spilling out onto the path. A huge smile crept across my face as I saw the shining white swing, which looked freshly painted. It was the only thing here that time had not touched. As I stroked the smooth wooden surface, I realised Jean had maintained the swing for me. It was then I heard a small giggle, quiet at first but then it grew louder, like a child laughing breathlessly whilst playing tag. I caught the flash of a white dress amongst the overgrown plant beds that surrounded the pond in semi circles. I could hear small footsteps in the paths surrounding the pond, accompanied by bushes rustling in the directions the steps travelled.

“Who is there?” A cacophony of girlish laughter followed this but no one answered. “This garden isn’t safe to play in, you lot need to go home.” A small voice spoke from behind me.

“But this is home.” I whirled around but she had already taken off, her white dress streaming behind her as she ducked into a small gap in the bushes, crawling on her hands and knees out of sight.

“Come on, I’m not chasing you.” I said as I ducked to look into where she had disappeared. “If you live nearby then just go home, I’m not in the mood for games.” The bushes rustled again a few feet to my right and I started towards the movement, until there was more rustling on my left. More laughter followed, this time it was easy to hear that there were different tones of voice, there were definitely a few kids here. “Seriously, this isn’t funny.”
At these words a crescendo of sound hit me like a wave, someone had turned off the gentle noises of birds and insects, replacing them with a howling wind and ringing laughter. The large grandfather clock in the house chimed six times, the sound meeting with giggling to echo in my ears, numbing my face with the sheer force of the noise. Suddenly, I saw the girl again but there were others, I caught flashes of small skinny children in dull clothes all around the pond. I felt small tugs on my hair and clothing, always just out of my sight and I was too late to catch the perpetrator, finding empty air each time I whirled to catch them. The noise was drowning me; penetrating through the hands I had placed over my ears. I sank to the ground, childishly covering my face with my hands instead as though not seeing it would make it no longer exist. As suddenly as it had begun, the roaring wind ceased, cutting off the laughter with a deathly finality. Cautiously, I put my hands down and fell backwards instantly in shock at the sight of the little girl before me, crouched in the exact same position I had been in moments before. My heart pounding, I watched her sit there, giggling harder each time she peaked through her fingers and saw that I was still starring at her.

“What in God’s name was that?” She took her hands away from her face and smiled sweetly up at me. The girl wore a white dress, which was very ragged close up. She also wore a daisy chain around her neck and her hair was in two scruffy plaits.

“My Aunt says you shouldn’t say things like that. It’s blasphemous.”

“What are you doing here?” At this question she stood up, swishing the hem of her dress back and forth. A frown filled her scrawny features.

“I’m here because my parents are bad.”

“Where do you live?” She did not answer. “Come inside, I’ll call your parents.” Against my better judgment I extended a hand for her to take and turned back to the house, trying to ignore the way my heart had leapt into my throat. I had taken a few steps before realising she had not put her hand in mine. Turning back I was faced with a deserted garden, with no little girl in sight. My legs took over my brain and I ran for the house. I sprinted back through the dining room, to the kitchen; this was Jean’s domain and the closest I could get to running into her arms. I paced around the room, stopping only to pull the curtains across the windows that faced the back garden. I contemplated phoning my mum because we had both heard the same stories growing up and she knew more about the history of this place than I did. However, I knew what her response would be; she’d tried to have jean committed on several occasions.

‘I was never lonely here.’

They were the words she had written in the letter to me that accompanied her will; Jean had left me everything she owned. What had she meant by that? Music started in the distance, causing my heart to begin slamming in my chest again. I recognised the sound, it was one of Frank’s jazz records and I knew exactly where his record player still stood. Despite the fear still coursing through me, I could not resist the pull of the music that was just as much a part of my childhood as this house was. I walked back to the entrance hall in a trance, my mind numb. Along the wall opposite the stair case were small tables, displaying objects from the houses long history. The record player stood in pride of place at the centre of the wall, where the band would have stood in the days balls had been held here. A rich couple had lived a garish life here in the early twenties, until they had frittered their money away and had been forced to sell for half it’s worth to settle gambling debts. Perhaps the wind had knocked the pin down onto the record and it had begun playing on its own? As soon as I reached the player I stopped the music, feeling my heart break as I saw the box of his records beneath the table. He used to dance with me to this music; he liked the way it made me giggle. It was then that I noticed the table full of photo frames, the largest of which showed Jean and Frank on the swing, with the girl in the white dress sat between them. I removed the photograph from its frame, hoping Jean’s habits had not changed and flipped it over to find the names of the people captured within it.
Sure enough it read:
Jean and Frank Amare,
Jane Lyon Aged 6

It was my name. The little girl in the picture was me but she was the same as the girl in the garden, her hair was even in two scruffy plaits and a daisy chain sat around her throat.

It was then the music began again, except it was much louder than the record player. I felt the eerie touch of a material like silk against my leg. The hall began to fill with sounds of an invisible party, I could hear the clinking of glasses, the clicking of heels on the marble floor and spirited conversation. I could feel people I could not see brush past me, the fine material of their clothing tickling my bare arms. Terror pressed me against the wall, trying to stay out of their way. The music had risen like I was stood right next to the people playing their instruments. All reasoned logic left me as white hot panic seared through stomach; I resisted the urge to let my weak knees buckle beneath me. In the midst of my terror I looked up to see the little girl upon the stairs. She was swishing her dress and whirling it in time with the music. She shot me a dazzling smile when she noticed I was looking at her and spoke to me, her quiet voice somehow piercing through the raucous party.

“The Shadow Man is coming.”

Once again the noise cut off, leaving only ringing silence. The girls face was suddenly grave as she looked up at the top of the stairs. In darkness that was far deeper than it should have been a figure hung from the mezzanine above. In the inky black pool of shadows surrounding him it was still possible to see his face. His eyes were open and starring directly at me. Logic and reason abandoned, I ran for the door, trying not to look at dark figure that was no longer hanging but ascending the broad staircase. The door would not open and he was still moving towards me, carrying the sticky darkness with him. There was no air in my lungs to scream with. No thought other than blinding fear. I took the door way nearest to me at a sprint, running for the one room in the house with a lock. The corridor seemed endless. I wrenched open the study door and slammed it shut, locking it and pulling the nearest filing cabinet across it.

“All the stories are true.” I muttered to myself over and over, pulling at my hair and pacing the room, pausing occasionally to listen to the deathly silent house. ‘The Shadow Man’ was a story Jean had told me. He was a ghost that killed children, roaming the halls, dragging the rope he’d hung himself with behind him. I always thought it was a story she’d told me to stop me getting out of bed at night. Years later, I found out about the gruesome past of the manor’s history she’d based the story on. The gentleman that bought the house after the rich couple, in a bizarre move, had turned it into an orphanage. Someone eventually realised that many children had gone missing, with the only his ‘documentation’ as proof of their adoption. On the day the police came to search the house he hung himself from the mezzanine. In the end they found nearly twenty children buried in the house and grounds, some were even bricked up in the walls during ‘renovations’. The house had been abandoned after that, left to fall into disrepair until after the war, when Jean’s parents had purchased it for a pittance.

“All the stories are true.”

I said it over and over like a prayer. My childhood had been filled with stories of the ghosts in this house. Every time I came to stay with them I would beg for more stories about the spirits. It didn’t frighten me then, this was the only place on earth I had felt safe and loved. It could not hurt me.

As my breathing slowed, I noticed the file that lay upon the desk. My name was written on the spine. Curiosity winning over fear, I opened it to find an official looking document. Tears fell freely from my face as I read; apparently, they had tried to adopt me when I was six years old. Frank had pages and pages of documentation, filled with pictures of bruises, scars and broken bones. The last of which showed a large bruise, swirled with deep blues and purples, pictured beneath the hem of a ragged white dress. I couldn’t find any information as to why they weren’t successful. The last item in the folder was a copy of the letter Jean had written to me with the will. Anger suddenly flooded through me. I would not hide in here.
This was my home. It would not hurt me.

It took me longer to move the filling cabinet back, now that I was no longer filled with panic. My resolution wavered slightly as the loud click of the lock echoed throughout the silent house. I opened the door, my heart beating so fast that I could feel it pulsing in my fingertips. The chiming of the grandfather clock skewered through my senses and I slammed the door shut again. How could it be midnight already? Beyond the sound of my own breathing, I could hear noises behind the door. It was the unmistakeable sound of children playing. It was distant, possibly far enough away to be coming from the entrance hall. I surprised myself by opening the door again, to peer down the corridor into the hall. Under the only light I had switched on as I entered earlier, there were children in grey and brown smocks playing hopscotch. Every now and then I also caught the whirl of a white dress. Hardly believing my own daring, I found myself walking towards them. They ignored my presence completely, apart from my little doppelganger, who flashed me another smile. As soon as she looked at me properly, however, her grin faded and she paled. As one, the children stopped playing and turned to face me in silence, all with looks of terror on their faces. The house was not silent, however, when their game ended the corridor still echoed with a strange hissing sound. Standing among my little guardians I turned to face the horrors behind me. Under the dim light that drifted from the study, a figure stood amongst the darkness. The air around him was darker, crackling with preternatural blackness as he dragged the thick rope that was still bound around his neck behind him. His eyes found mine and grinned. It seemed to break the spell that held the children still. They moved in front of me, their skinny faces filled with hatred. I felt a hand tugging on my dress and turned to see the little girl pulling me towards the stairs.

“Hurry! There’s a place he won’t follow.”

As the Shadow Man advanced, the music began playing again but too fast, suddenly wild and raw. I was battered by invisible bodies pressing around me as I fought towards the stairs. Hands raked the hem of my dress, tearing it and leaving smudges upon it. When I finally reached the stairs I fell in my haste, cracking my knee against one of the steps. Ignoring the pain I ran with the girl up the stairs and into the labyrinth of corridors. Realising where she was leading me, I ran with more confidence towards another set of stairs, which lead to the floor the mezzanine was on. We ran to the only bedroom on the floor and I flew inside it, the door crashing closed before I realised she was not with me. I could hear her screaming on the other side of the door. I wrenched at the handle but it would not turn; she and I pounded uselessly at a door that may as well have turned to stone. I could hear her crying with terror as she tried to break through. Finally, her scream cut through the night.

“He’s coming! The Shadow Man is here!”

In one breath, her screaming stopped, the music ended and the dragging footsteps were silenced. I watched in horror as the door knob turned and then shook in frustration. This was followed by four quick footsteps and the sound of the something falling, which ended in an awful, final crack. I sank onto Jean’s bed in relief. Trembling over took me in waves as I cried. Unable to look away from the door, unable to relax as I sobbed, listening to the night pass in silence.

Dawn broke as the grandfather clock announced it was six in the morning. I finally uncurled my stiff limbs and stepped off the bed. Jean and Frank’s room was the same as it had always been; I could even smell her perfume in the air around me. On the bedside table was an old picture of the two of them on their wedding day. Listlessly, I picked it up and said the words that had been running through my mind all night.

“How could all these terrible things return but not you? How could you leave me?”

Tears gathered in my sore red eyes again, even though I felt I had none left to give. The hollow in my chest grew deeper as I knew they were truly gone and with them, my true home. When music began to play below again I threw the picture on the bed in frustration, I’d hoped the nightmare was over. This time, however, the music was different; it was the gentle, waltzing music Frank had jokingly called ‘lazy Sunday dancing sounds’. The smell of Jean’s perfume grew stronger as the door’s latch clicked, leaving it slightly ajar. This time my heart raced for different reasons. I flung the door open and descended the first flight of stairs, not daring to look over the balcony’s edge. I could only bring myself to look once I was halfway down the grand staircase, my heart feeling like it could burst. There they were. Frank and Jean laughing, moving in an ungainly waltz. Jean noticed me first and, smiling up at me she said

“You found us, darling! Come down and take this duck footed man off my hands.” Frank did not look at all offended but instead extended his hand to me in an old fashioned bow.

“May I have this dance?”

Not caring if this was real; I ran down to them and leapt into their arms.
As we span in our strange, three person waltz, I giggled, watching my white dress whirl around over my small bruised legs. The daisy chain I wore kept flying up into my face, so I had to keep blowing it back down, which only made me laugh harder as my braids loosened even more.
This place was my home. There was no way I could sell it.