It took her several weeks to tell me. I think if she had confided her ‘vision’ earlier, maybe at the moment when we were first inspecting the property, I would have resisted purchasing that beautiful old house.
Its’ acre sat fronting the little river that wended its way through the village; the water easement effectively provided additional acreage, maintained by the council: a bonus. Our laneway was a cul de sac, just us and four other sandstones, all built when craftsmanship and pride mattered.
The south-facing verandah, with the old Ornamental grape, that doubled as a windbreak taming most of the late summer heat, was our preferred Friday soiree venue. Whiskey for Ginette, Ouzo, over ice, for me. We were sharing a plate of biscotti and Taramasalata.
“Do you remember that afternoon when we were waiting for the Estate Agent and we were looking over the fence?” “Yep. It was commanding, wasn’t it? I think I fell in love with it at that moment, more so as we moved through that enormous front door, the bay windows, the lead lights, the ceiling roses, the Baltic flooring, the generosity of the rooms.”
“I saw something!” “Whaddyamean, ‘ya saw something’?” “In that bedroom window. There was an old lady. She had long white hair, staring, silently out, like she was assessing us. You probably don’t remember but I made a beeline for that front bedroom, to introduce myself. There was nobody there, just a noticeable chill to the air!”
“That’s ridiculous,” I countered, as long-held fears started to scramble into my cerebellum; my voice quavering as I asked, “why didn’t you tell me before?” I had a deep-seated fear, childhood nightmares, irrational fear of ‘bears under the bed’.
She started to backtrack. “I’ve never seen her again. I think she may have been a forlorn figment of my imagination.”
Over the weeks, I gradually regained my composure, but then I heard old Missus Friedrich talking to Ginette over the fence. They didn’t realise I was pruning, nearby.
“Did ya see her?” “Yes, she was standing in that front room.” “Mmm, dear old Phyllis, she was a good friend and neighbour to my Mum. I only vaguely remember her. She and Mum would be at this fence for hours, some days. Gentle, but married a bloody bastard. He ended up murdering her, and the rumours were that the Screws ‘did for him’ before they could ‘ang im. A right bastard!”
She continued: “She always knows when new owners are coming. She stands at that window, quietly assessing them. Never known to do anything else, just looks and then quietly fades away. Until the next sale.”
The hairs on my neck were erect, goosebumps raised like sandpaper, rational thought swamped. I was badly spooked. I found myself turning extra lights on when moving between the rooms, avoiding being by myself in the evenings. Yes, total, irrational behaviour, but nonetheless, a visceral fear was gnawing.
It wasn’t long before Phyllis was at the window again.
A ghost story’ include words white, screw, wind and forlorn