The Haunting of Mrs. Wilson
She slowly reached out her hand and pushed open the door.
The room was filled with a slow, swirling mist that wound itself around her body, making it difficult to breathe.
She screamed and hurriedly backed out of the room.
She ran down the stairs, across the hall and stopped just before the front door.
Waiting until her breathing had slowed down a little.
She turned around and walked back, her feet dragging up the stairs unwillingly.
Once again, she stopped in front of the door.
It was open this time, and the smoke had come out onto the corridor.
Covering her mouth with a handkerchief , she entered the bathroom again and walking straight towards the bathtub, turned off the tap and opened the windows wide.
Immediately, the thickness of the smoke lessened and she walked quickly out of the bathroom and sat down outside, breathing in deeply.
The rim of her skirt was wet due to the water which had leaked out onto the floor.
She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes.
And that was where her husband found her, sleeping heavily, a few minutes later when he came down from his study upstairs.
The house was said to be haunted by the local people who lived in the neighborhood.
This, however, hadn’t stopped Mrs. Wilson from falling in love with it.
It was large, with airy windows and huge balconies and surrounded by trees that completely isolated it from the rest of the world. ‘Just like what we read in stories’ she had said.
And so, they bought it.
Of course, even though the house was rather expensive, this wasn’t much of a problem, due to the large fortune Mrs. Wilson had inherited from her father.
She was in her late twenties, and known to her neighbors as a ‘crackpot’.
And not just because she used to buy crockery and then spend hours sitting down and painting it pink.
No, Mrs. Wilson was called a crackpot because she really had a mental problem and had to make monthly visits to the psychiatrist.
The rumor was that the ghost in her house had had an impact on Mrs. Wilson’s mind. Mrs. Nathan, a fellow neighbor, had even thrown in a little bit of Black Magic in the gossip to make it more juicy.
The truth, however, was unfortunately not as exciting.
Mrs. Wilson simply couldn’t handle shock and reacted to sudden, unexpected things in a very violent way.
Like the time she hit plump Mrs. Cortez on the head with a bright pink saucepan because she thought her beautiful house was getting invaded by a group of people dressed up as giant cookies.
Mrs. Cortez never really forgave her.
And made it a point to visit the gym regularly after that.
However, Mrs. Wilson was trying.
She was trying very hard indeed.
She knew that she was considered crazy in her neighborhood and she also knew about the things that were said behind her back. And however thick-skinned she was, she could not help feeling a little hurt when she heard the spiteful rumors and the cruel jokes about her mental problem circulated around the society.
What was worse, her husband’s job had lately become so demanding that she was hardly able to meet him more than twice a day.
So the problem that now arose was that Mrs. Wilson became more and more lonely and depressed and her condition worsened.
She became jumpy and nervous and spent her days shut up in the house reading books, or sleeping, or occasionally helping her housemaid with the cleaning.
And then, one day, it started.
Her housemaid had taken a holiday and had gone off to visit her sick mother.
Mrs. Wilson was sitting outside on the porch and looking at the scenery around her, occasionally talking to herself, an old habit of hers which had been gone until recently.
It was a beautiful summer noon and the hot sun made her feel drowsy.
And so, of course, she fell asleep.
When she woke up, it was about five o’ clock.
Mrs. Wilson jumped up and hurried into the house.
She glanced up at the clock.
Five fifteen.
She had been asleep for more than four hours.
She folded up her chair and dragged it inside the house.
She was still feeling extremely tired, as if she hadn’t slept at all.
She went inside the kitchen, shuffling her feet noisily and yawning.
And stopped suddenly.
And screamed.
Cups, plates, saucers, bowls, glasses, knives, forks, spoons, pans, pots, were all lying shattered and broken on the floor, as if a tornado had come and gone, leaving everything destroyed and damaged in its wake.
Mrs. Wilson fainted.
“I knew it! I had said so before! That house is haunted!” exclaimed a triumphant Mrs. Cortez the next day.
“But that’s nonsense, dear! This is all the result of practicing Black Magic and Witchcraft. They are getting punished by God.” Said Mrs. Nathan.
“But what if there really is a ghost? Some tortured spirit doomed to roam the earth for all eternity?” Miss Martha Filibuster asked, intently studying her reflection on a small, yellow mirror.
(Miss Filibuster’s knowledge, being limited to movies, had given her the impression that all ghosts were either tortured spirits, or evil souls who wanted to wipe off the face of humanity on the planet.)
Mrs. Cortez sniffed.
“Well, I at least, lock my door every night before I go to sleep.”
Mrs. Nathan nodded. And then her eyes fell on Miss. Filibuster’s purse.
“Oh, my dear! What a lovely purse! Where did you get it?”
Miss. Filibuster beamed.
Mrs. Cortez saw that they were going to start yet another conversation about bags and shoes and so she bid them farewell and left.
Miss. Filibuster looked at Mrs. Nathan. “I don’t like her much. She’s very weird.”
And their conversation switched back to bags and shoes.
Mrs. Wilson hadn’t slept well at all since her house had been broken into.
Although the few hours of sleep she had managed to throw in just a little while ago hadn’t helped either. She still felt just as tired. She looked tired as well. There were dark circles under her eyes and she looked pale and thin. She sighed and got up.
And stiffened when she heard a noise coming from the bathroom.
She got out onto the corridor and walked towards it. She went nearer and realized that it was the sound of water.
She slowly reached out her hand and pushed open the door…
“I’m not lying!”
Mr. Wilson sighed. He was feeling very irritated now. “But if the tap was open, like you said, and if the water did leak out onto the floor, then where is it now? Did you wipe it?”
“No, but…”
“Then who did? A ghost, I suppose?” He was losing his patience now.
Mrs. Wilson stared at him. “It wasn’t a ghost, Alfred! And it wasn’t my imagination either!” She screamed and walked away.
Thankfully, no one got to know of this recent incident and Mrs. Wilson’s reputation was (for the time being) saved.
Mr. Wilson and Mrs. Wilson both had the good sense to keep shut. Especially when Mrs. Cortez was around. (Of course, when Mrs. Cortez was around, other precautions had to be taken as well. Like making sure the pink saucepan was kept out of reach of Mrs. Wilson’s hands and Mr. Wilson’s small revolver which was kept in the wooden kitchen drawer was safely hidden away for Mrs. Cortez’s own protection)
A week passed peacefully.
And then, on the 23rd of July, Mrs. Wilson decided to have a dinner party at her house.
“I don’t think you should spend so much time alone.” Her husband had said.
And so she had taken his advice.
Since it was the first time she had had a dinner party, she was very nervous about it.
She spent a lot of time organizing it and planned it very carefully. Her cook, Martha, had been showered with questions like, “You’re sure you’ve made this before?” or “You haven’t put too much of sugar, have you?” until she pushed Mrs. Wilson out of the kitchen.
Her housemaid was still on holiday, so Mrs. Wilson carefully cleaned and polished the furniture, swept the floors and dusted the chairs.
Which is why, on the day of the party, when she was feeling extremely tired, the inevitable happened.
She fell asleep.
“Some more sugar in your coffee, Mrs. Filibuster?”
“No, thank you.”
Mrs. Wilson sighed and looked at the clock impatiently. She was already feeling extremely tired and the boring conversation was not improving her mood.
It was a good thing that her husband had woken her up in time or she wouldn’t have been ready.
Dinner passed quickly and Mrs. Wilson heaved a sigh of relief when she saw that Martha had done her job well.
After dinner, everyone moved into the large living room.
Mrs. Wilson groaned softly. How long did these people have to stay?
Mr. Wilson walked over to where she was sitting, and then suddenly tripped on the carpet.
“It’s alright, I’ve only grazed it.” He said and stood up. He sat down on the chair next to Mrs. Wilson. “Can you just run and fetch a bandage from the basement? I think it’s bleeding.”
Mrs. Wilson nodded and got up.
She went into the kitchen, and then opened the door that led to the basement.
She went down the steps slowly. They were very slippery.
She switched on the light and turned around.
Upstairs, Mr. Nathan was inquiring about Mr. Wilson’s knee.
“Are you sure it’s not hurting?”
Mr. Wilson shook his head.
“I remember the time I broke my ankle just a few days ago.” Began Mrs. Filibuster. “It was raining, you see, and…”
A loud bloodcurdling scream came from the basement and startled them all.
Everyone stood up as Mrs. Wilson came running into the room.
“It’s happened again. The same thing that happened in our kitchen.” She sobbed. Tears were pouring down her eyes and she could barely speak. “What’s wrong with me?” She screamed.
Everyone was silent.
Mr. Wilson caught hold of her arm and dragged her into the kitchen.
He shut the door and turned to face her.
“What happened?” he asked quietly.
Mrs. Wilson’s sobbing ceased slightly.
“What’s wrong with me, Alfred?” she asked. “And who’s doing all this?”
Mr. Wilson was quiet for a long time.
Finally, he said, “You are.”
Mrs. Wilson gasped.
“How could you say that? Why would I ever do that?” her voice was shaking with fury.
Mr. Wilson looked down at the floor as he spoke.
“I went to visit your psychiatrist yesterday. I told him about what happened last week. He said that you have a much more serious condition.”
Mrs. Wilson was very quiet now. “What?” she breathed.
Her husband answered, unable to look into her eyes, “Split personality.”
Mrs. Wilson stared at the wall. “How did he know that?”
Mr. Wilson glanced at her. “He said that the symptoms were the same as with other patients. You said that the house had been broken into, yet nothing was stolen. The bathroom tap was turned on. And every time something like this happened, you said you had been sleeping.”
He stopped and looked at his wife sadly. “I’m sorry, Matilda. I’m afraid there’s no cure for this. If things like this keep happening, and they become more dangerous, I’m afraid you’ll…”his voice broke down. He turned and walked out of the room.
Mrs. Wilson stared at the wall.
Her husband’s words echoed in her mind.
“Split personality.”
“Each time, before this happened, you had been sleeping.”
“If things like this become more dangerous…”
“There’s no cure.”
“There’s no cure.” Mrs. Wilson said to herself softly.
Mr. Wilson walked out of the kitchen and sat down on a chair.
Everyone was silent.
From the kitchen, there was a sound of a wooden drawer being opened, and closed.
A few minutes later, a loud gunshot was heard.
Mr. Wilson stuck the sign onto the gate.
‘House For Sale.’
He turned around and walked back inside the house.
He went up to the bedroom and lay down on the bed.
Finally, he thought, it’s all over.
After all these years of waiting.
He chuckled.
Split Personality .He smiled smugly. That had been a masterstroke. And a last minute addition.
After all, letting her do the dirty work was much easier than killing her myself.
And later that night, he celebrated at a restaurant with champagne bought with Mrs. Wilson’s money.
The room was filled with a slow, swirling mist that wound itself around her body, making it difficult to breathe.
She screamed and hurriedly backed out of the room.
She ran down the stairs, across the hall and stopped just before the front door.
Waiting until her breathing had slowed down a little.
She turned around and walked back, her feet dragging up the stairs unwillingly.
Once again, she stopped in front of the door.
It was open this time, and the smoke had come out onto the corridor.
Covering her mouth with a handkerchief , she entered the bathroom again and walking straight towards the bathtub, turned off the tap and opened the windows wide.
Immediately, the thickness of the smoke lessened and she walked quickly out of the bathroom and sat down outside, breathing in deeply.
The rim of her skirt was wet due to the water which had leaked out onto the floor.
She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes.
And that was where her husband found her, sleeping heavily, a few minutes later when he came down from his study upstairs.
The house was said to be haunted by the local people who lived in the neighborhood.
This, however, hadn’t stopped Mrs. Wilson from falling in love with it.
It was large, with airy windows and huge balconies and surrounded by trees that completely isolated it from the rest of the world. ‘Just like what we read in stories’ she had said.
And so, they bought it.
Of course, even though the house was rather expensive, this wasn’t much of a problem, due to the large fortune Mrs. Wilson had inherited from her father.
She was in her late twenties, and known to her neighbors as a ‘crackpot’.
And not just because she used to buy crockery and then spend hours sitting down and painting it pink.
No, Mrs. Wilson was called a crackpot because she really had a mental problem and had to make monthly visits to the psychiatrist.
The rumor was that the ghost in her house had had an impact on Mrs. Wilson’s mind. Mrs. Nathan, a fellow neighbor, had even thrown in a little bit of Black Magic in the gossip to make it more juicy.
The truth, however, was unfortunately not as exciting.
Mrs. Wilson simply couldn’t handle shock and reacted to sudden, unexpected things in a very violent way.
Like the time she hit plump Mrs. Cortez on the head with a bright pink saucepan because she thought her beautiful house was getting invaded by a group of people dressed up as giant cookies.
Mrs. Cortez never really forgave her.
And made it a point to visit the gym regularly after that.
However, Mrs. Wilson was trying.
She was trying very hard indeed.
She knew that she was considered crazy in her neighborhood and she also knew about the things that were said behind her back. And however thick-skinned she was, she could not help feeling a little hurt when she heard the spiteful rumors and the cruel jokes about her mental problem circulated around the society.
What was worse, her husband’s job had lately become so demanding that she was hardly able to meet him more than twice a day.
So the problem that now arose was that Mrs. Wilson became more and more lonely and depressed and her condition worsened.
She became jumpy and nervous and spent her days shut up in the house reading books, or sleeping, or occasionally helping her housemaid with the cleaning.
And then, one day, it started.
Her housemaid had taken a holiday and had gone off to visit her sick mother.
Mrs. Wilson was sitting outside on the porch and looking at the scenery around her, occasionally talking to herself, an old habit of hers which had been gone until recently.
It was a beautiful summer noon and the hot sun made her feel drowsy.
And so, of course, she fell asleep.
When she woke up, it was about five o’ clock.
Mrs. Wilson jumped up and hurried into the house.
She glanced up at the clock.
Five fifteen.
She had been asleep for more than four hours.
She folded up her chair and dragged it inside the house.
She was still feeling extremely tired, as if she hadn’t slept at all.
She went inside the kitchen, shuffling her feet noisily and yawning.
And stopped suddenly.
And screamed.
Cups, plates, saucers, bowls, glasses, knives, forks, spoons, pans, pots, were all lying shattered and broken on the floor, as if a tornado had come and gone, leaving everything destroyed and damaged in its wake.
Mrs. Wilson fainted.
“I knew it! I had said so before! That house is haunted!” exclaimed a triumphant Mrs. Cortez the next day.
“But that’s nonsense, dear! This is all the result of practicing Black Magic and Witchcraft. They are getting punished by God.” Said Mrs. Nathan.
“But what if there really is a ghost? Some tortured spirit doomed to roam the earth for all eternity?” Miss Martha Filibuster asked, intently studying her reflection on a small, yellow mirror.
(Miss Filibuster’s knowledge, being limited to movies, had given her the impression that all ghosts were either tortured spirits, or evil souls who wanted to wipe off the face of humanity on the planet.)
Mrs. Cortez sniffed.
“Well, I at least, lock my door every night before I go to sleep.”
Mrs. Nathan nodded. And then her eyes fell on Miss. Filibuster’s purse.
“Oh, my dear! What a lovely purse! Where did you get it?”
Miss. Filibuster beamed.
Mrs. Cortez saw that they were going to start yet another conversation about bags and shoes and so she bid them farewell and left.
Miss. Filibuster looked at Mrs. Nathan. “I don’t like her much. She’s very weird.”
And their conversation switched back to bags and shoes.
Mrs. Wilson hadn’t slept well at all since her house had been broken into.
Although the few hours of sleep she had managed to throw in just a little while ago hadn’t helped either. She still felt just as tired. She looked tired as well. There were dark circles under her eyes and she looked pale and thin. She sighed and got up.
And stiffened when she heard a noise coming from the bathroom.
She got out onto the corridor and walked towards it. She went nearer and realized that it was the sound of water.
She slowly reached out her hand and pushed open the door…
“I’m not lying!”
Mr. Wilson sighed. He was feeling very irritated now. “But if the tap was open, like you said, and if the water did leak out onto the floor, then where is it now? Did you wipe it?”
“No, but…”
“Then who did? A ghost, I suppose?” He was losing his patience now.
Mrs. Wilson stared at him. “It wasn’t a ghost, Alfred! And it wasn’t my imagination either!” She screamed and walked away.
Thankfully, no one got to know of this recent incident and Mrs. Wilson’s reputation was (for the time being) saved.
Mr. Wilson and Mrs. Wilson both had the good sense to keep shut. Especially when Mrs. Cortez was around. (Of course, when Mrs. Cortez was around, other precautions had to be taken as well. Like making sure the pink saucepan was kept out of reach of Mrs. Wilson’s hands and Mr. Wilson’s small revolver which was kept in the wooden kitchen drawer was safely hidden away for Mrs. Cortez’s own protection)
A week passed peacefully.
And then, on the 23rd of July, Mrs. Wilson decided to have a dinner party at her house.
“I don’t think you should spend so much time alone.” Her husband had said.
And so she had taken his advice.
Since it was the first time she had had a dinner party, she was very nervous about it.
She spent a lot of time organizing it and planned it very carefully. Her cook, Martha, had been showered with questions like, “You’re sure you’ve made this before?” or “You haven’t put too much of sugar, have you?” until she pushed Mrs. Wilson out of the kitchen.
Her housemaid was still on holiday, so Mrs. Wilson carefully cleaned and polished the furniture, swept the floors and dusted the chairs.
Which is why, on the day of the party, when she was feeling extremely tired, the inevitable happened.
She fell asleep.
“Some more sugar in your coffee, Mrs. Filibuster?”
“No, thank you.”
Mrs. Wilson sighed and looked at the clock impatiently. She was already feeling extremely tired and the boring conversation was not improving her mood.
It was a good thing that her husband had woken her up in time or she wouldn’t have been ready.
Dinner passed quickly and Mrs. Wilson heaved a sigh of relief when she saw that Martha had done her job well.
After dinner, everyone moved into the large living room.
Mrs. Wilson groaned softly. How long did these people have to stay?
Mr. Wilson walked over to where she was sitting, and then suddenly tripped on the carpet.
“It’s alright, I’ve only grazed it.” He said and stood up. He sat down on the chair next to Mrs. Wilson. “Can you just run and fetch a bandage from the basement? I think it’s bleeding.”
Mrs. Wilson nodded and got up.
She went into the kitchen, and then opened the door that led to the basement.
She went down the steps slowly. They were very slippery.
She switched on the light and turned around.
Upstairs, Mr. Nathan was inquiring about Mr. Wilson’s knee.
“Are you sure it’s not hurting?”
Mr. Wilson shook his head.
“I remember the time I broke my ankle just a few days ago.” Began Mrs. Filibuster. “It was raining, you see, and…”
A loud bloodcurdling scream came from the basement and startled them all.
Everyone stood up as Mrs. Wilson came running into the room.
“It’s happened again. The same thing that happened in our kitchen.” She sobbed. Tears were pouring down her eyes and she could barely speak. “What’s wrong with me?” She screamed.
Everyone was silent.
Mr. Wilson caught hold of her arm and dragged her into the kitchen.
He shut the door and turned to face her.
“What happened?” he asked quietly.
Mrs. Wilson’s sobbing ceased slightly.
“What’s wrong with me, Alfred?” she asked. “And who’s doing all this?”
Mr. Wilson was quiet for a long time.
Finally, he said, “You are.”
Mrs. Wilson gasped.
“How could you say that? Why would I ever do that?” her voice was shaking with fury.
Mr. Wilson looked down at the floor as he spoke.
“I went to visit your psychiatrist yesterday. I told him about what happened last week. He said that you have a much more serious condition.”
Mrs. Wilson was very quiet now. “What?” she breathed.
Her husband answered, unable to look into her eyes, “Split personality.”
Mrs. Wilson stared at the wall. “How did he know that?”
Mr. Wilson glanced at her. “He said that the symptoms were the same as with other patients. You said that the house had been broken into, yet nothing was stolen. The bathroom tap was turned on. And every time something like this happened, you said you had been sleeping.”
He stopped and looked at his wife sadly. “I’m sorry, Matilda. I’m afraid there’s no cure for this. If things like this keep happening, and they become more dangerous, I’m afraid you’ll…”his voice broke down. He turned and walked out of the room.
Mrs. Wilson stared at the wall.
Her husband’s words echoed in her mind.
“Split personality.”
“Each time, before this happened, you had been sleeping.”
“If things like this become more dangerous…”
“There’s no cure.”
“There’s no cure.” Mrs. Wilson said to herself softly.
Mr. Wilson walked out of the kitchen and sat down on a chair.
Everyone was silent.
From the kitchen, there was a sound of a wooden drawer being opened, and closed.
A few minutes later, a loud gunshot was heard.
Mr. Wilson stuck the sign onto the gate.
‘House For Sale.’
He turned around and walked back inside the house.
He went up to the bedroom and lay down on the bed.
Finally, he thought, it’s all over.
After all these years of waiting.
He chuckled.
Split Personality .He smiled smugly. That had been a masterstroke. And a last minute addition.
After all, letting her do the dirty work was much easier than killing her myself.
And later that night, he celebrated at a restaurant with champagne bought with Mrs. Wilson’s money.
posted by googly at 3:14 AM
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