What Lies Beneath The Window
On a dull, unusually hot early summer day, the news that the old hermit, Bastien Knaevish, had finally exhaled his last putrid breath has traveled within the town with an unsurprising speed. This was the biggest and one of the greatest news in Sheridan since Billy Marshall was accepted into the Indiana Hoosiers’ team some years ago. If there was one universally acknowledged truth that bound the community together, then it was the general resentment towards Knaevish. While no one really knew him, or talked to him, or at the very least saw him on a regular basis - which might have originated the one-sided enmity in the first place – all townspeople agreed that he was up to no good. The children of Sheridan were initiated into the ever circulating and changing horror stories of Bastian Knaevish even before they were taught reading and writing in elementary school. The telltales of the pranks played on the old hermit were legendary, even though there was no proof that they actually happened. No one has ever been seen to dare to cross the gates of the crumbling house before or after Knaevish’s death.
The local experts on real estate had very law expectations about the deserted ruins of the once charming half-timbered house and they feared that it would remain on the market for a very long time. Thus, the fact that not two weeks after the burial which was attended only by the town’s priest and one very drunk grave-digger, the land was sold to Shirley McQueen came as a huge surprise. Shirley McQueen was once a local girl, who, by now, must have reached her mid-thirties, was remembered to be of three things: she had been beautiful, generally popular, and the best cheerleader in Sheridan’s High. After she unexpectedly lost the title of prom queen to Beth Morgan (now Cooper, working with her husband in their joint bakery in Hinesley Road), Shirley left Sheridan in a fit of fury, claiming that the town was too small for her beauty and talent. As no one heard from her ever since her parents moved to some city or another, the locals could only speculate about her sudden reappearance. The fact that they considered Sheridan the best town in Indiana, if not in the States, the only conclusion they could draw was that Shirley must have been lured back by her roots.
Nothing really happened for a few weeks and the excitement of the reunion with the prodigal girl has slowly died down. To everyone’s great surprise and even greater displeasure, the first arrival to the Knaevish house was not Shirley McQueen but an architect driving a fancy BMW which practically screamed ‘outsider’. Shirley, by all appearances, still thought that she was too good for this town. From that memorable day on, the house was surrounded by architects, builders, electricians, and painters in every waking moment. As decades of neglect gave place to care and wealth, the ruins slowly disappeared and where once stood the much feared Knaevish house, a home, suited for a young lady, emerged. The original plinth and the structure of the pillars were kept; everything else had to go. The two-story building was painted in a fresh white coat which went great with the expansive looking red tiles. The patio was also renovated, showing great promise for the women of the town who hoped to use it for their own important purposes. This unadulteratedly meant that they hoped to gather there to exchange gossip without fearing their eavesdropping husbands. While the betrayal of employing outsiders was by no means completely forgotten by the locals, the beauty of the house charmed them into reluctant forgiveness and they were awaiting Shirley with newly flared enthusiasm.
When Shirley McQueen finally arrived, it was a mild, early autumn day. She looked out of place, but stunning in her stylish costume and matching high heels as she walked through the streets of her hometown. Instead of the expected awkwardness after her long absence, she was completely at ease with her old/new surroundings and greeted everyone she once knew with a few friendly words. While she was still obviously enamored with her own self and appearance, her cordial behavior made up for her faults. Thus, the locals accepted and welcomed her back, as she was now known to be the one brave woman who vanquished the darkness which Knaevish once established and left as a legacy for the town.
Even Shirley was surprised by the swiftness and ease with which she managed to settle back into Sheridan. While she waited for this opportunity ever since she left the town, the anticipation was mixed with no small amount of apprehension. When she crossed the threshold of her new home which connected Shirley to her past and everything good and bad said past might have entailed, she certainly expected to feel something. She was still waiting for the guilt that always eluded her before and she thought that now she might find it in this house which called to her with some mysterious power. However, instead of remorse, Shirley was hit with the smell of fresh paint and new furniture, along with the pronounced sent of the breeze which traveled through the fields around Sheridan. She took in the interior of the house with great appreciation, contended that her money was well spent, and started to make plans as how to use her new investment to her best interest. By the time she checked every nook and corner of the house to see that those roustabout boys had put everything in order, Shirley was quite pleased with herself and her new life. That night, she went to bed with a cold little twist in the corner of her lips, a smile reminiscent to the one she wore during her years of glory. That night, she remained blessedly oblivious to the soft cries and pleas coming from just outside of her kitchen window.
In the next few weeks, Shirley threw herself into the local life with inspiring enthusiasm and energy. She absorbed the tales and nuances that happened in her long absence faster than a parched land drinks up the first drops of water. She met up with every friend she had when she was in Sheridan’s High, talked to every passing acquaintance she remembered, and even managed to get a few new promising contacts. In a very short amount of time, a self-satisfied Shirley congratulated herself for gaining back her well-deserved status in the town. With victory in hand, she decided to satisfy the ladies’ wishes and offered to provide them a place where they could live to their collective hobby: gossiping. Of course, being Shirley, her generous invitation only reached those who enjoyed similar standing and popularity as she did. Naturally, Beth Cooper née Morgan was not amongst them, as the ‘loser club’ and ‘nerd group’ – the names they used to call their less fortunate schoolmates back in their wayward youth – were just as striking by their absence. In the short social ladder of such a small community as Sheridan, Shirley easily climbed to the top and claimed the queen position. Life couldn’t have been better for her.
Except as the days grew shorter and an adamant autumn chill settled in the town, Shirley seemed to grow a bit thinner, a tad paler. To the concerned inquiries, she answered with complaints of headaches and some tales about restless nights. She reassured herself and the company she kept that she just needed to readjust to the Indianan climate and promptly ignored the ominous noises the wind carried through the nights. She didn’t pay attention to the dead patch of land just under her kitchen window where, before her arrival, a flowerbed was planted which despite the gardener’s best efforts remained lifeless. She laughed off the horror stories about her house and its infamous previous owner, not even acknowledging the power they still held over the locals. With her conscience asleep, it seemed that she became ignorant of all the signs that hinted of sins committed on the soil she claimed as her own.
The brisk November wind brought an unpleasant frost to Sheridan. As nature teetered on the edge of its annual, sad decline, the changes in Shirley became so pronounced that it provoked another bout a speculation to circulate amongst the townspeople. Her once tanned skin turned into marble pale and her eyes, heavily shadowed with exhaustion, seemed haunted with unnamed demons. While she did her very best to keep up the facade of being the perfect host for her lady friends, her growingly desperate invitations were constantly turned down out of fear of taxing her unduly. For the first time in her life, Shirley was forced to experience being left out of the whispers of the town as the gossip was solely revolved around her and her mysterious condition. In turn, she shunned herself in the isolation of her house, a haven which felt more like a prison. The once spacious rooms were closing in on her as the walls groaned with sorrow each night and the cries the wind brought penetrated her restless dreams and followed her into daylight.
The evening of November 25 found Shirley in front of her fireplace with a half empty bottle of wine and a film of Xanax from which a few pills were already missing – a medicine she hoped would bring her some solace. Her brain and vision were already somewhat fuzzy, however, she was reluctant to call it a night for fear of dreams she never could recall but could not shake off after waking. When she finally turned off the television, Shirley seemed to hear a soft knocking from the front door. With a frown, she walked through the darkened hall with an unsteady gait. As she unlocked the door to see to her visitor, the only thing she could welcome was the wind that howled menacingly in the somber night. Chalking the knocking up to her alcohol muddled brain and the thrice damned gale of Sheridan, she made her way back to the living room to collect the rest of the wine. With the bottle in hand she entered the kitchen where the cold made her shiver to her very bone. The window was open and a silvery light entered through it, illuminating the kitchen with an unholy glow. Suddenly, Shirley became far too aware of the fact that the wind had quieted outside. All was silent.
Being shaken without knowing why, Shirley walked to the window with the intention of closing it. Before she could touch it, she saw a reflection standing behind her in the glass. She whirled around with dizzying speed just to find the previously occupied space empty. Showing more resolve than she actually felt, she turned back to the window and with a determined grab on the handle, she closed it.
“Why did you send me here?” A hauntingly familiar voice came from behind her. Shirley, frozen in her awkward position, stood still as she stared at the figure reflected in the window. “Why did you have to send me here?”
“You came of your own free will. I did not force you. It was your choice” Shirley said with a cold, emotionless voice.
“I had to. You promised you would accept me. I could finally belong somewhere” answered the voice softly, but adamantly.
The silence which followed this statement was suddenly broken by Shirley’s harsh laughter. “You’ve got to be kidding!” Shirley exclaimed after she recovered. “You, the epitome of nerd as a member of our group? What was your genius worth if you actually believed me? It was a prank and you fell for it.”
“A prank that got me killed” answered the other, and for the first time, anger crept into her youthful voice.
“Oh, shut up!” Shirley’s face twisted into an ugly approximation of a grin as she looked her visitor’s reflection in the eye. “No one even knew you existed until you disappeared. At least they talked about you afterwards.”
“You had no right… I never hurt you. No one has ever hurt you, yet you went out of your way to humiliate everyone whom you thought was beneath you. You made my life hell. Then you made me die.”
Shirley snorted. “You are not even here; you are just a figment of my alcohol induced imagination. Go away, Ugly Duckling, the Devil will welcome you back.”
“You will pay,” assured her the other softly.
When Shirley turned around, she found herself completely alone. With a smirk playing around the edges of her mouth, she decided to finish the other half of the bottle. She sat down to the table and swirled a generous amount of wine into her glass, uncaring that some of it splashed onto the wooden surface. Strange, she thought, how easy it was to remember that stupid girl in detail. Mary Shepard, the eminent, the exemplary student. How they had hated her for always needing to be the best, for being the teacher’s pet, for being an ugly, mousy little pest who had constantly followed them around. Sometimes, it had seemed they hated her for no other reason than breathing and existing. Shirley closed her eyes to better recall that fateful evening when she had dared the stupid nerd to cross the very gate she now owned. She had followed her, unnoticed, just to see her humiliation. However, instead of the yelling and crying and swift apologies she had expected to hear, she had just arrived to see old Knaevish. He had worn a strange, creepy little smile on his face that had spoken of some deep self-satisfaction. Also, he had not been idle; quite the contrary in fact. He had been shoveling, what looked like the last lumps of soil into a freshly dug hole - a grave, to be exact. Upon realizing whose grave it must had been, Shirley’s only thought was, “good riddance”. Her feelings had not changed since then.
Resurfacing from the memory, Shirley cocked her head to one side with a thoughtful smile. She still found it strangely ironic that she was the only one who had actual proof that Bastian Knaevish had indeed been the monster everyone thought him to be. As the night wore on, she popped another Xanax into her mouth to get rid of the remnants of the whiny accusations that still echoed in her ears and drank the rest of her wine.
On the next day, Sheridan was in uproar. The news of Shirley McQueen’s death traveled around in harsh whispers and through disbelieving exclamations. Many paid a visit to the house, which the townspeople still associated with Knaevish, and the building towered over their gathering accusingly. The policeman, Jeremy Colton, came out to stand on the patio and there he grimly announced the verdict. Shirley McQueen was found in her kitchen with a bottle of wine and half a film of tranquilizer and she was lying in her own blood. What Officer Colton did not say was something that made the hair on his back stand straight. Shirley’s face was frozen into a mocking smile as she still held the glass that was smeared with her crimson blood. In her death, she seemed to salute in the direction of the window, seemingly daring the Devil itself to clink glasses with her.