by Susan Hill
It was not a question and it sounded stupid but she just nodded.
‘Her name? Just her first name.’
‘Alice.’
‘And what is it that seems “funny”?’
The room smelled of candle wax and some sort of incense. It took a bit of getting used to but it didn’t really bother me, and there was nothing unpleasant in the atmosphere. Nothing at all. I started to talk then, even though she hadn’t indicated that I should. I told her about the feelings I had had, the awful sensations of decay and that I was dying, or dissolving. And the smells around Alice Baker, and the oddness.
She sat very still and stared at the cards, and listened. I thought I would have felt foolish but she seemed as if she had heard all this sort of thing before, and worse. She asked where Alice had come from and when, and then about the old offices and the new ones. All the time she was looking at the cards but not touching them.
I told her what I knew. There was a scratching at the door at this point and she got up to open it. A tabby cat came in. I don’t care for cats, or the way they stare, but this one ignored me, got onto the window ledge, and settled down in a patch of sunlight.
‘He knows,’ the psychic said. ‘If he doesn’t like a client, doesn’t like the feel of them, he won’t come near this room. But you’re all right.’
‘It isn’t really me though, is it? I mean, this isn’t about me.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘You think it’s me? Me and not her? But some of the others
‘I don’t know what to think.’
‘Oh.’
Then she swept up the cards and put them back in a pack. ‘I can’t give you anything. Of course there’s no charge.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, you have come here and you are what I call completely blank. White-out. Nothing. If Alice came to me now, it might be a different story. Shall I tell you what I would do in your shoes?’
‘I wish you would.’
‘Find someone who does places, buildings, ground.’
‘You mean – like a diviner?’
‘Not exactly. Someone who will go round everywhere and see what it says to him – it’s usually a man, in that line, I don’t know why that should be.’
‘Where would I find that sort of person? I don’t know anyone who … well, I came to you because someone recommended you.’
‘They do. Which is always welcome. Personal reference. Yes.’
‘So you don’t know one of these men?’
I noticed that her eyes were startlingly blue, almost artificially blue. Bright, bright blue. They mesmerised me for a few seconds and gave me a strange sensation, of being seen into, and judged but not found wanting. It was almost a comforting feeling.
I left. I would never find the type of person she suggested. It seemed better to let the whole thing drop. And anyway, I knew it was all to do with Alice Baker. Anyone could tell that.
The following week, we were driven mad from the moment we arrived by the noise of pneumatic drills, and then by heavy vehicles grinding slowly past the building before tipping out loads of rubble. Even though the windows were not open it was difficult to concentrate, but eventually Brenda came in and said that this part of the work should be over today or tomorrow. They were starting on the new canteen block, which ought to have been completed at the same time as the rest of the buildings but for some reason had not even been started. Meanwhile, the old offices were being demolished.
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to grin and bear it, but think how nice it will be to have a proper canteen facility, even if we are sharing it with another firm.’
The noise went on until four o’clock and then stopped suddenly, leaving us with a temporary ringing in our ears, and afterwards, a wonderful quietness. The demolition was on the other side, of course. We just heard the thump of the hammer as it swung against a wall, and then a crash and a rumble. But those workmen stopped on the dot of four as well.
‘All right for some.’
‘Well, they’re men aren’t they?’
There were plenty of comments like that.
As I left, I was behind Alice Baker, who held the door for me. She glanced round as she did so, and I was startled to see her face – she looked ill, her complexion ashen and her eyes strangely sunken.
‘Alice – do you feel all right?’
But she had gone.
Nothing happened for the next few days except that Alice looked more ghastly and the smell got worse and the noise from the building sites never stopped. There was also a heatwave around that time, and as the windows did not open, and several of the blinds would not work, we sweltered. In the end, so many people throughout the building complained that they sent workmen round with sheets of brown paper that they taped to the glass. It cut the glare of the sun but it didn’t make the room any cooler.
On my way to the cloakroom, I passed Alice Baker’s desk. She looked even more ill, grey, with huge eyes and as if the skin had been stretched more tightly over the bones of her face. I noticed that she had on a dress with long sleeves and a scarf round her neck.
‘Aren’t you boiling?’
She lifted her head but did not look directly at me. That was always the way.
‘I feel the cold.’
‘So do I. When it is cold. It’s sweltering today, hadn’t you noticed?’ But her head was bent over her work again.
Just after eleven o’clock that morning the noise of the machinery stopped suddenly. Often, one side or the other might go quiet or there would be no lorries for a while, but there had not been a time until now when it all ceased early in the day. It was uncanny. But after looking up, or remarking, we all simply got back on with our work and thought no more about it. Two other things happened. When I went past Alice Baker’s desk at ten to five, it was empty. The chair was tucked in and the surface was cleared. Perhaps she had felt ill and gone home early, but nobody who worked near her had been aware of anything. She must have just slipped out. That was unsurprising. Alice was always very private in her behaviour, but she was also quite a considerate person and if she had been unwell she would not have wanted to make a fuss and disturb the rest of us.
It was still very hot. The whole of the canal site was dry and baking and a hot little wind swirled patches of dust and sand and rattled the stalks of the tall weeds by the fence. The lorries had gone. The demolition site was empty of both machinery and men. The new canteen block was roofless under the sun.
The only explanation I could think of was either that it was too hot to work, the building firm had gone bankrupt, or there was a strike – perhaps because it was too hot to work. Well, we were in the same boat. I had actually felt quite faint and sick in the middle of the day, from the airlessness and heat of our office, but it had not occurred to anyone to walk out. What I actually did, because I had an even bigger workload than usual, and, as Head of Section I couldn’t delegate any of it, was ring Brenda.
‘I agree it was pretty intolerable today. Personnel seem to be powerless as ever.’
‘What I wonder is, can I go in early, get as much done as possible while it’s cool and the sun is on the other side – and then leave earlier?’
‘I would be happy with that,’ Brenda said, ‘but I don’t think it could be extended to everyone else. Still, if you felt sick and as you do have a lot on your plate …’
‘I can be in at six.’
Brenda groaned. ‘Of course the system has changed now. I don’t have a full set of keys any longer, but the night security man is on until seven, he’ll let you in. Make sure you take your identity pass.’
We had certainly come bang up to date at our place.
It was a soft, milky morning, and the streets were cool. I was in the offices by five-thirty. The night security man looked as if I had woken him up, which, if true, was not right at all. It was cool in the building too, cool and quiet. There was an odd sense of tranquillity, which I had never experienced during wor
king hours. I settled down at my desk and in an hour I had done as much as I would normally manage in two, what with interruptions, and the heat and the general coming and going – not to mention the noise outside. There was none of that either. The machinery was still shut down, and the site deserted.
I took a break after another half hour, to stretch and move my neck and shoulders, and then to go to the cloakroom. As I opened the office door onto the corridor I heard footsteps. They were soft and seemed to be the footsteps of someone running, pattering along as a dog patters. I waited but no dog appeared, and nor did any person.
When I came out of the cloakroom, I heard the steps again, but as I stopped, they stopped. And then, at the far end of the corridor, I saw a child. It was a small child, perhaps four or five years old, though it was shadowy and hard to tell if it was a boy or a girl – yet strangely, I knew instinctively that it was a girl; I was quite certain of it. She wore a pale garment, a dress or a nightdress and, at first she stood absolutely still and just looked at me. I shivered, but I was not afraid. I knew that this was not a real child. That was the other certainty. I was looking at a ghost. A real living child could not possibly be in the building alone at this time. But my assurance of her ghostliness had nothing to do with this sort of reasoning. It was just a kind of ‘knowledge’.
I did not know whether to leave or go, move or speak, or stay still. But then the child began to beckon to me, lifting her arm slowly. I was to go to her. I began to walk forwards, without any hesitation, any alarm, but as soon as I moved the child moved, went ahead, still beckoning. I followed her up the stairs, along the corridor past all the closed doors, up the next staircase, and the next. On the top floor there was a single door. ‘FIRE EXIT.’ I knew that it led out onto a balcony, railed in and leading to a fire escape, and was only to be used by those on the top two floors. It had a green light above it and could only be opened by pressing an emergency bell which was beside me on the wall. Once a week the bell was tested, along with all the other fire alarms throughout the building. We knew to put our hands over our ears.
The bell had not sounded and the escape door was closed. There was no one here. The child could not have opened the door without sounding the alarm which was, in any case, at adult not child height. I did not think she could have reached it. I listened. Nothing. No footsteps. Nothing.
I started back down the flights of stairs but again I heard the steps, behind me. I looked back. Waited. Nothing.
I went on. I was not in the least afraid of this small pattering ghost, though I could not imagine why she was haunting the place or where she belonged.
There had not been a building on this part of the site before; it had been waste ground. All the buildings had been on the side of our old offices.
I returned to my desk and settled back to work, only to find that I had run out of typing paper. We kept a small supply of stationery in a cupboard in our office but there were no boxes of paper left. Which meant a trip down to the basement. That room had everything in bulk and, as Head of Section, I held a key.
The night security guard would still be on duty but he was not in his box. It was not quite seven o’clock and presumably he did a last round of the building around now. I wondered if he would see the little girl.
From the ground floor down there were wall lights permanently switched on, and they gave off a rather cold, bluish light. The rest of the building still smelled of new wood, paint and flooring, but down here it smelled of cement dust and staleness. I reached the basement corridor and it hit me like the force from a powerful gust of wind, though everything around me was still. What I felt was a terrible dread and fear, a nightmarish sense that something terrible had happened, or was going to happen. I remembered feeling this weeks before but I had been fine and apparently well-balanced since so I was shocked when my legs almost gave way. But there was no one about, the lights were on, the doors were closed – even the little girl had not pattered all the way down here. And she had not given me the faintest sense of unease.
I did not want to stay down here. I wanted to fly back up to the light and apparent safety of the floors above, but I steeled myself and walked down the corridor to the office supplies room. As I went, I felt as if I were being suffocated or strangled, and an awful coldness came over me. My skin felt damp, and my head was pounding, as if the blood was struggling through the veins.
I needed to tell someone but there was no one to tell. I needed help but help was elsewhere. I stopped, took several shuddering deep breaths and forced myself to the door of the room, key ready, though I had to try two or three times to turn it because I was shaking and my palm was clammy. Why I felt like this I had no idea but now I had a surge of annoyance with my own stupidity and in a moment of strong resolve I turned the key and opened the door. There was no switch, the light came on automatically, and in that light, I saw, and then I screamed and I heard my own screams echoing along the basement corridor, and at last, at last, I also heard the sound of a man’s footsteps, plunging down the stairs.
I stood, my hand up to my mouth, staring at the swinging figure. Alice Baker had hanged herself from the metal girder that ran across the ceiling.
I held onto consciousness until the night security guard reached me and then I lost it and crumpled at his feet.
They talked of sending me into a hospital which, they said, would help me to recover because I would have intensive therapy in ‘a safe environment’. But I felt safe at home. I could not have gone to work: even if I had been capable of doing my job I did not think I could ever enter that building again. But being quiet, sedated just enough to make me relaxed and calm, was right for me. I slept late, I pottered about, I read a lot – gentle, undemanding books. I started knitting again. I looked at magazines. Friends and neighbours and relatives came and brought food and drink and stayed to chat. And Don was lovely to me, though I think he was very glad he did not have to spend the whole day at home. He loved his work, and when he got back he was tired but glad to cook, to chat to me and cheer me up. And so it went on for several months. I was not supposed to talk about anything that had happened, except to the psychiatrist I saw. But she sat and said nothing and frowned and seemed to have no interest in me. She asked me nothing. She made no remarks. She wrote a few notes, but I think I was expected to do all the work while she got paid. I stopped seeing her after a short time. In any case, I knew I didn’t need someone like that. I needed time and space and peace and quiet.
I got all of those things and I began to feel steadier and to be able to work out, bit by bit, what had happened and what had not. Alice Baker had happened. The night I saw her in the old office building had happened. Hadn’t it? Had it? All the things that had surrounded her and emanated from her, those were real enough – all the girls from the office who came to see me confirmed that all right. They had experienced everything and not one was in any doubt.
Two things were troubling, to me and to everyone else. No one had ever seen the ghostly child, or heard her pattering feet. The one person most likely to have done so, the night security guard, denied any sighting of her, or, indeed, any encounter of a supernatural nature, during his time on duty. He left the job shortly after coming to my rescue. But before he went, he absolutely denied that there had been anyone – not Alice Baker, or any other – hanging in the office supplies room. When he found me, almost unconscious, he had glanced into the room, checked and then closed the door. He had assumed that I had just opened it with my key when I had been taken ill. When I came round, not long afterwards, he said that I had been babbling about something, someone, about Alice, about someone swinging from the girder and then about a little child on the top floor, vanishing through the fire escape door. He had realised that I was delirious or in a deranged mental state. He had even gone back and checked in case he found the slightest evidence of someone having been in the office supplies room, or on the top floor … he had found nothing.
There was no body. There had not bee
n a body. No one had hanged themselves, not Alice Baker or any other employee. There had been no small girl. That was the most unlikely thing of all; and no one believed me, even when I described her. The fact that Alice Baker did not come in to work that day, or ever again, did not convince anyone that she had done anything other than walk out without notice.
‘She was always a bit odd.’ That was the general opinion. No one mentioned the things that had surrounded her, the weird smells, the sense that something bad was about to happen. Perhaps people felt they would be associating themselves too closely with my own ‘mental breakdown’ and so they conveniently forgot everything. One or two from the office came to see me but if I mentioned Alice Baker or anything connected with what had happened, I saw their expressions change, and they looked away from me. After a time, they stopped coming.
I felt well again in quite a short time. I was able to live a normal everyday life. But if I thought of returning to work, I was overcome with panic. Don said I should resign, on health grounds. He said I could probably get some sort of pay-off for the shock and distress but I doubted that and I have plenty of pride. I would not have dreamed of asking for a thing.
There was no hurry. Don brings in a good salary and we have no family. I would just look in the local newspaper for something that might suit. It was there that I saw it.
In the midst of seeing the small girl, or not seeing her, and finding Alice Baker hanged, or not finding her, I had completely forgotten about that last day when all the machines and lorries had ground to a halt and all the builders disappeared. Now, I saw on the front page a photograph of the whole site, with people in hard hats and a lot of trenches dug in lines and marked out with posts and tape.
I started to read the article below the picture but as soon as I did, the old sense of dread and horror overwhelmed me, so that I had to throw the paper aside. I sat, shaking, not understanding why it had all returned, why, after so many weeks, I was pushed back into the past, as if I had never felt any better than this. But I had, I had.