The Beginning of the World in the Middle of the Night

by Jen Campbell

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Well, I like to think of us as the modern-day Fates. Women may be lots of things, but one of those things is that we are responsible for death and it’s something we needn’t shy away from, Mr Henderson. Nothing to be ashamed of. Running this hotel is our way of giving back, as it were – compensation for letting death out into the world. I’m sure Ankaa can tell you more about that, when she shows you around the island, later. We’ve got lots of wonderful creatures here, hiding out in the woods. Ankaa’s pets. They tend not to come out until dusk, so let me give you a tour of the funeral parlour as suggested, then we can have a chat, sort out your accounts and Ankaa can take it from there.’

  ‘Sounds great.’

  ‘Excellent. Are you going to take Trevor back to the mainland, Ankaa?’ Aunt Libby folds her napkin firmly. ‘We don’t want him to be late for work.’

  It takes twenty minutes to row across the lake.

  Trevor clings to the side and keeps his eyes shut the whole way.

  ‘You know, this is your sixtieth time,’ I say, avoiding a jagged rock. ‘And I haven’t sent you flying into the water, yet.’

  ‘Shhh,’ he breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth.

  ‘Well, I think you’re doing a good job,’ I coax. ‘Do you think your stay is helping?’

  ‘My therapist thinks so.’ He doesn’t open his eyes but recites: ‘To confront death is to belittle death, is to come to terms with death, is to live.’

  ‘You should get that printed on a T-shirt.’

  The corners of his mouth curve upwards.

  He tries to press money into my hand when we reach the shore but I refuse to take it.

  ‘You can have this one for free,’ I say. ‘You’ve been staying with us long enough. Consider it a “buy fifty-nine, get one free” type thing.’

  He looks puzzled, trying to work out if I’m tricking him. ‘No, it’s fine.’ He throws the money into the bottom of the boat. ‘Don’t want to cheat death.’

  ‘I thought that was exactly what you were trying to do!’ I call after him as he wanders off. He raises a hand in farewell. ‘See you at six!’ I use an oar to push off the bank, the mist starting to clear from the surface of the water.

  Back home, I find Cerberus and together we head to the woodshed, to collect extra dolls. Aunt Libby’s voice floats out from inside the funeral parlour.

  ‘You see, Mr Henderson, we can offer you any type of coffin you like. Our most sought-after are the walnut and mahogany, though we can also offer bespoke sculpture coffins, and we have these remarkable caskets made out of crushed oyster shells shipped over from Taiwan.’

  ‘I read online about eco-friendly coffins, do you have any of those?’

  ‘Oh, Mr Henderson, that’s just a fad and we pay no heed to fashion here. Cheap tat, as I’m sure you agree. Now, let me show you our coffins lined with marble – walk this way …’

  We only have one bin-liner full of dolls left. I make a mental note to buy more, pocket a mini toolkit and drag the bag out into the daylight. I tip the dolls onto the soil. Some already have limbs missing, a few with empty eye sockets and balding scalps. I help the others along by fishing out a screwdriver and begin scraping at their plastic skin. Cerberus hunts for frogs while I work.

  We started hanging dolls around the island just over a year ago, after Aunt Libby found Isla de las Muñecas online. A floating garden, surrounded by canals, just south of Mexico City, covered with thousands and thousands of dolls. They hang from trees and washing lines, fences and signposts. Decapitated heads impaled on sticks, their stuffing tumbling to the ground.

  ‘They say a young girl died there, Ankaa,’ Aunt Libby told me, her face lit up by the blue computer screen. ‘They say that the dolls are possessed by her spirit. They whisper to people across the water, and lure them in.’

  Don Julian Santana Barrera used to be the caretaker of the island. He said he found a girl in the canal who had drowned there and, two weeks later, discovered a floating doll in exactly the same spot. Thinking the doll was a message from the dead girl, he started hanging them all over the island to summon her spirit. To appease her ghost. He said the dolls moved and spoke to him. That they whispered thanks and blessings and magic.

  Don Julian collected the dolls for fifty years, and was then discovered drowned, in exactly the same spot that the girl had drowned before him. These days the island is a tourist attraction, and people travel from far and wide to view the ant-infested dolls, leaving figurines of their own.

  ‘Perhaps dolls will encourage people to visit us, too, Ankaa,’ Aunt Libby said. ‘Best order a hundred or so on eBay, and hang them around the place, like Christmas lights. You can tell visitors they’re your little friends.’

  I rip off one of the doll heads and throw it into the lake. Cerberus bounds after it, enthusiastically, and brings it back to me covered in teeth marks.

  I spend the afternoon working on our Krasue puppets, Moroaica lights and Seven Whistles tapes. I cup my hands over my mouth and make moaning noises, the occasional shriek. I record the sounds in a cave for maximum echo. It takes a while to get it right, as Cerberus keeps howling in the background, thinking it’s a game he can join in.

  At six, I collect Trevor from the mainland, and as the sun begins to set, Aunt Libby brings Mr Henderson out into the graveyard.

  ‘I’m delighted to say Mr Henderson has picked his coffin, Ankaa, and has decided to register with us, so that we can perform his funeral when the time comes, though of course we hope that won’t be any time soon.’ She pats his shoulder. ‘And, until that time, he’s going to be visiting us once a month, staying for a couple of days at a time, to prepare himself for what’s to come.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Mr Henderson wraps a tartan scarf around his neck. ‘It’s good to know I’m in safe hands here.’

  ‘He’d love to have a tour of the island,’ Aunt Libby continues. ‘So, why don’t you show him, while I put dinner on?’

  We take the stone path around the side of the hotel, into the trees. Cerberus barks from the kitchen, forbidden to follow.

  ‘Do we need torches?’ Mr Henderson asks. ‘It’ll be completely dark soon.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I know my way around.’

  He hesitates for a second, before hurrying to catch up.

  ‘Will Trevor be joining us?’

  ‘No, he’s done the tour many times before.’

  ‘Has he been here a long time, then?’

  ‘A couple of weeks.’ I head purposefully into the undergrowth without waiting for him to follow. ‘Trevor lives in the neighbouring village. He has a chronic fear of dying and his therapist recommended he do something to confront it. That’s why he’s staying here.’

  ‘Interesting.’ Mr Henderson almost trips over a fallen tree. ‘Ankaa, why are the door frames of the hotel painted black?’

  ‘Oh, we brush tar on them, to stop the Keres getting in.’

  ‘What are Keres?’

  ‘Female death spirits. I’ve spied some in the woods a few times. Descendants of those who escaped Pandora’s Box. Whilst they have their uses, they also have a fetish for infecting the living with disease. So, we like to keep our distance. We certainly don’t want to invite them in for a cup of tea.’

  ‘No.’ Mr Henderson looks ahead nervously.

  ‘You’re safe with me, don’t worry. They won’t come close, if I’m by your side.’ I run my fingers along one of the rag dolls on a nearby tree. ‘You see, some say Pandora was the first woman to walk the earth, Mr Henderson. She was hammered into existence by Hephaestus, and given a golden diadem made of animals and sea creatures. Athena gave her a silver dress and Hermes gave her a silver tongue.

  ‘Pandora was designed by the gods to be a plague on men and, in the house of Epimetheus, she found a gift from those gods. It was a beautiful jar, the same size as herself, and it whispered across the room. Come closer, look inside.

  ‘And because Pandora had been programme
d with greed, and because Aphrodite had given her desire, she reached over and opened the jar. A scream filled the room and darkness fell everywhere. The evils of the world flooded out into the sky. Death, and misery, and every kind of sin.

  ‘All that was left in the jar was a wisp of white smoke. Pandora slammed the lid back down to try and keep it inside. The smoke fluttered and it spluttered. It moved just like a bird. Hope … it whispered. Hope … Zeus smiled, and Pandora cried.’

  Mr Henderson shivers, pulling a hat from his coat pocket.

  ‘It’s all very … intriguing,’ he says. ‘You certainly know your stuff.’

  ‘It’s in my genes,’ I shrug. ‘If you look into the distance here, Mr Henderson, you might be able to see the lights of the Moroaica.’

  ‘Where?’

  I point over to our left where, far off, there are blinking red lights. In the dark, they look as though they are floating of their own accord. Really, they are left-over Christmas lights we bought in bulk from a hardware store. I attached them to a series of pulleys, so they flicker up and down.

  ‘Moroaica are from Romania, Mr Henderson. They’re women who shapeshift into glowing balls of light. Sometimes they turn into animals, but this is their favourite form. If you saw them as their true selves, you’d see that they have red hair, two hearts and bright-red cheeks. They like to drain the life from plants and animals. Humans, too, if they’re feeling extra wicked.’

  Mr Henderson watches them, fearfully, a bead of sweat trickling down his forehead.

  ‘I don’t mean to offend, Ankaa, but I was always sceptical about all of this.’ He gestures into the night. ‘It was my wife, Rosemary, who believed in it all. Moroi and vampires and ghosts. She had books and books on superstitions and stories. Real-life accounts from people who claimed to have seen the other side.’

  ‘And what changed your mind?’

  ‘Well, Rosemary always said that, if she died, she’d come back to haunt me just to prove a point,’ he laughs weakly. ‘She didn’t like to lose an argument. And … well … since she passed, I’ve started seeing her. Only glimpses, mind you. I see her red scarf at the bus stop. Hear her laugh late at night. The sound of her shoes in the kitchen in the morning as I lie in bed upstairs. Sometimes I smell her perfume so strongly, I swear she’s standing right behind me. But when I turn, there’s nothing there.’

  ‘What perfume did she wear?’

  ‘I don’t remember the name of it, but it smelled of roses.’

  ‘Women have a special relationship with death, Mr Henderson. It doesn’t surprise me that she comes back to visit.’

  ‘And do you really believe that women created death?’

  ‘Most cultures around the world have stories that say so, yes.’

  ‘Eve, and so on?’

  ‘Eve. Pandora. Many others. In the Banks Islands of the Coral Sea, it’s said men used to live forever. When their skin became wrinkled and creased, they simply discarded it as snakes do, and stepped back into the world smooth, new and innocent.

  ‘But, one day, an old woman discarded her skin in a river, where it floated downstream and caught on a branch. The woman, now looking youthful, skipped back home. But her grandchildren didn’t recognise her – they cried and ran away. She searched for them up mountains and in forests, but still they would not come to her. So she returned to the river and pulled her old skin back on. Then her grandchildren came running, but so too did death. After that, no man could live forever. And it was all the woman’s fault.’

  The red lights in the distance bob and float.

  ‘Now, let me take you to the cave of Seven Whistles. Sometimes you can hear the spirits there, gathering to chant. And keep an eye out for the Krasue. They come over from Southeast Asia: the floating heads of beautiful women, whispering in the dark.’

  ‘One thing I don’t understand,’ Mr Henderson’s hat gets stuck on a branch, and he struggles to pull himself free. ‘If your Coffin Hotel allows us to come here and spend a night in the world of the dead. If you cast a spell while we sleep, so we’re sent there for a few hours … why don’t we just die? Do you summon us back?’

  ‘Partly. It’s all rather complicated,’ I say, vaguely. ‘Many people have tried to document the phenomenon. In the Qur’an, for example, it’s believed that humans are animated by a self or spirit, called nafs. Nafs represent the soul. During the night, nafs are taken away by Allah to dance in the world of the dead, and those who are destined to survive are sent home again in the morning.’

  Mr Henderson stops. ‘So, what happens to us is not actually within your control?’

  I sense his panic. ‘It is and it isn’t. Try not to worry. This is something that happens to everyone, every night, when they sleep, regardless of where they are. What happens here is slightly different, slightly heightened. Even I don’t understand my powers fully, Mr Henderson. But I promise that we look after you to the best of our ability. It’s all covered in the terms and conditions, which you signed yesterday.’

  ‘OK.’ He starts walking again. ‘I suppose one can’t really expect to have these types of experiences without some form of risk, realistically. But … no one has ever died unexpectedly, have they? I mean, whilst staying at your hotel?’

  I try not to think of Eric and his panic attack. I try not to think of Mrs Turner’s scratch marks on the inside of her coffin.

  ‘No,’ I lie smoothly. ‘Never.’

  ‘Did you have a good time?’ Aunt Libby helps Mr Henderson out of his coat. The hallway smells of chicken and dumplings.

  ‘Oh, very illuminating,’ he gasps, his cheeks red from the cold. ‘It’s started blowing a gale out there, mind you. Out by the cave, I swear I heard Rosemary calling my name on the wind.’

  ‘How wonderful.’ Aunt Libby thrusts the coat into my hands and ushers Mr Henderson forward. ‘You must be starving, come and eat.’

  They disappear into the dining room. I hang back, arms full of tweed and tartan. Through the wall, I hear Trevor telling them about his goals for the rest of the year. How he plans to go bungee jumping, and bareback horse riding.

  ‘And I might even get on a plane,’ he says boldly. ‘I’m not making any promises. But I might very well do it. I’d like to visit my sister; I haven’t seen her in eleven years.’

  There’s a knock at the front door.

  I put Mr Henderson’s coat on the floor, and struggle to pull the heavy door open. The wind outside snakes its way past me, whistling in my ears.

  ‘Hello?’ I call out, my hair blowing every which way. ‘… Hello?’

  There’s no one there.

  I tiptoe out onto the doorstep and glance around, pulling my cardigan close. I can barely make out the lake, the wind rushing white smoke across the surface, tumbling like broken birds. Everything is dark, bar the red lights of the fake Moroaica, which seem, somehow, closer than before.

  I slip back inside.

  ‘Ankaa?’ Aunt Libby calls. ‘What are you doing?’

  I slam the door.

  ‘Coming!’ I shove Mr Henderson’s coat on the rack, along with his scarf, and hurry through for food.

  ‘Did you find out anything more about Rosemary?’ Aunt Libby asks, as we clean up after dinner.

  ‘She used to wear a red scarf and wore a perfume that smelled of roses.’

  ‘Excellent. I think we’ve got some rose-water in the cupboard. You can use that along with the coastal sounds.’

  ‘OK.’

  She passes me a tea towel. ‘By the way, if he mentions it, I’ve promised Mr Henderson that, when he dies, you’ll be able to send him to the same part of the afterlife as Rosemary.’

  I blink. ‘What?’

  ‘Well, he was very concerned, Ankaa, because, as he pointed out, logically, the afterlife must be endless. And he was panicking about getting there and being unable to find her amid the billions of other people.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So I said that we could fix that for him … for a fee.’

>   I scowl. ‘We’ve never said we could do that before!’

  ‘I know, but the man’s rich, what does it matter?’

  ‘He’s not rich! He works at the Post Office!’

  Cerberus cowers in the corner.

  ‘Look,’ she frowns. ‘I am doing my best. You know bookings have been low this season. I’m just working with what I’ve got.’

  ‘But it’s not fair …’

  ‘People come here looking for answers, Ankaa. They come here looking for answers, and we tell them what they want to hear.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘We are helping them, remember that.’ She wrenches the cupboard door open and hunts around for rose-water. ‘They are lost and we are helping. OK? Just do as I say.’

  Trevor’s in pyjamas, Mr Henderson’s in a suit.

  ‘It was Rosemary’s favourite,’ he says, when I ask if he wants to change into something a little more comfortable. ‘I always wore it for our anniversary beach walk.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ I smile. ‘Time for a story before bed.’

  Once there was a man who didn’t want to die.

  He left his family at home and set out on a journey to discover a country where death did not exist. Whenever he crossed a border, he strode up to a citizen and said to them, briskly: ‘Do people die here? Do you bury them in the ground?’ And when the answer came back: ‘Of course!’ he walked away from them, quickly, marching to another country where, when he got there, he’d ask the same thing.

  Then eventually, one day, when the man was much older, he discovered a strange place, which wasn’t on his map.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, to the first woman he saw. ‘Do people die in this country? Do you bury them in the ground?’

  ‘What’s “die”?’ the woman asked.

  And the man’s face brightened. ‘It’s normally what happens at the end of someone’s life.’