by Pam Smy
And now that I have started crying I can’t stop.
She was up here in the night. She stood outside my door listening to my crying. She didn’t make a sound. But I saw her shadow beneath the door. Quiet and waiting.
July 10, 1982
The doctor came today. I heard him ring the bell and explain to Jane that he had come to see me. Someone had raised concerns about my health and well-being, and he would like to see me alone.
He was very polite. He asked to come in, and wouldn’t sit down until I nodded that it was okay. He had a soft accent, kind eyes, and tufty gray hair. He chatted about the puppets, and he asked who they were. Some he guessed at’Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Jane Eyre and Mr. Rochester with little Giselle and Pilot the dog’some he couldn’t. He asked about the books I liked reading. He spied The Secret Garden and said how he enjoyed reading it to his daughter years ago. I showed him my Mistress Mary puppet. He chuckled when he saw it and said I had captured her just right. He had a slight whistle in his voice. He propped her up carefully on the pillow and balanced her head to watch us in the room.
He was nice.
He asked me if I was well. He said that a friend of mine had dropped by his office and asked him to stop in and check I was okay. He said that to be well everybody had to look after his or her body’to eat well and sleep well. He also said that to be healthy we had to look after our heads too, and that if there was anything worrying me or bothering me I should tell someone. He asked if there was anything I wanted to tell him.
I wanted to speak.
I wanted to blurt out that I was scared of her, that I can’t sleep because I am so scared now that it is just her and me.
I wanted to say how I am afraid to be in Thornhill.
I wanted to tell him that even when they close Thornhill, they are planning to put us in the same home, so it will never, ever stop.
I wanted to tell him that although I am afraid to be here with her, I don’t want to leave. Thornhill is my home.
But I couldn’t.
I couldn’t say a word.
What would it sound like to someone else? If I were to say, “She isn’t very kind to me and bangs on my door at night.” She doesn’t hit me, or touch me. I don’t have bruises. In fact, for the last few nights she hasn’t even touched the door. She just stands silently outside.
I would sound stupid and childish.
He wouldn’t believe me.
I couldn’t tell.
I can’t tell.
I can’t find the words.
I looked back at that kind old doctor and whispered that I was fine. That I had just got out of the habit of sleeping.
He made a tight smile, but his eyes looked as if he didn’t believe me.
He took a little notebook out of his jacket pocket and slid a piece of paper out from inside. It was my note to Kathleen.
“Mary, your friend gave me this note. This note looks as though was written by someone who is very unhappy. Are you sure, Mary, that there is nothing you want to tell me?”
I shook my head.
He sighed and wrote his name and his number on a piece of paper. He said that I could call him anytime or stop into his office to see him. He said that he would always make time to see me if I wanted to talk. He left the piece of paper on my desk and said that I was clearly a very gifted sculptor and how lovely it had been to meet me.
I leaned over the top banister and listened to him speak to Jane before he left. I couldn’t hear it all, but I heard him say “deeply concerned about her well-being” and that “selective mutism is very isolating,” that he “will report to a social worker” and that he “questioned the care culture at Thornhill.” Jane didn’t look too happy as she showed him out.
I have thought about his visit a lot this evening. I wonder what he would have said if I had told him the truth. I feel silly for having been too scared to tell him.
But mostly I think his visit was good for two reasons: firstly, he said a friend had called in at his office about me so, even though she has gone, I know that Kathleen is still thinking about me; and secondly, I have Dr. Creane’s number. I’ll probably never use it, but it is good to know that I have someone to turn to.
July 12, 1982
With Kathleen gone we don’t eat together, we just go down to take food from the fridge ourselves. I haven’t had anything hot for ages.
She stays downstairs all the time—usually in the TV room, often with Jane and Pete. Although they are “caregivers,” paid to be here with us, Jane and Pete seem to not bother with anything anymore. It is as if all the rules have been suspended. They are supposed to supervise us in turn, but instead they hang around all day together—smooching, watching TV, or shut away in Pete’s room.
There is something about this that is worse. They seem to be treating her as a friend. Sometimes I hear the three of them laughing together. Chatting. Joking. I’ve even seen them offering her cigarettes.
I stand listening, watching them from the top of my stairs, peering over the banister to see where they are and what they are doing. I wait to see if the coast is clear for me to go downstairs without bumping into any of them. If they are all up late, or the door to the TV room is open, it means I wait until everyone is in bed.
The mornings are best. I prefer to go down at five a.m. when it is just light and the birds are singing, and collect enough food for breakfast and dinner, and then sit at my window making puppets until it is time for school. I can go for days without seeing any of them face-to-face, and I don’t think I am missed.
Each time I go down, I feel the hairs on my neck stand on end. I creep about, my hands clammy and cold with the prospect of having to face her.
I keep hoping that Kathleen will write. I haven’t heard from her yet. Instead I am trying to make a whole family at the same time, molding their heads in turn, building the kind of family I’d love to take me. They are round and freckly and I imagine them to be kind and noisy—a bustling, jokey, jolly, noisy family that wouldn’t mind my quietness.
She was up here again last night. She stood silently outside the door. I could see her shadow interrupting the sliver of light on the landing. You would think that with her silence instead of the thumping, I would just sleep; rest. Ignore the fact that she is there. And I want to sleep. I am so, so tired. But I can’t. I lie awake, waiting for her. I lie as still as I can while she stands there, trying to see if I can hear her breathing on the other side of the door. Waiting to see what she will do. I know that the key in my door keeps me safe, but my nerves tingle. I hold my breath and try not to breathe. And eventually she slinks away.
July 15, 1982
Last night was different.
Last night she came up and stood there for the longest time. And then I heard her moving something across the paint on the other side of the door. It wasn’t a scratch—more of a scraping sound. And then she left.
When I got up this morning I opened the door.
At first I couldn’t see anything. There was nothing there. But I was so sure I had heard something. I ran my hands over the surface of the paint. I felt it before I saw it. It was the letter “F” etched into the gloss—not enough to chip it away, but enough to leave a gray scratch that you could only see if the light was just right. How strange. Why would she make that effort to scratch just one letter?
July 16, 1982
The same thing happened again last night—only this morning there was the letter “R” scratched after the “F.”
Why?
What is she doing?
What does it mean?
I spent the day working on my new family. My favorite of the set is the sister. I have given her a little black bob that scoops out at the bottom, and dark eyes that slant up at the edges. And freckles. I think I will make her a neck scarf and jeans. She is pretty and I imagine her happily chatting away to me as I work on her. I have made her the opposite of me.
July 17, 1982
This morning it was the lett
er “I.”
She has scratched “FRI.”
July 18, 1982
“FRIE.” Each night a little more. I lie awake and wait for the scritch-scratch against my door. What is she writing?
I have stitched a little spotted neck scarf for the sister of my puppet family. It covers where her head will join her body. I think it will look good.
July 19, 1982
Last night she added an “N.” I can only think that she is going to spell out “friend.” What else could it be?
July 20, 1982
I was right. When I got up this morning it was there. The “D.” She has written “friend” on my door. Does she want to be my friend?
I have fallen for it before. I have believed her words—and she has made me feel little and foolish.
She has tricked me. Hurt me. Haunted me.
July 21, 1982
I slept last night. I slept the whole night! She didn’t come up. There was nothing more on my door.
Is it over?
July 22, 1982
Again, last night. Nothing. No sound. No visit.
Two nights’ sleep. Two nights of delicious, deep, uninterrupted sleep.
I think she has stopped.
I have decided to write her a note. All day I wondered about what it should say. In the end I wrote
“FRIEND?”
July 23, 1982
I am so confused. What happened last night has left me questioning all the things I thought I knew.
I had the note. I wanted to slide it under her door so that it would be there when she woke up in the morning.
I know I am used to creeping about this house on my own, but I wanted to know what it feels like, tiptoeing about in this dark and almost empty house at night, like she does. I wanted to know what it is she feels when she climbs up to my room and stands outside my door. I wanted to understand why she does it.
I waited until two a.m. It was pitch-dark. Inky black. I felt completely awake—tingling with excitement. It was a strange feeling, as if I was the only person in the world, and no one could stop me or see me. It was as if Thornhill belonged to me. I felt powerful.
The house itself felt different. So, so silent. Moonlight shone onto the stairwell as I tiptoed to the floor below.
But as I got near her door I heard another sound. At first I couldn’t work out what it was. It was a muffled gasping sound. I stood with my ear to her door, holding my breath. It was crying. Sobbing, in fact. It was such a lonely sound.
I stood, listening. At first I felt a rush of triumph. Now who’s the unhappy one! But then I realized what that meant. And I felt ashamed. Ashamed that I could feel pleased that someone was crying in the night with such despair.
There I was, standing outside her door in the dark, listening to her crying, just as she had listened to me.
I slid the note under her door and crept away. But she must have heard me, or seen the note, because as I reached the second landing and looked back, there she was, her door open, standing there looking … awful. Her eyes were puffy and red and swollen with tears. Her hair was disheveled and tangled. She stood in her doorway, crying, leaning against the doorframe, my note crushed tight in her fist. I couldn’t recognize her as that confident, rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed beauty that they all had followed with such adoration. She stood there, gazing up at me, tears rolling down her face as her shoulders shook with sobs. She looked small and desperate and helpless.
I looked down and we held each other’s gaze. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t go to her. I wouldn’t comfort her. I turned and just kept walking as if I had seen nothing, as if I was unaware of her suffering. As I reached the fire door up to my staircase her door clicked shut.
But now that I write this in the comfort of my room, the morning sun streaming through the windows and the birds singing outside, I am haunted by the sight of her and I can’t get that sound out of my head.
July 24, 1982
How can that sad, forlorn-looking girl be the same monster who has tormented me?
What’s happened? I don’t understand! Yesterday I didn’t see her all day. I spent the day up here. I felt sad, uneasy. Confused.
But as always I got absorbed in the making of this new puppet. I stitched a costume; tiny, tiny stitches as I listened to the squeals, laughing, and crying of the children in the nearby houses as they played in the heat. It was too hot. My needle kept slipping in my sweaty fingers. It was a relief as the sun went down and the evening came. I went to bed with my window open and without blankets.
And I slept. But then, at some point, she was there.
At first a scraping, scratching sound and I thought she must be scratching more letters. But then—as before—she started banging on my door.
It began as the usual
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
But then, it became worse, as I had never heard it before. It was a pounding, a slapping, slamming, kicking, like she was hurling herself at the door, which shook and juddered as if the wood and hinges could barely hold her back.
My head was tight with fear, but this—this was so, so extraordinary I found myself huddled in the corner of my bed, hugging my knees, watching the door, amazed, waiting to see what would happen next.
And what happened was even more unexpected. She started crying, shouting, screaming. I couldn’t make it out at first because of the banging, but there were the odd words—the usual—“Freak!”—“Weirdo!” etc., but others such as “Friends!” and, I think, once, “Hopeless!” but I can’t be sure.
She must have been making a real racket because Jane and Pete came running up the stairs. I heard the drama unfold outside my door. At first they shouted at her, trying to be heard above her own wild cries. Then came their exclamations to each other as they tried to understand what was happening and tried to calm her down. Jane began talking in a very low, slow, quiet voice, gently questioning until the banging and shouting stopped and everything became still. They led her, still quietly sobbing, back downstairs.
I listened as their steps receded and the fire door swished shut behind them. I lay there in the dark, my heart racing, bewildered, my mind running through what had just happened. I waited for Pete or Jane to come back up and check if I was okay. But no one came.
After a while I got up and went to the window and looked out on the houses. A light was on in one of the windows and someone stood looking out at Thornhill. At least, I thought she was looking out at Thornhill, but then I realized it was a woman with a small child in her arms, rocking it back and forth as she looked out at the night. I stood watching as she gently swayed for the longest time before walking slowly back into the room. For a moment or two she was out of sight, but then I saw her draw the blankets over the sleeping child, smooth them into place, and kiss the child’s head. The lamp light went out and that window disappeared in the darkness.
I went back to my own bed, calmed. Moments like that must be happening all around the world every second of every day. For most people that’s just normal—so everyday that they won’t even think about it. I wonder what it would feel like to have someone be like that with me and I thought of Kathleen and the smell of her apron as she hugged me and called me a funny little chick. As I went to sleep, I decided to think about that instead of the bizarre happenings of the night.
When I opened my door at daybreak this morning it was dented, scratched, and splintered. And gouged deeper into the paint was the word “LESS.”
Friendless.
Does she mean me?
Or her?
Thornhill has been silent all day. It is as if there is an illness in the house. As if someone is on their deathbed and everyone is tiptoeing carefully around. It is too hot, too oppressive to move. I have wedged open my bedroom door and the fire door to help create a breeze from my open window, but I don’t think it makes much difference. The air is so still. I heard Jane on the phone a few times and Pete and Jane whispering in the entrance
hall. At one point I thought I heard Dr. Creane, but otherwise it is all still and quiet except for the doors being clicked shut on the ground floor and occasional footsteps. It feels as if the house itself is holding its breath.
And I am sitting here upstairs. Alone. No one has come up to speak to me, to check I am okay. But that’s all right. I have been making my next doll, listening to the quiet and wondering what will happen to us all.
July 28, 1982
Today’s events started when Jane and Pete went out. Despite everything that has happened this week, they just walked off down the drive, arms around each other, laughing, as if they didn’t have a care in the world. To look at them you would never have guessed that they both work in a house that is becoming eerier and more silent by the day, supervising two girls that no one wants.
Are they allowed to just leave us like that?
Is that right?
It didn’t feel right.
It left just me and her. Alone in Thornhill.
I decided to get out too.
Now that I think back on this morning I realize how unusual a decision that was. It had never occurred to me to walk out of Thornhill before—to just walk off down the drive and out of the gates as Jane and Pete had done. I decided to go to the library in town …
But it never happened.
Instead I am back up in my room. My hand is steady but my mind is racing.
I think I have done something important.