The Archive of Lost Dreams and other paranormal tales

by Lissa Bilyk

DON’T EVEN PEEP

  The first thing I remember every morning is not waking up; it isn’t clambering out of my hard bed, and running to wake Mama or Grandmama, who sleep just down the hall from me. No: the first thing I remember every morning is standing in the attic, in front of a large rectangular frame – almost as large as me – and rather heavy-looking. But it is covered somewhat artfully (and, to my inexperienced eyes, defiantly) – by a large sheet of luxurious black velvet that shimmers in the soft light.

  What was behind it? I didn’t know; for every time I thought of peeping behind the velvet I heard a soft sigh, and Grandmama would appear at the stair, enclose my small hand in her soft wrinkles, and lead me without fail down the steep stairs to the parlour, saying: “Don’t look, my dear: don’t even peep.”

  And then Mama would brush and curl my elfin fair hair; we’d clean the parlour; Mama would lay the dry wood in the fireplace, and Grandmama would light the fire so that it was nice and cosy; and by then the water on the stove would be hot enough to make tea for breakfast; and then I’d forget about the mysterious black velvet and the unknown object it was covering.

  And every day, whilst the three of us sat at the dinner table, and I learned to hold my teacup like Mama and Grandmama did, like a proper lady, I would suddenly ask, “Where is Papa?”

  And Grandmama would say, “Papa will be home tomorrow.”

  But when tomorrow became today he never came home. And then there would be embroidery and preparing the evening meal, and by then I’d forget all about Papa, too.

  And so it went on – waking without ever leaving my bed; the trek down the stairs from the attic and the smoky, shimmering black velvet; the embroidering of little flowers onto what would one day be a dress for me… and all the while, I could never quite peep behind the black velvet.

  And Papa never came home.

  The flowers on my dress stayed the same.

  At first I didn’t notice. Every day we would embroider flowers onto the white muslin cloth which would one day be a dress, and every day it seemed like there was no progress made, that the dress would never be completed. One afternoon, I counted the flowers when Mama and Grandmama were having their afternoon tea. I made a ladies’ excuse, and noticed out of the corner of my eye the glances they exchanged, but they didn’t say anything. I slipped off the chair, and walked calmly out of the room; but instead of taking the exit to the privy, I snuck into the sewing room and peeped at the white material.

  There were fourteen flowers so far. Surely there should be more than that? We had been working on it for… it seemed like forever. Vaguely I wondered how much time had elapsed since we took the measurements, tried to guess how much I may have grown since. I dimly remembered being measured, but I couldn’t recall the exact time. There was a strange emptiness in my mind that I dismissed on account of being a gay heartless child. Would the dress still fit me, after this long?

  Though slightly mystified, I returned to the parlour feeling quietly triumphant, and waited impatiently for the next day when I would wake, oddly standing in front of the shrouded frame. As always, Grandmama appeared to take my hand before I could peep behind the black velvet. As always, Mama brushed and curled my hair. We cleaned the parlour, and Mama laid the dry wood next to the fire grate and Grandmama poured the tea. But today, instead of my usual question which garnered deflected answers, I altered it slightly:

  “Why is Papa never home?”

  Mama dropped her blue and white teacup and the delicate china shattered on the floor. I was sad: she would miss out on tea tomorrow, because we only had two fine teacups left: one for Grandmama and one for me.

  Grandmama didn’t express Mama’s surprise, but said calmly, as she always did, “Papa will be home tomorrow.”

  When it came time to embroider flowers onto the muslin, I tried to count the number of flowers without either of them noticing. If Grandmama and Mama embroidered one flower a day each, that meant that by today’s end, there should be sixteen flowers. When it was time to put away the material, I quickly checked the flowers again, in case I had missed any.

  There were fourteen.

  The next day, I forgot to ask where Papa was. I was busy taking note of the way Grandmama and Mama did the same thing every day. I was so busy noticing that Mama always laid the dry wood nest to the fire and Grandmama always poured the tea, and I always sat at the table trying to look grown-up, that at first I didn’t realise Mama was drinking tea from her delicate blue and white teacup. I tried to remember why that was strange. Had something happened yesterday… or was it longer ago? Why should Mama drinking tea with Grandmama and me feel strange?

  And then I remembered: Mama had shattered the china yesterday. There weren’t enough teacups for her to join us. And yet here she was.

  “Mama,” I said demurely, studying my reflection in my tea and trying to sound casual. “Where did you find another teacup?”

  There was a slight hesitation before she answered, but I still noticed it. “In the top cupboard, Susan.”

  When they both went to bed, I snuck out of my own little bedroom for the first time, taking my rag doll Eleanor with me; lit a candle, crept down the stairs and explored the kitchen. There were no teacups in the top cupboard. I searched the entire kitchen; and in the parlour I settled Eleanor on a chair and put my candle next to the stacked dry wood, and searched that too, just in case I had missed anything. But there were only three teacups, and Mama’s pretty blue and white one was as good as new.

  That night I refused to go to sleep. I went back to my bedchamber, soulfully determined, blind and groping one-handed in the dark. I sat by the window all night, clutching Eleanor to my breast, gazing at the silver crescent moon and deliberately shivering in an attempt not to fall asleep. The old grandfather clock down the hall announced every quarter hour in a gloomy, melancholic tone. In the morning I would find out the mystery of the black velvet, and what was behind it. Even in my overtired excitement, I felt that I had forgotten something… and the sensation was familiar. Had I crept out of my bed before, feeling deliciously naughty, to peep about the old house when it was cold and dark? I felt like I had left something behind, but Eleanor was in my arms. Was there anything more important than Eleanor?

  I must have dozed off eventually – even my own childish enthusiasm wasn’t enough to keep me awake. I was so cold that night, hunched and freezing, trying to keep Eleanor warm. There was a whirring in the hallway that heralded the arrival of the grandfather clock’s midnight chiming. Quaking with cold, I stepped down from my window ledge and went to press my ear to the door, the better to listen, my bare feet silent on the harsh wooden floor. Eleanor dangled by one arm from my hand.

  The melody seemed loud and ominous, and at the first strike that announced midnight my eyes snapped open and I gasped, choking on thick black smoke. I staggered back from the door that was blazing in an intense furnace of heat and dropped Eleanor. My bed was ablaze, and my dresser; and parts of the wooden floor had burned away entirely. I could see into the parlour below. Dropping to my knees, my eyes streaming from the heat, I screamed for my Mama, for Grandmama, for Papa. I was so terrified that I could do nothing but curl into a ball and whimper as the flames raged around me. And then I could scream no more.

  As I woke up, I realised with a jerk I would have scant seconds before Grandmama appeared at the stair, as she always did, take my hand in hers and lead me to the parlour… so I reached up to the black velvet – it was so soft and luxurious in my fingers – and yanked it off the frame.

  At first I thought it was a mirror. But then I heard Grandmama’s sigh, and flinched in guilt. The young girl in the mirror didn’t move, and I realised it was a wonderful portrait of a child who looked just like me, with brilliant blue eyes and golden ringlets, a sombre, serious expression on her pale face.

  It was a painting.

  And then I heard what sounded like another sigh, and Mama was standing next to Grandmama, looking at me with a mixture of sorrow and somet
hing else indecipherable. She said to Grandmama in a soft voice, “You promised to tell her, Mother. You said if she ever beat you, you would tell her the truth.”

  Grandmama stood gazing at me, and I turned back to the picture. “Tell me what, Grandmama?” I raised a hand to my own hair, uncurled. Was this what they didn’t want me to see? A painting of myself?

  And then I noticed something written in the bottom right-hand corner. A signature, which I couldn’t decipher, and a date: 1834.

  “Oh, Mother,” Mama sighed. “Tell her.”

  Grandmama came forward and slowly, stiffly, lowered herself into a dusty old overstuffed armchair that sat patiently next to the painting. “Susan,” she said, “come and sit with your Grandmama.”

  I clambered onto her soft lap, not tearing my eyes from the painting. “That girl,” I whispered, my voice aquiver. “Is she my great-grandmama?”

  Slowly, she shook her head. “No, my dearest one.” She pushed my temple curls back from my face. “She is you.”

  “But,” I said, trembling, “that little girl was born a long time ago.”

  “And so were you, Susan,” Mama said softly, resting her hand on the chair’s high back as if she could suddenly not support her own weight.

  Grandmama nodded. “My dear, you cannot remember this: but one night, a very long time ago, you went into the parlour – I don’t know why: I think you were looking for something. You left a candle burning near the firewood. That night, my child, the candle tipped over and the house caught fire. We all died, Susan.”

  Blood slammed through my veins, blood that felt real and left me in no doubt that I would bleed if I cut myself. “What about Papa?”

  “He wasn’t here, my darling,” Mama replied gently. “But he died a long time ago, too.”

  I twisted to gaze at Grandmama. “Why could I never peep at the painting?”

  “It wasn’t the painting we didn’t want you to see,” she answered, her old voice strangely calm, in contrast to my hammering heart that wanted to leap out of my breast. “It was the artist’s date. We knew you would ask questions. We thought to keep you from finding out.”

  I was silent for a very long time, thinking hard. My blood settled and, calm, I looked at my grandmother again. “What do we do now?”

  She smiled at me, the poor light from the attic making her deep wrinkles seem softer. “We have our morning tea.”

  As she lead me from the attic in her soft hand, Mama trailing behind us and leaving the painting uncovered, I said – to both of them, really – “Can I pour the tea today?”