THURSDAY: The Woman on the Ceiling

BY JULIE BARNETT

Copyright is held by the author.

SHE’S HERE. The woman on the ceiling. Writhing around up there like some terrible spider. Black hole eyes. Voice like old books. She’s climbing down the wall. She’s here. Oh god. Please help me . . .

DAY ONE
I’ve caught it. I’d been so careful too. I swear it was that old guy on the x13 bus who sneezed on my neck. Thanks for that (!) Ten days stuck at home, twiddling my thumbs. Great. Other half has taken Tom to the Mother in Laws. Now it’s just me and you, house. Finally, we are alone. Do you know I haven’t been alone in this house for ten years? Always being followed from room to room. Always someone there. Watching.

DAY TWO
My throat feels scratchy like tiny fingernails have raked up and down my windpipe. My skin prickles, tiny hairs stand on end. I make a mental note to shave my pits when I feel better. I take to my bed. One minute, shivering like ice water has been poured down my back and the next moment, kicking off the duvet as heat rises from every pore, my body slick with sweat. I feel hungover. Exhausted. An open window caused my bedroom door to slam repeatedly overnight. I check all the windows, finding them closed. Odd.

DAY THREE
2.22am.
I try hard to move. The seconds stretched into infinity. My mind is awake yet my body is asleep. I am paralyzed. A buzzing sound grows louder and louder in my ears until it fills my whole head. I hear heavy footsteps coming up the stairs. Thump, thump, thump. Something is in the room. I am not alone. Something is breathing in my ear. Fuck.

DAY FOUR
2.22am.
Why does everything look so different at night? My bedroom is normal. Bland even. At night the energy shifts and changes. Becomes sinister. Why does my dressing gown look like a fucking person is standing in the doorway? Why do I feel like I’m being watched?

DAY FIVE
They say a child born at midnight will never see a ghost. I wish I could say the same for my son. Tom saw them EVERYWHERE. It’s normal, right? Kids say freaky stuff all the time. They find it hard to distinguish between what’s real and what’s in their imagination. It’s all TOTALLY NORMAL and definitely no reason to call an exorcist and burn down the entire house. He’s nine now. Too many video games I suppose.

We bought a new build. No ghosts here! This is a spook free zone. No Victorian lady in the attic. No creepy basements. No bodies in the walls. Ours. You, me and a third. A secret I’d held within me. A stranger, yet I have known you forever. You were born as the Christmas lights twinkled. I screamed you into existence. Cold metal stirrups. Blood. A perfect baby boy.

On the third night it began. A gentle tugging of the blankets.

Tug, tug, tug.

Like a small child trying to get my attention. It appeared that I had brought more than one guest home with me that night.

DAY SIX
My fever peaks. The walls bend. The ceiling ripples like water. I can’t do this. I can’t. A face appears at the top of the door frame. A white oval in a black void. It stares and in a second is gone again. There’s someone else here.

DAY SEVEN
You were two weeks old when I was in the grips of sleep deprivation. Almost hallucinating through lack of sleep. I began seeing things. Hearing things. Voices. Murmurs. Mutterings. Whispers in my ear. At night I was poked in the back. Always three pokes.

Poke Poke Poke.

I slept with the light on. What little sleep I had was filled with nightmares. The woman in the walls. Mouth open, in a silent scream. Hands around my neck. Choking me. I told no one. Afraid that you would be taken away. That I would be seen as mad.

You grew into a pale, serious, three-year-old. Eyes like deep pools. Milky white skin. You were thoughtful and sensitive. I’d hear you chatter happily alone in your room. I asked you who you were talking to. The lady, you said.

I was making you breakfast one morning, stacks upon stacks of chocolate pancakes. Your favourite. We were chatting. You telling me about a bug you had found. A fat, pink worm. When your gaze shifted to just above my shoulder.

“Lady.” You pointed.

I stared at the empty doorway. The black rectangle.

“What lady, darling?” I asked.

“Lady,” you repeated. Pointing at nothing.

“What’s the lady doing?” I asked you.

“Screaming.”

Fantastic.

Why are kids such creepy bastards? Why did she have to be screaming? Why couldn’t it be a nice old granny holding a plate of warm jam tarts? Of course, I end up with the screaming banshee woman (!)

You feared going upstairs alone. You were scared of the dark. The people on the landing. You said. You didn’t like them.

Day seven, day seven, day fucking seven.

I thought you had gone. She’s back. SHE’S BACK.

DAY EIGHT
2.22am.
She laughs at me now. She’s mocking me. Leave me alone. I scream into the empty house. LEAVE ME ALONE.

DAY NINE
She’s here. Oh god. Oh god. Help me. Someone, help me. The smell, oh god, the smell. Damp leaves and something rotten. Something decaying. Something dead. I reach out for my phone and my hands are shaking. It’s just out of my reach. My fingers grasp air. Desperate. It falls. It’s over.

She’s here.

She’s climbing down the fucking wall.

I can’t breathe. The air is thick, pungent. The smell of her. Oh god. I’m choking. Her hands claw at me. Filthy hands. Dead, cold, clammy hands.

She’s in my bed. Her weight is crushing. The breath leaves my body. Her matted greasy hair is on my face. In my mouth. Down my throat. Please. No. Please. Stop.

STOP.

She’s screaming now.

A terrible, terrible sound.

The room spins, sways and tips. The walls disappear and I am falling, falling and all I can hear is those terrible screams ringing in my ears and everything goes black.

DAY TEN
An awareness. Light dancing outside my closed eyelids. Warmth. Sunlight. A vague memory stirs beneath my consciousness. HER. Screaming. Blackness. My thoughts jumbled. Tangled. I hear birds singing. A gentle shuffling from downstairs. The smell of bacon frying. Of toast. The rattling of pots and pans. Life. My family. My home. I am awake. I am alive. I am safe. I hear light, quick footsteps climbing the stairs. My boy. He’s here. Oh, thank god. Thank god.

I open my eyes.

Something is wrong. Something is very wrong. I am sat up in bed. But that’s not me.

THAT’S NOT ME.

I am looking down on the imposter. The changeling. The doppelganger.

I am on the fucking ceiling.

Plaster, paint, dust, brick. The walls distort and bend. I am being swallowed. I am being fucking buried alive.

I scream my son’s name.

That’s not me. That’s not me. Someone, help me. He can’t hear me. He can’t fucking hear me.

My son is in the room now. She’s calling him. Beckoning. She sounds like me. He hesitates. He knows.

“What’s wrong mate?” Ted is in the room now, he ruffles Tom’s hair affectionately.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Don’t be silly.” Says the other me, looking up to the ceiling. “There’s no such thing as ghosts.”

***

Julie Barnett is a writer from Wales. Winner of The British Theatre
Challenge, winner of Pint Sized Plays international playwriting competition
and member of Comedy Crowd Top Talent, her work has been produced both
nationally and internationally. Julie’s work has been published in a number
of literary magazines and journals including The Wales Collection, The
Ultimate Poetry Collection and Hallowzine. Julie is obsessed with tea,
ghosts and cats. There is a rumour that Julie holds the record for the most
cups of tea drunk in a day. That rumour is yet to be disputed.