Sophie and I rode out the pandemic in my tiny studio apartment. And why not? We got along from the start. We shared interests and had similar hopes for the future. We even gelled with each other’s friends. Together was better than apart.
We could not have predicted the harsh reality of a long and drawn out lockdown. Working from home and constantly on top of each other. Cut off from our friends and colleagues and the outside world, we became frayed at the edges.
We began to snipe at each other. What was, at the start of our relationship, a gentle ribbing designed to be laughed off, morphed into an insult designed to cut. And the longer we were cooped up, the deeper the cuts became. I don’t know who started it, and it doesn’t matter.
At times I felt like a different person. I looked in the mirror having walked away from yet another argument and wondered if this is who I really was. The pandemic shined a light on our relationship and us as people and what it revealed was uglier than either of us could ever imagine.
So, with things getting back to normal, we decided to go away for the weekend. Forget about that small and claustrophobic apartment in the city. Get some fresh air and get things back to normal. One last test to see if what we had was worth saving. Sophie said she knew just the place.
The cottage stood apart from the village on a dead end road that terminated at the front door. It was built, so Sophie had told me, before the founding of the town. An ancient structure of stone with a protruding second floor balcony looking out over the ocean. The white painted exterior only served to make more obvious the cracks and pock marks accumulated over time. The grass covered front yard extended about a stone’s throw before dropping precipitously to beaches of dark pebbles, where the opaque and angry green water spat up white foam.
The wind whipped in from the ocean scattering Sophie’s jet-black hair. She fished out the key from her pocket, the old-fashioned type, oversized and a strange copper colour. She jiggled the key in the lock, struggling to get it to catch.
I looked back up the narrow road. Barely one car wide, it wound its way up to the grass covered crest. The village lay beyond and out of sight. In the other direction the rocky bluff towered above the water and marked the end of the peninsula. There were no other houses or structures of any kind in sight. This could have been the cottage at the end of the world.
It didn’t surprise me that this part of the country was so sparsely populated. Dark-grey clouds blanketed the sky. Sporadic trees grew sideways out of the ground, gnarled branches bent by the constant breeze sweeping in off the ocean.
The lock clicked and the heavy wooden door creaked open. The lower floor opened into an L-shaped space with the living area at the front and the kitchen at the back. Opposite the kitchen a sliding door led to a raised bathroom and a steep stone staircase with a raked soffit so low I had to crouch a little to fit. Framed photos of Sophie’s family huddled close on the mantle above the fireplace.
Upstairs were two large bedrooms and a smaller utility room. The largest of the two bedrooms looked out over the ocean with a double glass door leading to the balcony. We dumped our bags beside the bed and threw open the curtains to see the ocean.
“It’s a nice view.” Sophie slid her arm across the small of my back and leaned her head against my shoulder.
“Why did you wait three years to tell me about this place?”
“It’s a pain to get here. I never came up here much. This became Mum’s fortress of solitude after my father died.”
“I’ll get dinner started.”
“I’ll light the fire.”
When Sophie had packed the food and drink for the weekend I joked that it would last us a week. Now I understood. There would be no pizza delivery drivers willing to venture all the way out here. Whatever we needed had to be in the car. I put together a decent looking platter and wedged a bottle of wine under my arm.
Sophie called down from upstairs. The clouds had parted and the sun was out.
We ate on the balcony with a bottle of wine as the sun set over the ocean. The night was coming in cold and we buttoned up our jackets. In the fading light the wind strengthened and threatened to blow over our glasses and we moved inside and downstairs.
Sophie threw a thick log on the fire and it soon caught and cast a warm glow over the tiny living room. The only other light was from the naked bulb hanging in the kitchen.
“What should we do?” she said.
I topped up her glass and joined her on the couch. I let out a lung full of air and watched the light flicker on the ceiling. “I think we are already doing what we should.”
Sophie removed her shoes and pulled her feet up onto the couch. She reached behind and grabbed a book from the shelf. She eyed me mischievously.
“What?” I said.
“Did I ever tell you I have an ancestor who was convicted of witchcraft?”
She had my attention. “No.”
“Let me find the story.”
She held up the book. The green cover was frayed at the edges. I could not read the gold lettering of the title.
“It’s a history of the area. All the important events. All the important people. All the heroes and all the villains.”
“And how do the Swindon clan fit?”
“Here it is. The Lady of the Storm.”
“The Lady of the Storm? That sounds ominous.”
Sophie cleared her throat. “The account of the trial and execution of Mary Swindon survives in the record of the Priest John Nance, brought down to make judgement on accusations brought upon Mary by her fellow villagers. Three witnesses, one among them a retired lawyer and acquaintance of Nance, accused Mary Swindon of entering into a covenant with Satan. The evidence provided included the death of livestock, the withering of crops, and the endless poor weather.
“The following day a great cry rang out in the village. Thomas Swindon, the youngest son of Mary and her husband George, was found in the street covered in blood. The boy was unharmed and when asked to explain the meaning of the blood, he asked after his mother.
“The townsfolk discovered a grisly scene at the Swindon property. George Swindon and daughter Harriet and son Edward had been butchered with an axe. A search for Mary produced immediate results. She was found cowering in a shallow cave below King’s Rock. Her nightclothes were drenched in blood.
“Mary denied culpability in the crime, but could not, or would not provide an alternate explanation. The other surviving witness, the boy Thomas, refused to speak. He lived the rest of his days in mute silence.
“After a swift trial, Mary was sentenced to be hanged. On the day of execution a fierce storm blew in off the ocean. Braving the wind and the rain, the townsfolk carried out their grim duty. As Mary dangled from the rope her eyes bulged and her mouth contorted into a grotesque smile.
“A brilliant flash blinded the gathered crowd. On its heels a mighty clap of thunder threw everyone to the ground. When Priest Nance raised his head, he saw that the rope holding Mary Swindon was severed and Mary had disappeared. She was never found. Thus began the legend of the Lady of the Storm.”
“That is some story. Is it true?”
Sophie shrugged. “You never know with these things. My mother told it to me once. Apparently we’re related to Thomas.”
“The mute boy? I find that hard to believe.”
It was the sort of comment that might have earned me a sharp look and a day’s worth of silent treatment. But Sophie instead playfully hurled a cushion in my direction. Maybe things were getting back to normal.
From above came a loud bang.
“What was that?”
“Did you close the doors to the balcony?”
“Yes.” I leaned forward on the couch. Another bang.
“Are you sure?”
Her voice carried a hint of disdain I chose to ignore.
“I’ll go check.”
I climbed the stairs and felt the breeze on my face before I reached the top step. The double doors to the balcony were wide open. A sudden change in wind pressure in the room sucked the doors closed again with such force I feared the glass would shatter. I skipped to the doors and grasped the handles and locked them in place and turned the key. I twisted the handle and pulled to be sure. The doors did not give.
I thought I had done that the first time. Sophie appeared in the doorway.
“I’m tired. Why don’t we call it a night?”
I opened my eyes and turned my head. The doors to the balcony were open and swinging in the wind. I figured Sophie must have opened them to let some air in. But it was freezing.
I went to sit up and close them but I could not move my body. Everything from my neck down was numb. The curtains framing the doors billowed in the wind. The shadow of a hand gripped the door and swung it open. Someone was on the balcony.
“Sophie?” I turned to Sophie’s side of the bed, but she was not there.
The curtains settled back into place. A dark figure stood in front of the glass door, now closed and backlit by moonlight. The figure moved - almost glided - around the bed and to my side. It had no face or eyes or features of any kind. It held up an arm and in its hand was a knife, the blade as black as the limb that held it.
I tried to scream but my voice failed me. The figure was beside me now. I willed my body to move or my voice to scream but I could do neither. The figure raised the knife and began thrashing at my torso. Again and again the knife rose and fell. I felt no pain, but it paralysed my half-asleep brain with terror. As the figure stabbed, it leaned its head over and the dark mass of its face coalesced into features. Huge bulging eyes and a twisted smile.
I cried out again and this time I found voice and with it movement and I sat bolt upright in bed. I fumbled for the lamp on the dresser beside the bed and almost ripped the cord out of the socket before finding the switch.
The shadow figure gained features and they were Sophie’s. Her face was expressionless and her eyes closed as if she were still sleeping. I reached out to touch her bare arm. A sudden release of electricity sent a shock through my fingers and I recoiled.
Sophie’s eyes fluttered open.
“What am I doing?” she said.
“You tell me.”
She shook her head and rubbed her eyes. “What time is it?”
“It’s the middle of the night.”
“Ok.”
Sophie walked slowly and deliberately back to her side of the bed and climbed in and shut her eyes.
“Can you turn the light off?”
I didn’t get another moment of sleep. I waited until the horizon turned the shade of purple before the sun fully rises and pulled back the covers. Sophie’s stirred but did not open her eyes. I checked the balcony. Empty aside from the table and chairs we ate at the night before.
“Come back to bed,” Sophie said.
“I can’t sleep. Do you want to go for a walk?”
“What time is it?”
“A bit before six.”
“No. You go. I’m tired. I feel like I haven’t slept yet.”
I threw on some clothes in the dull morning light. I half-stumbled down the stairs. I needed more sleep, but my nerves were on edge after waking up to Sophie standing over me. I sometimes dreamed of shadow figures in my room, not often, but enough to dismiss it after the shadow dissipates once my brain is fully awake. This was the first time something had actually been there.
The early morning air was cold. A light drizzle fell softly from above, just enough to let you know it was there. I buttoned up my jacket and pulled the hood over my head.
I walked west, away from the village and the road. I didn’t feel much like being around people and there would be no one this way. The cottage stood on the last parcel of flat land before the rolling grass hill fell gently away. Beyond the dark rocks of the bluff jutted up steeply into the sky. It looked climbable if not for the drizzle lubricating the smooth weathered rocks.
A narrow path of green wound its way between the base of the bluff and the precipitous edge down to the shore. I stepped carefully, leaning against the rocks to my right and keeping as far away from the edge as I could. The path swept in a large curve and opened out into a rocky platform. A small pool of water had formed in a crevice. Somewhere a small trickle of water discharged against the rocks, the drips echoing off the face of the bluff.
High above the rocks pointed fingers into the dull sky. One of the peaks looked vaguely like a head with spiked hair. Overcome with a sudden sensation of vertigo, I shifted my gaze back out to sea. Dark clouds rose up above the horizon. The forecast had said a chance of storms. That chance looked a good bet.
I propped against a rock and let my eyes close. I should have stayed in bed. But then in my mind’s eye the images from last night played over again. The shadow figure. The glimpse of the bulging eyes and the twisted smile. When I turned on the light Sophie had been there, but those were not Sophie’s eyes. It was something from a horror movie.
My eyes sprung open at the sound of whispering coming somewhere from behind. It must be the wind. My nerves were still on edge. This weekend was supposed to be about relaxation. The whispering faded and was replaced by the wind. I stood to begin the walk back – I needed coffee or food or both. Then the sound of something else. Someone laughing, cackling.
I turned and stumbled backwards. The eyes and the twisted smile. A woman with jet-black hair hung from a rope, her body pulsing and writhing. The timber gallows creaked under her weight. She wore a white gown stained red with blood. Her black matted hair mingled with the blood. Those eyes, they looked right at me.
A flash of light and then out to sea a clap of thunder. Instinctively I swivelled my head to look. The storm looked too far off to be making that sort of noise. I turned back and where the woman and the gallows had been was once again an empty platform of rock. I looked back up to the peak that resembled a man with spiky hair. Not spiky hair, but a crown. King’s Rock. This is where she died, the Lady of the Storm.
Thunder rumbled low and deep. In the distance thin strings of lightning flashed from the growing wall of deep purple clouds. I had to get back to the cottage. And then we had to get out of here. Whatever was going on, I didn’t want any part of it.
The cottage was silent and still. Sophie must still be asleep. She might sleep until lunch time, she sometimes did that and it annoyed the hell out of me.
A burst of wind buffeted against the windows. The storm was almost here. If we were going to leave we should try to beat the weather.
From above a loud bang. Sophie must be up. I took the stairs three at a time. The hollow and fragile clatter of glass doors. The big double doors to the balcony were open again. Sophie must have unlocked them. Had she done the same thing last night only to blame me?
The bedroom was now light as day, but Sophie slept. She lay facing my side of the bed, exactly as I had left her. The wind blew in cold and carried a light spray of water. I shut the doors and turned the lock and pushed again, harder than I had before. The doors did not open. I inspected the lock and ran a finger across the top and bottom hoping to find an answer to why they kept swinging open. Everything looked normal.
Through all of this Sophie did not stir. There was something abnormal about how deep she slept. If not for the steady rising and falling of her shoulder, I might have taken her for dead. I hovered a hand over her shoulder and contemplated waking her. No, that would only start an argument.
I searched for something to do downstairs. I had no reception on my phone. I flicked through a book from the shelf, but that only turned my eyes to fire. I dozed on the couch.
A boom of thunder pulled me from a shallow sleep. Sophie stood over me, knife in hand.
“What are you doing?”
“It sounded like you were having a bad dream. I came to wake you. I’m making lunch.”
She gestured over to the kitchen bench and a half-chopped tomato.
“Sure. Listen, what do you think about maybe heading back?”
“Now?”
“After we eat?”
“This is supposed to be our weekend away. We haven’t even been here a day. And have you seen what the weather is doing? I’m not driving in this.”
“Of course I’ve seen the weather. I don’t feel right here.”
“Why? What happened?”
“What happened? You standing over me in the middle of the night.”
“What?”
“You don’t remember?”
Sophie looked at me confused.
“Great. It isn’t only that. I went out for a walk today and I saw her.”
“Saw who?”
“Your witch ancestor.”
“She died over three hundred years ago. You didn’t see her.”
“It was her. Her eyes. Those eyes. She looked a lot like you.”
Sophie slapped the knife down on the counter. “What are you talking about?”
“I want to go back.”
“We aren’t going back. We promised each other we would try.”
The rain started. A gentle pattering at first and then hard and heavy on the wind. So ferocious that it was unsettling being near the window. The thin pane of glass seemingly too fragile to keep out the violence.
So much was unsettling about this place. But Sophie was right. We couldn’t drive in this. The roads were unsealed for the first half-hour and we would get bogged or worse.
A plate shattered on the tile floor of the kitchen. Sophie leaned against the bench, her head pushed down between her arms. Shards of porcelain lay scattered between her feet.
“Is everything ok?”
She didn’t answer.
I skipped over to her and placed a hand on her shoulder. She shuddered and took in a deep breath. I took away my hand and took a half-step backwards.
“Sophie?”
Her head shook. Her knuckles turned white. Slowly she raised her head. Deep wrinkles furrowed her brow. And then I saw her eyes. The same bulging, red streaked eyes I saw out by the rocks. Eyes that did not belong to Sophie. The calm brown I was used to had turned a bright and fiery red. Unnatural, inhuman eyes.
In a blur of movement she grabbed at the knife dripping with the red of chopped tomatoes. She moved her limbs mechanically, each action a burst of movement like a puppet on a string. She moved out from behind the bench and lumbered towards me. Her mouth twisted into a cruel smile, her teeth yellowed and rotten.
A crashing noise from upstairs. The windows in the bedroom. Instinctively I bolted upstairs towards the sound. In the bedroom I cursed my mistake. There was nowhere to go. The double doors swung wildly in the wind.
Sophie appeared in the doorway, clutching the knife. She lunged forwards and I slapped her hand away and stumbled onto the balcony. The cold of the rain took my breath away. I was trapped.
Sophie stepped onto the balcony. She turned her head slowly to face me. Behind her the double doors slammed shut and stayed shut. Her head crooked sideways and she smiled.
I looked over the edge. Below was garden bed, softened by rain. I jumped. The sensation of losing the ground beneath my feet sent a rush through my stomach. I landed hard, pain shooting up my shin as my ankle twisted on impact.
I limped away, through the rain and down the hill. The storm had taken her and I had to ride it out. I headed towards the bluff, to King’s Rock. I had to find somewhere to hide.
I ventured a look behind. Sophie followed, her hair matted and wet, her bare feet stained brown by mud. She held the knife at her side. I limped through the pain.
I walked the narrow ledge between the rocks and the cliff face for the second time that day. Out to sea an unbroken wall of purple cloud dumped sheets of rain. A flash of yellow bloomed and thunder barked in its wake.
I scrambled over the wet rocks and reached the platform where I had seen the spirit of the witch. I pressed myself into a corner sheltered from the rain. I wiped the water from my brow and turned back. She was there.
“Sophie, stop. This isn’t you. This isn’t us.”
She advanced and raised the knife, ready to strike. I covered my head.
A strange crackle of electricity spat in my ears. It felt as if the whole world took a deep breath and in the exhale a burst of light from the sky. The lightning struck in the space between us and I squeezed shut my eyes. The electricity cleaved the air and the sound sent an explosion of pain through my head.
When I opened my eyes the rain had stopped. A fragile warmth glowed from behind the clouds. Sophie lay in a wet heap on the rocks. The knife had spilled from her hand. I threaded my arm below her head and tapped at her cheeks. Her eyes fluttered open. Her eyes, her soft brown eyes.
“Where are we?”
We drove back that night. Sophie has little memory of the weekend. She told me it feels like a dream to her, one where she cannot remember all the details. I have decided not to fill her in.
The thing that chased me with the knife was not Sophie. It could not be, she would never do such a thing. Something had hold of her, something external that was gone now.
The pandemic is over but we are still in that tiny apartment. We can’t afford anything better. We are not those people, the ones we see so briefly when stress is high. We are not. At least that is what I tell myself.