Whispers of Betrayal and Eternal Obsession by Jane Pigott

It was April 23rd 1872, I was lying in my living room with my wife, the pale moon shining down on her. It shone through her skin, letting it glow, making her seem almost transparent. She’d gone thin, her skin sticking to her bones leaving no room for flesh creating a sickly appearance. This was the part I hadn’t figured out yet. Was she suffering? I didn’t know. Nonetheless, her presence brought a calm sensation to the room, even though with a mer breeze she may disintegrate. We were talking late into the night, yet amidst the whispered words, a dark obsession did reside. When she inquired why I had done it, I was unable to provide a plausible reason. Had I really succumbed to a state of derangement bordering on madness or would I simply drown in an eternal abyss of remorse? Curiously, I felt no remorse. Looking back on the event which had occurred 2 years prior, I could still see it clearly, as if it was replaying.

Weren’t we happily married? I thought so. But she… That night I happened to look out the window and there was Elizabeth, a large suitcase in each hand, nervously walking up the path towards the gate. I blinked to make sure I was seeing what I was seeing. Was she leaving me? Something cold came over me then. The icy chill of betrayal, perhaps. Oh, Lizzy, I thought. You won’t make it to the nearest town. It’s 22 miles across scrubland. Silly Lizzy. I walked down the stairs, listening to the clicking of her heels. As I continued, catching the door before it closed, “Oh Lizzy” I called out, watching as her head spun around, eyes gaped open. She started running but didn’t make it very far as soon enough I got her back into my grasp.

I had just finished committing my horrendous act … I found myself traversing the shadowed passageways of the illustrious Carlton mansion, finding myself at the grand hall, many pairs of eyes glared back at me staring down at what I held in my hands: a portrait of my late wife Elizabeth Carlton, framed in gold leaf oak, her pale, delicate features hauntingly lifelike. The manor was old and worn down due to its age, my ancestors had bought the land years ago during the time of the The War of the Spanish Succession, over a century ago in 1711, it was then passed down through my family. The manor brings me feelings of bitterness and disdain, every window and connor of the place is filled with darkness and shadows that play tricks on your eyes. The lack of daylight had made my vision blurred, making it hard to navigate. Then I heard the clock strike twice, 2 a.m. I finally finished. My masterpiece. I walked through the hall filled with portraits of my ancestors. Towards the end of the hall I see the painting of my father. This one, I made myself. He died before his time, of scarlet fever. I couldn’t save his ailing body, but I tried to preserve his soul, however this process had failed as he could no longer communicate. I thought I could see his soul in his eyes every time I walked past the portrait, but that feeling soon faded and he stared lifelessly into the room, reminding me of my failure. I placed Elizabeth down carefully as I hammer the nail in the decaying wall, each strike pounding in my ears as I then placed her up carefully, however I had changed my mind, this was the wrong place for her. Moving her to the living room, her favourite place with the fireplace near. This was the place you would want to lie, my dear Elizabeth. After moving her to her new location, I then reached the room we had once shared, lying down soundly and falling asleep to the rapping of the raindrops on the window. I would then wait until the next night before visiting her again.

A day had passed, and then I heard the clock strike, marking the time as midnight. I made my way down the carpet stairs. I carried a small candle with me which provided little light, however, I still continued towards the heavy wooden door at the back of the manor, the wind outside shaking the windows violently. There had been a storm that night. I turned the key in the padlock and let the chain slide to the floor. Finally, I entered the living room, it had always been dark and chilling at that hour. I kneeled down next to the fireplace, placing logs of wood in it and lighting a match. Elizabeth had always loved the fireplace. I watched as the fire burned up, lighting up the room. I stayed there for a moment, then went to sit in the chair opposite the blank portrait, staring at it.

Then, finally, I see her, her figure slowly starting to appear in the portrait. The corners of the room start to darken, followed by whispers. “What did you do to me, Alexander?” a voice sounding so sweet says. I replied, “I brought you home”. This becomes a daily occurrence over the following months. At first, she wouldn’t talk to me, only coming out once a fortnight. She said she was scared of me, how foolish of her. I mean, I saved her. She is such a fragile woman. What if she got hurt? She needs me. She was the one that worked, all my progress led up till now. She is safe now. With me. Forever.