What remains

CW: References to violence and child death

What Remains.

I’ll never say I hated the town I lived in, but the din from streets jammed with cars crawling towards a full car park, shoppers never looking where they were going, harassed mothers with strollers and toddlers, and market stalls crammed into every corner wore me down. I needed space to breathe and think. After visiting numerous estate agents, I found a cottage deep in the countryside.

         It wasn’t large, but it was old, full of dark wood furniture, much of it covered in mould. Like any old house, it creaked and groaned whenever the temperature changed. As I cleaned, restored, and made good, unexplained sounds came and went. Without thinking, I’d ask, “Who’s there?” when the heating rattled a pipe hidden in the walls. After a while, I convinced myself it was probably nothing. How wrong can somebody be? Weeks later, having cleaned every nook and cranny, I moved in.

         Have you ever lived in a house with ghosts? Well, I have three. Harry was a nuisance, making his loft room ice cold. Isabella, the old housekeeper, kept moving things. After the third or fourth time, I left them where they were, and she never touched them again.

         Mary was different. She always appeared in the bathroom. None of them caused trouble, and they stayed out of sight when visitors arrived, but Mary… Mary lingered.

         Every time I walked past the bathroom, she was there: a thin little girl with jet-black hair tied in pigtails, the brightest blue eyes, and a white dress embroidered with yellow daisies. She stood staring at the mirror, clutching a tatty rag doll. She had no reflection. I kept the door closed so I could walk by without seeing her, but I sensed her presence. I could feel those blank eyes. She didn’t frighten me, but I did feel sorry for her. Trapped forever in that room, she looked a pitiful sight. The original plans showed it had once been a vegetable storage cupboard.

         Time passed. My three residents never changed. But then why would they? One evening after my shower, writing appeared in the condensation on the bathroom mirror: Jack’s coming.

         On the eve of Halloween, Ruth, a long‑time friend, came to stay. I never mentioned the house’s oddities. She went to use the bathroom.

         Seconds later, she returned pale and dazed. “There’s a little girl in your bathroom.”

         “Jet-black hair? Pigtails? Daisy dress?”

         She nodded.

         “That’s Mary. She’s always in there.”

         Her face drained. “What do you mean?”

         “She’s a ghost.”

         She looked at me as if I was mad, grabbed her suitcase and fled.

                  That night, doors opened and slammed. Someone sobbed. I crept across my bedroom floor, turned the key in the lock, and waited. Silence. A scream tore through the air, so sharp I clamped my hands over my ears. I shivered and jammed a chair against the door. I didn’t know why I did that. My bedroom vanished. A dark shadow remained; something dragged me into a black hole.

         The click of the door unlocking snapped me back. I was in my bedroom, and the door swung open. The blackness entered with Mary.

         Moonlight revealed rope binding her hands and feet. A noose hung around her neck. I watched the rope rise and settle on the old hook jutting from a beam. I wanted to save her, but I could not move. The noose tightened as I watched, helpless. In minutes, Mary’s legs hung limp. The shadow swelled, filling the room. A bright light flashed, destroyed the dark, and a man appeared.

         From his clothes, he belonged in another time. Crisp white thick cotton shirt, sleeves rolled up. His skin looked grey, as if dusted with ash. The air around him carried the smell of tobacco and damp earth, the odour of something long buried. His smile was evil. Then he vanished.

         Terror surged through me. My stomach lurched. The floor tilted. Darkness took me.

         Thankful for the morning sun, I saw that Mary’s body was gone. I grabbed what clothes I could, packed, and ran.

         I put the house on the market and returned to the cottage with my friend Davy to collect what I had left. He sensed something but insisted he was fine until he went to the bathroom.

         Seconds later, he burst into the kitchen, gasping. “There’s a girl in the bathroom, and she’s not happy. She said, ‘You left, and you weren’t supposed to.’”

         We threw whatever we could grab into the boot and roared out of the drive.

         A month later, the house burnt to the ground. The police blamed squatters. They remain mystified by the skeleton of a little girl found in the bathroom.

         To this day, the memory of that innocent child haunts me.

         I didn’t return for weeks. Even when the insurance company called, I ignored them. But nightmares drag you back. Every night, Mary appeared at the foot of my bed, standing with her rag doll. Silent. Staring. Waiting for me to understand something. I felt a strange pull, as if her fear was tied to me, not the cottage.

         I drove to the remains of my home on a grey, damp morning. The cottage was gone, nothing but a blackened rectangle of earth and burnt, twisted beams like broken ribs. Police tape fluttered. I stood with my hands in my pockets, trying to pretend the cold creeping up my spine was the weather.

         It wasn’t.

         The smell of burnt wood lingered, but beneath it was something else. The scent of the house remained as it had been. I stepped forward, crunching over charred debris. The bathroom was at the back.

         The ground dipped. A small crater, untouched by fire. I crouched and brushed away dirt. Something pale glinted. Bone. The police had taken the skeleton, but not everything.

         A tiny yellow bead, one of the daisies from Mary’s dress. Warm. Not from the sun. Warm like a body.

         Behind me, the wind shifted. A creak, the sound of a door opening. Impossible. Then the patter of feet across floorboards that no longer existed.

         I froze. The air thickened with the same icy pressure as the night Jack appeared. A whisper filled my ears. “Jack’s waiting.”

         The bead fell from my fingers.

         I bolted. I don’t remember reaching the car. Gravel spat as I tore down the lane. In the mirror, the ruins shrank. Before the next bend, I saw her.

         Mary stood at the roadside, dress fluttering, rag doll dangling. She pointed at me.

         I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. Her image stayed with me long after I reached home, long after I locked every door and sat on the stairs trembling. I knew someone was watching. As I shook with fear, I understood what she had been trying to tell me.

         Jack hadn’t been attached to the cottage.

         Jack had been bound to me.