The Woman with the Lamp

The Woman with the Lamp

The subject includes the loss of children.

My childhood was like most of the kids in the East End of London after World War Two. We had bomb sites to play in, and after a hard day searching for shrapnel, we could return home, eat supper, and go to bed. 

         I lived with my aunt and uncle and their fifteen children. Although the house had six bedrooms, we had to top and tail us in bed. One of my aunt’s peculiarities was to appear at the bedroom door each night holding a lantern, stand there for a few moments, then leave. She did this for as long as I can remember. I left the safety of that house and joined the Royal Navy.

         After many years, I returned to the area and met my cousin David. Most Friday nights, we met for a few beers and chatted up the girls. One evening, whilst we enjoyed a few beers, he told me something quite bizarre.

         “Do you remember how my mum peeked in at us every night, holding a lamp?”

         “I do. It was reassuring that your mum was always there for us.”

         “You won’t believe me, but it wasn’t my mum.”

         I laughed, but I could see from his face he was serious.

         “It appears,” he went on, “from what Dad told me and long before he bought the house, a major fire destroyed the upper floors. It seems a mother and her children perished. Since then, she wanders the house every night and checks the children.”

         “Okay,” I said, “what if something was wrong?”

         He shrugged. “We’ll never know, will we?”

         Years later, and for no clear reason, I suffered from nightmares. A woman’s spirit visited me. One night my vision was so vivid. The woman with the lamp appeared, but tears streamed across her cheeks. This time, however, she called my name.

         My counsellor believed the dreams were linked to childhood memories. In the end, I believed that the only way to settle my mind was to revisit the old house.

         The journey was uneventful and gave me time to think. Visiting my old home to put a ghost to rest was crazy. The more I thought about it, the more stupid it appeared.  

         I walked from the train station believing the fresh air would clear my mind. It didn’t, and as I approached, I feared what I might find. After ten minutes, it was obvious something wasn’t right. The street I knew was now a row of derelict buildings. The house wasn’t what I remembered. Every window was broken; paint flaked off the once pristine woodwork. A huge sign was nailed to the front door.

Site for new Office Block -  Danger - Keep out.

         Memories of children playing in the street flooded back. What the hell, one last look wouldn’t do any harm. I climbed the worn stone stairs. A strong gust of wind blew the front door open. I stepped inside. The hallway seemed smaller than I remembered. Dust lay thick upon the tiled floor, and the bannister, once polished every Saturday by Aunt Daisy, was grey with neglect.

         To my left, the lounge stood empty. As children, we had gathered there on winter evenings, huddled around the wireless while the adults talked long into the night. Now only silence filled the room. Pale daylight streamed through broken windows, revealing countless dust particles drifting in the stale air.

         I crossed towards the rear of the house. The old kitchen appeared strangely familiar despite the years. The range had long gone, and the smell of baking had vanished forever, yet for a moment I could almost hear my aunt ordering us to wash our hands before tea.

         The emptiness filled me with sadness.

         Beneath the stairs, a door stood ajar. The cellar.

         My uncle had converted the large coal cellar into a playroom for us children. On rainy afternoons, it became a pirate ship, a castle, or a battlefield depending on our mood. I stared into the darkness and wondered how something that once held so much laughter could now seem so forbidding.

I froze when the floorboards creaked above me.

         The sound came again as though somebody was walking across the bare boards.

         “There’s none there,” I muttered.

         Yet somehow my thoughts drifted to the unexplained.     

         I climbed the stairs. The bathroom door on the half-landing hung crooked from a single hinge. Beyond it, shadows pooled in the corners.

         Another creak sounded overhead.

         For the briefest moment, I thought I saw a faint glow moving across the wall near the upper floor.

         The light vanished, and I convinced myself I had imagined it.

         The higher I climbed, the colder the house became. The first-floor bedrooms stood open to the world. Strips of faded wallpaper hung from the walls. Bare floorboards showed darker patches where beds and wardrobes had once stood.

         In one room, I remembered four of us boys top-and-tailing in two beds. In another, Aunt Daisy had nursed measles, mumps, and every childhood illness imaginable. The memories were so vivid I half expected a door to open and a cousin to come running down the landing.

         Instead, there was only silence.

         Then I climbed to the top floor.

         The attic rooms where many of us had slept smelt of damp, and the walls were covered in mould.

         A light flickered behind me. Not bright enough to illuminate the room.

Just bright enough to announce its presence.

         I followed it.

         The glow disappeared through a doorway.

         I stepped forward.

         On another floor, a door slammed shut.

         The sound echoed through the house. A draught. And there, dancing softly across the opposite wall, was a faint light. I spun round, and there she stood.

         She looked fragile rather than frightening. Thin folds of material hung from her slight frame. The lantern in her hand cast a weak glow upon features lined with sorrow. Her eyes searched my face as though trying to remember.

         Paralysed, my voice trembled. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

         Her lips never moved, but the words formed clearly in my mind.

         “This is my home. Where are my children?”

         My cousin’s story came rushing back.

         Fear and pity battled within me.

         “What do you want from me?” I asked.

         The pressure holding me eased. I backed away.

         The lantern light flickered.

         Then, without a sound, she descended the stairs. Her movements failed to disturb the dust.

         Yet she drifted downward, one floor at a time, carrying her lamp as she must have every night for so many years. I followed.

         She moved from room to room. At each doorway she paused and peered inside, her expression filled with hope. Then frustration.

         The sight broke my heart. She wasn’t searching for strangers. She was searching for children.

         Her children.

         Those children she had watched over through endless nights.

         When she reached the kitchen, she turned towards me. Loneliness filled her eyes.

         In a voice trembling with emotion, she said, “You were my favourite, but you left.”

         “We grew up,” I whispered.

         She stared at me. Then past me. “I watched over every child. I made sure you were safe. I was always here.”

         The front door swung open behind me and light from outside spilt into the hallway.

         I wanted to leave. Instead, I found myself taking a step towards her.

“You know we loved you.”

         Maybe it was my imagination, but I’m sure something changed in her face.

The sadness remained, but it softened.

         As though a burden she had carried for decades had grown a little lighter.

I stepped outside.

         The lantern still glowed within the darkness of the hall.

Then the light faded.

         At the bottom of the steps, I glanced back, but she had gone. I walked away.

         This has been my forever ghostly mystery. I’ve never told a soul, and to be fair, who would believe me? I’m told that if you stand outside the new office block on the site late at night, you can see a dull light moving from floor to floor. She is still looking for her children.