I have a feeling, a strong feeling that the hallway is darker than yesterday and an even stronger feeling that tomorrow it will be darker still.
A door shuts elsewhere in the house, as I wait by the foot of the stairs, waiting to hear the patter of feet along the landing. I have waited so often, at this time of early evening, that I have almost forgotten the purpose of it all.
It’s very well and good having strong feelings about things: all my life, I have not exactly imposed my views on matters, but more or less waited for events to turn out the way I just knew they would - it comes to the same thing I suppose. But my Father used to wag his finger at me from behind his Times; and I, ceasing momentarily from staring at the armies of sparks marching at the back of the fire, would smile knowingly at him, at the same time as placing toasted slippers upon his curling toes.
Now, I’m older, of course, but Father’s not. I feel he’s still the same age, only a few years ahead of me now. Mother was a tall lady - and, if my memory serves me right, if she were standing here at the foot of the stairs like me, waiting, her head would almost reach the top of the landing.
But landings are peculiar places: lights flashing on and off as members of the family dodge in and out of each other’s rooms and, when the Great Clock chimes Midnight (the Father of the House plodding from the study to his bedroom), the unbroken darkness settles in for the duration. Then there are no landing-beacons (nor dinner gongs) to help them home in.
If it weren’t for my comings and goings, doings and undoings, not even mornings would bother to disturb the floating cities of dust.
So, I was positive I heard the pattering start from a distant part of the house at the closing of another door. It only took me a moment to take two breaths before I saw the tiny girl appear in the gloom at the head of the stairs. I could hardly see her open, innocent plate of a face ... and I knew I would only feel compassion if I actually could see the eyes. I’m certain, though, she will not come nearer, at least for a while, and a while is longer at this time of day than at any other.
“You’ve made it then?” I called up.
No answer, as I knew there would be no answer. There can only be questions towards the end of dusk.
“Are your little feet curled up like casters?” I called up again, without thinking.
#
She is a Singer ... and, inevitably, with a needle that can only make extremely long hemming stitches. My great great grandmothers treadle away in the rooms beyond the broom cupboards, and the machines they treadle are living extensions of their bones. They’re all around me now, the forebears of the house, Father made of even taller shadow than Mother.
The xvaif whom I call Little Bobbin does start to descend the stairs, her arms stretched out sideways like a trapeze-pole; and her voice gradually becomes clear … a thin piping tune that I believe to be only one remove from weeping.
I have a strong feeling that tomorrow the hallway will be emptier than today ... empty like utter darkness is.
(Published 'Fantasy & Terror' 1992)
