The Old Palazzo
A ghost story
Buying
a palazzo in
Valletta had been her husband’s idea. Susan had never fully fathomed why a Yorkshireman
born and bred should want to spend his retirement years and their hard-earned
pension on a
tiny Mediterranean island. Perhaps Jim yearned for a whiff of the exotic
after a generally dull and uneventful life. Perhaps he wanted to
recapture the magic of those months he had spent in Malta during his brief,
youthful stint in the navy...or the
memory of a first love, she thought, not without a dull throb of jealousy.
Call
her old-fashioned, but Susan had never been one to contradict her husband, even
when, as in this case, she had her own misgivings. She convinced herself that,
as long as he took care of all the practicalities, his choice would be
fine by her. Anyway, she knew only too well that, if she voiced any doubts,
Jim’s reaction would be a curt “Don’t worry yourself silly, Sue!” underlined
with a chiding, conclusive grin, as if
he were addressing a wayward child. Better let him be. She was happy enough
seeing him browse real estate websites, comparing the merits of this and that
building with a new-found enthusiasm which took her somewhat by surprise. And when Jim bought their
flight tickets to “embark on a property expedition”, as he put it, Susan did
not disappoint him, feigning a keenness which, frankly, she did not share.
The palazzo they had
travelled so far to view teetered
over a cobbled alley in a quiet part of the city. A young and pimply
estate agent led them into the roofless central courtyard and enthusiastically
pointed out the building’s traditional features – the winding stairs with poky
rooms sprouting off unexpected landings (“plenty of character, eh!”), the high
ceilings of the second floor (“how spacious! how imposing!”), the underground
cellar with its well hewn by hand centuries before (“back-breaking job,
wouldn’t volunteer for it myself!”). In the few years he had spent living
there, the previous occupier had spent a small fortune renovating the place,
with mixed results. In the lower levels the plaster was
flaking off in patches, fighting a losing battle against the rising damp.
In the cellar, the walls were covered with unwanted junk accumulated over the
decades. But the rooms at the top floor were comfortable enough and
tastefully decked out with some judiciously chosen antique furniture. It
was quickly decided. This would be their retirement nest and Sue should not
“worry herself silly”.
Well,
she consoled herself, it was not as if they would be leaving any close relatives
behind them. In the early years of their marriage, her husband had been adamant
that they should not have any children as “they were enough company for each
other”. That was exactly how it had been so far, and that was how it would be
in this final chapter of their life.
Tragedy
struck just a few months after they moved to Malta. One dark winter
morning, Jim got out of bed uncharacteristically early. It was Susan who found
him a couple of hours later, sprawled lifeless in the courtyard. “Massive heart
attack,” the doctor decreed.
Massive
heart attack – a death sentence in which Susan stood as co-accused, condemned
to become the
lonely mistress of her husband’s final folly.
Truth
be told, there were times when she believed she would be able to adapt to the
life thrust upon her. In summer, for instance, she spent whole days in the
upper balconies, from where she could get a glimpse of white sails lazily
crossing the harbour, whilst a salty breeze caressed her face.
Summer brought with it the festa season, when the streets of Valletta would
be thronged with revellers and marching bands celebrating the feast of the
city’s patron saints, and even this sleepy side of town erupted into hundreds
of coloured fairy lights.
***
Tonight, summer seems so distant. It is a dark and wintry
evening, and Susan longs to be back in England. She listens to the gusts of wind, whining as they wind their way around the jagged rooftops, the
rain pattering dully
against her bedroom window. No doubt about it. Better the harsh yet
familiar winters of home than this clammy sort of cold which seeps through the thick walls and seems to drain
your soul. Rest does not
come easy to her lately and Susan feels that
this evening will be no exception. She tosses and turns in a
four-poster bed which has
become too big for her until, finally, her body succumbs to yet another fitful night.
A
cry nudges her
out of her sleep.
At
first, drifting in the no-man’s land between dreams and wakefulness, Susan isn’t even sure she has heard anything at all. But here it is again, that plaintive sound, somewhere
between a wail and a whimper. She shudders and buries her head under the blankets. Funny how a
couple of layers of bedding manage to instil in her a childish sense of
security.
That cry again.
Susan
switches on
the lamp and the shadows leap back to the farthest corners of the room.
The sight of familiar objects comforts her:
the hands of the clock pointing to just after two, the solid bulk of the
wardrobe, a glass of water standing on the bedside table beside a half-unread
novel. She crawls out
of bed, pulls a
dressing gown around her shoulders and goes to
the window. The storm has
abated. The alley is
deserted.
There
is no mistaking it this time. Susan can distinctly hear a moan, and much as she hates to admit it, whoever … whatever… is making this anguished sound is inside the house. She shudders, a sense of unease creeping upon her.
She considers
calling for help, phoning the police. But what will she say? That she is spooked by odd noises in an old house?
No. She has to
brave the night alone. Despite her mounting fear, she also knows that
she has to face this
intruder. That cry, terrible as it was, feels like a siren song, taking hold of her will, drawing
her towards its source.
Slowly
she makes her way out of the bedroom
and stumbles down
the stairs, steeling her body at every turn, scarcely able to breathe.
The beckoning voice iss
growing louder, seemingly more desperate. With each step, her feelings of
dread grow, as
does her conviction that what is calling her is no living thing. She hears confused whispers tumbling around her,
their meaning ungraspable. She closes her eyes and steadies herself against the wall. Come on Sue, what on earth is happening to you? Scaring
yourself silly, aren’t you?
When
she reaches the
internal courtyard, a rush of cold air brings her
to her senses. Shivering in her nightgown, she struggles to make sense of what has come over her. She is still in time to leave the building, to run
out and bang on a neighbour’s door and ask for help. In the light of day, they
will probably have a good laugh
together over her nocturnal escapade.
But
then another sound catches her
ears. In the cellar, a child is
sobbing. Her head spins. How can a child have ended up in her house? Some
inquisitive boy perhaps? Or a prank in bad taste? She leans against the massive cellar door,
putting all her weight behind her. If
this is a sick joke, well, she’ll show them.
Oh, yes she will... A dank, musty smell overpowers Susan
as she sets foot inside the entrance. She gropes around for the light switch, only to realise
that the basement is
already bathed in a bluish light, as if a full moon has made its way into the bowels of the
building. Falteringly, she descends the
uneven steps.
An
unearthly sight stops her
in her tracks. Before her, as on a badly-lit stage, a scene is being played out. A figure in a long
black dress is
hitting a toddler cowered beneath it. The boy, not more than a couple of
years old, is
hunched on the ground, uselessly covering his face with his arms, unable to
ward off the violent beating.
Anger
and pity well up inside her. The
boy looks like the son she never had. She
longs to reach for him, hold him in her arms, nurse him to health. Her
body has grown
leaden and, in her heart, she feels… she knows… that tragedy is inevitable. Saving him is beyond her, or any mortal’s, powers.
The blows persist mercilessly until the boy falls, immobile and lifeless, on the cold
flagstones.
Only
then does she regain her strength and
rush towards the murderer. The figure turns. What horror is this? The apparition standing before
her has no human countenance.
Facing her is an
eyeless skull, clad
in pale skin drawn like taut parchment, from which dangle a few locks of
straggling, sooty hair. Dried, black lips pull back to reveal yellowish teeth, locked in an
eternal evil grin. In a flash she realises that
what she had mistaken for a dress is a
coarse, earth-stained shroud, rotting with age, hanging from skeletal
shoulders.
The
cry echoes
around the house. It is a
scream at once of terror, of guilt, of utter despair. And, this time, the
cry is hers.
***
Susan’s
body was found a few days later, after an inquisitive neighbour noticed her
absence and reported the matter to the Police. Mrs Benson, miskina, had suffered a
heart attack, just like her poor husband. Who said one
couldn’t die of a broken heart?
At
least, that is the official version doing the rounds of the city. The
locals, however, know a couple of tales which they dare not repeat. They
have all heard the half-forgotten tale of the tragedy which had cursed the old
building. A young woman had been seduced by a respectable and
well-connected family man. When she gave birth to his child, the mother, barely
grown up herself, had killed her son in a fit of insanity and had then taken
her own life by hanging herself in that very cellar. Her lover, in
a late show of contrition, or more likely, to protect his reputation, had
contrived to hush the scandal.
Maybe
the story is true. And then again, maybe not. But if you look
carefully among the cast-off junk in the cellar of the old palazzo, you might well
find an old, decaying cot and, behind it, a coiled length of rope.
No comments:
Post a Comment