The Man in Black: A Ghost Story Read Free Page A

with damp and droplets of water. I wrapped the blankets around my naked waist and lit the stove. It was Monday, and I’d missed a shift at the butchers. I didn’t think much of it, but thought more of the state of the kitchen. Pans lay scattered across the floor, cupboard doors were open, and the lightbulb above the front door swung. It was as if someone had rearranged my life overnight, as if I had meant to sleep for so long. I gathered the pots up off the floor and put them away, then turned around to face the kitchen window.
    It was then that I saw Him for the first time.
    A face at the pane, undefined and ageless, but very much that of a man. His elderly face, cut deep in wrinkles, stared firmly. Blood foamed at the sides of His lips; I could see clearly that something had cut Him, it was deep and unmistakably a gaping wound. His thin, bony fingers pressed at the glass and His eyes looked sunken in His skull, dark and buried. His black collar blew, but there was no wind. Everything was silent. It was as if He was One with nature. Snowflakes fell around Him like ash. He looked like the centerpiece of a poorly taken photograph; hazy and out of focus, nothing more than a chill in the air, an immovable aura.
    I jumped up and ran to the back door, as frightened as I was.
    But, no.
    He was gone. The window looked out over the fields, as clear as anything. I opened the door and ran around to the window, but there was nothing. One blink of an eye and everything I saw was nowhere to speak of. I looked down at the ground, but there were no prints. I turned to the glass, and there they were: black fingerprints against the pane. I touched them, pulling away soot. It stuck to my fingers like thick, black tar.
    The snow on the ground lay untouched. The hole in the wall was blocked up with snow. The gate was firmly shut. My first instinct was to check the steps leading up to John and Violet’s home. Could it have been John? Was he hurt? I checked the alleyway and the steps, but everything was untouched. I saw a light from their window above. Both of their shadows entwined. It wasn’t them.
    I gave up, looking around one last time before heading back inside. I decided to get ready, and I put on my boots and my thick outdoor clothes. I kept looking back at the window, but there was no sign.
    He had longed where I lived.
    With the thought of His face deeply rooted in my mind, I decided to shake it off by leaving the flat for a walk. The day had passed, but I didn’t mind. It was still light.
    Outside, the trees stood anorexic and elderly from across the valley and the air smelled as gentle as it normally would. A breeze swirled, picking up snow from the ground and kicking it up across the street. I looked out across the moors and thought of my dad, my mam, and how I’d come to live in a place I was never really destined to live. A lifetime of promises, all gone now. My dad was gone, my mam was gone, and anyone else I could think of, was gone. I thought of John and Violet upstairs, how Violet said to get out and live the life I was meant to live. An educated girl with a bright future, she said. If only getting out was so easily done.
    The air cleared my lungs. I breathed deeply and walked out into the fields. I must have walked for an hour before I turned back and headed home. The horizon was closing in, and His eyes flashed in front of me, black and decrepit and sunken into His face like two shimmering pebbles, like someone possessed.
    I walked and walked, my legs tired now and my chest beating rapidly. I made it to the front door and stumbled inside.
    That was enough, I thought.
    But then I saw the woman in the street, heavy with snow on her shoulders. She stood as still as the row of terraces behind her, watching me, peering in through the front window as I struggled to catch my breath. I grabbed the doorknob and locked it, pulling at it hard to make sure I was safe. She never moved. I just stood there, my feet aching in my cold