Ophelia
A delightfully gothic snippet in continuation of Tapping
Having sat in my room and busied myself with my pincushion and thread, the embroidery, knots and pin pricks and — Tap, tap, tap.
“I am tired, not this evening, little beast.“
My fingers moved over cloth and stitches not quite complete. The rain subsided, and the world was freed from the sound of rain for the first time in days. Tap, tap, tap. I sucked warm air through my nostrils as a sudden sharpness embedded itself into my thumb. Removing the needle, three red drops of blood oozed and stained the finished square. Not tonight, I am too tired tonight.
Tap, tap, tap.
A shiver ran down my spine; it had moved. The tapping had come nto from the window, but my chamber door. No, but it mustn’t, not yet, not yet. It had only just begun.
“Ophelia, dear.” She had called.
“Yes, Aunt, but you mustn’t call me that. Why must you always call me by your name?” I laughed thinking it so silly that she always referred to me as herself and vice versa. She wasn’t a danger, Aunt Ophelia, just confused. I climbed into her lap with a book of tales, little fantasies of meadows, flowers, mountains, and sunshine, places far, far away from here. It was my favourite pastime to sit in her lap and listen to her wavery voice spin stories.
“But you and I are one and the same.”
“You are so silly, Aunt,” I said, squirming to sit comfortably in her lap.
A cloud came across Aunt’s face, and she set the book aside. “One day you will know him better than I do.”
“Who?”
“Grimbal.”
The manifestation of Ophelia’s insanity. It was, as she described, a beast-like creature, whose body was partly obscured by smoke, and its mouth held ghastly teeth. The tapping had never just been tapping; I suppose if it had, it could have been lived with; it wouldn’t have taken the life out of you.
Tap, tap, tap.
Jerked from my thoughts, I found my fingers twisting the square of embroidery marred with blood, anxious fingers wrinkling the fabric. The tapping was only the start. And each who succumbed spoke of something different. My grandmother had seen a man, had loved him, had been in love with him all her life till she died, despite becoming engaged and married to my grandfather.
“And when he comes for you, he will call you by my name;” Ophelia had said, “it is true, no, don’t you hide your face child; he is not so terrible. And he will know you better than any other person can, my dear.”
Tap, tap, tap.
“Not tonight,” I whispered, praying that the little demand could hold back whatever desired entrance.
Tap, tap, tap.
“You have eternity; you can spare me a night.” My voice wavered. My eyes bored into the door.
“An eternity means nothing except one day more.”
The muscles in my body stiffened, my dinner snaked in my gut and coiled into a hard knot that threatened return.