January had passed quickly into February, and the really bad weather saving itself up perhaps until the New Year was underway, arrived. A cold and damp day with sleet did nothing to make the house for sale any more appealing, and as Jean turned the key in the lock, ready to give it a quick going over, she wished hard that it would sell. ‘Please someone buy it!’ she called up to the grey afternoon sky. Father Merry had promised to meet her but it was too cold to wait outside, so Jean decided to be brave and wait in the tiny hallway – she could always leave the front door a tiny bit open.
It wasn’t too cold either once she did go inside, as the central heating was on a timer and her visit had coincided with a burst of heat. In her mind she had the picture of her old employer, Alice, leaving her notes and money on the mantelpiece; better to remember that than imagine her falling down these very stairs and lying where her old cleaning lady now stood. With this thought, the front door blew shut trapping the corner of her long scarf inside it, and any courage Jean had summoned up in the first place to come into the flat, went.
It seemed to take her fumbling hands minutes to perform the simple task of re- opening the door, and then, not being able to move the small metal knob which had set the door to the locked position. Somehow it had jammed and there she was temporarily jammed along with it. ‘But I can take my scarf off,’ she realised, and quickly did so. The idea of being trapped in the small hallway by the front door was all her nightmares come true, but so too, was being alone in the flat anyway. She flicked the switch for the hall light to come on, and when it did, it seemed to throw shadows where there had been none and instead of making the flat brighter, the opposite. There was a framed picture on one side of the stairway, going up to the top landing overseen by the long mirror. Jean didn’t remember the picture before and as for the mirror, she used to clean it really quickly as it reflected at an odd angle; showing the stairs going down to the front door of course, but also showing the first floor landing into the kitchen and living room. Once, Jean had caught Alice looking at her from the living room doorway, just staring at her really. ‘Don’t look at it.’ She told herself now and instead had another renewed effort at the front door.
When Jean was distracted or worried or just plain on edge, she left things or lost things. Her latest trick was leaving her purse at home; it had to be an important item for it to even register, so keys, purses and so on. There were many clever interpretations of this, but basically it was Jean’s wake up call to how stressed she was. She heard her mobile phone ringing and reached for her bag to answer it. Only her bag wasn’t with her and the ringing she could hear was on the other side of the front door where she had put the bag down to get in. At the same time as she realised this, the picture on the side wall to the stairs fell down and toppled slowly towards her; she had time to notice who was in the picture now and often wondered later at how she could see this for it was quite sudden and over quickly. The old man in the painting was seated in one of those comfortable old armchairs and on his lap a large ginger cat. His smile was knowing and happy as he posed for whoever the artist was (Elizabeth) and the time was recorded too, by the old clock on the mantelpiece behind him. As it arrived just by Jean’s feet, the glass shattered and spilled out onto her feet and the floor. The old man looked up at Jean now and seemed to be asking her something.
Father Merry had given up trying to contact Jean about being late and just set off to meet her outside anyway as planned. He knew (thought he knew) that Jean would wait for him outside rather than going in, as the place still had a bad atmosphere about it; he had been doing some research as to previous tenants and the overall history of the building and felt he was on the verge of uncovering something telling, and with these creative thoughts in his mind he arrived at the front door.
As if on command, the wind had risen and was now blowing quite a gale up. Father Merry peering through the double glazed door gathered his coat to him as it whipped back in a snapping blustery motion. The rain fell too, wetting him through in moments and dripping off his hair and face. ‘Jean are you in there?’ he shouted through the door at the blurry shape on the other side, and as he leant forward the door suddenly blew open and he fell into the hallway. No sooner had he clutched at the first thing he saw which was indeed Jean, but the same crying wind was overhead and shrieking back into the street. The lightbulb above their heads swung to and fro with the shock of it. It seemed to take something with it, as both Jean and Father Merry felt it pass through them before it left. The roll of thunder and the crash of the sheet lightening lit up the stairway and the mirror on the top landing before going as quickly as it had arrived.