'Tis Only The Wind (First Written 6th December 2011)

It was upon a misty midnight, on the eve of Christmas, that I sat weak and weary before the flames leaping in the grand hearth. Although the fire roared and raged, it could not warm my cold bones or cease my spluttering cough. Out on the barren fields, the black trees drowned in a white sea and their branches beat against the glass panes for mercy. Rapping their fingers on the windows of the manor, rapping their fingers on the surface of my mind.

I shut my eyes and ears to these terrible sounds and my thoughts were of my dear wife, now nameless to this world. Barely half a year since I left our home for this unwanted place. My first Christmas without my beloved Martha. My joyful wife turned blue by consumption. I opened my eyes to see the house I now resided; lonely and dark on this windy hill. Isolated.

The walls shook with the wind and the door banged on its hinges. I clutched the arms of my chair, shrinking back into its velvet cushion. 'Tis only the wind, I comforted my racing heart. The banging ceased. I could only hear the howling of the wind and the rapping of bare branches on the windowpane. My fingers relaxed and I briefly touched my waistcoat, at the silver chain that glittered from the pocket. I lifted the silver locket out tenderly, and clicked it open. A curl of raven black hair, once a lovely midnight waterfall down her back, forever at my chest, at my broken heart. With a flash, I shut the locket and slid it back in place. The banging returned, as if a great bull were charging at the door. I twisted in my seat, eyes wide on the fragile wood.

The door burst open. It crashed against the wall and the wind extinguished the fire.

I sat in darkness, in fear, before I rushed to shut and lock the door. The wind was strong and thick snow had paired with it. It numbed my face as I struggled with the door. I finally shut out the weather. I pressed my back on the wood, and it rattled against my spine. I coughed thickly into my handkerchief. I stuffed it back into my coat, my fingers briefly touching the embroidery. Shadows stretched across the room, a sliver of moonlight striped the rug. In a fleeting, panicked second I saw a human figure by the black hearth, but it was only a trick of the eye. In that fleeting second I almost thought... almost hoped it was her...

When I was sure I was still alone, I rubbed my hands together and walked towards the hearth, seeking the warmth and light I had grieved beside so many nights. I knelt down and felt a breeze on my neck. This wasn't cold air; it was warm, like the breath of a living being. My own breath caught in my chest and I was silent, unable to turn in fear of who, or what, I may face in the dark. I chose to continue with my task, to ignore this abnormal breeze and the horrors that played in my mind.

My numb fingers were clumsy and the darkness seemed to thicken around my huddled figure. Fear overwhelmed me and I gasped, standing and facing the room. I could not help the feeling that I wasn't alone. I knew it was only the cold and the wind and the darkness feeding my mind with creeping paranoia but it would not leave me.

There was nobody in the room.

As I turned to the fire, an aroma, as thick as mist, filled the room. Like a summer breeze, it brought fresh flowers and lavender with it. I knew this smell very well. It was her perfume.

I breathed it in deeply, and wept for her. “Martha..” I gasped. My fingers clutched the silver chain. There was a whisper towards the door and I turned to see my wife. She was there. I could not see her face but I recognised the shape of her dress, frayed but still as beautiful as the day she received it. “Please, Martha, let me see your precious face.”

She did not move from the door. Only a whisper, a tangle of hushed words I could not decipher. Then only the wind. “Please, Martha, my love, are you at peace?” My wife did not answer. “I beg you, Martha, is your spirit at peace?” I cried these words out, for if her soul was not peaceful, neither was mine.

My beloved whispered again, but I could not make out the words. Her figure edged forward towards the strip of moonlight so that I could see her dress. Crimson, the colour of old roses, and flecked with dried dirt. Her hands and face were still concealed in darkness. I stepped forward also, and the smell of perfume flooded from her body. “My mind will not rest. For you are always in my thoughts when I am awake, and you are always in my dreams when I sleep.” She remained silent. “I long to see your face again, and hear your sweet voice again. Why does my wife keep these from me?”

I could not contain my grief, as I realised that perhaps she did not want me to see her decayed face and wheezing voice. Did death not relieve a person's sickness in life? I prayed that this was not true. I prayed that she was not suffering. “I wish I had suffered and you had not, Martha. I wish I had left this world and you had lived. Do you still suffer? Is this why you will not reveal your face to me?”

Her spirit lingered for a moment more, then stepped into the light. My heart was lifted at the sight of her young face silver under the moon. Her hands, delicate as petals, folded over the other, her ring shining. Her glossy hair falling over one shoulder. She smiled tenderly, and my cold bones were warmed. I fell to my knees and stared at my wife in awe of her beauty. The breath was knocked from my lungs as I knelt before her. She did not speak. For a long moment we were both silent, our eyes on each other.

The spluttering returned and I coughed into my handkerchief. I quickly looked up, in fear that she may leave. She was still stood before me, the smile kind on her face. Her eyes held a little sadness in them. I wondered how long her spirit would stay with me. I wanted to be with her always, but spirits do not belong on this earth. As if she knew what troubled my thoughts, her smile faltered and she shook her head slowly. “Must you leave me?” I could barely utter the words, for my heart was breaking again. She held out a white hand. I could feel the dreaded cough but simply choked into my hand. The other reached out and held hers. Her skin was soft and silky smooth. Cold as glass; as cold as my own. My spluttering ceased and I stood close to her. Her spirit was at peace and, finally, now was mine. My body was alone, but my spirit was with her. Always.