Whisperings
By: Steve Carr
There she is. Her name is Carly. See how lovely she is, how even as she sleeps her cheeks radiate a healthy peach-colored glow. Her golden blonde hair spreads out on her pillow like glowing rays of sunshine. I could lightly tap on the window to wake her or enter her bedroom and cause the armoire door to slowly open, the squeaking of the rusty hinges sounding much like that of a mouse. She's afraid of mice and wakes at the slightest scurrying noise across the floor they make. But it's not my intention to frighten her.
I could make the curtains flutter or knock over one of her bottles of perfume sitting on her vanity dresser, but she only notices those things when she's awake. I could try whispering into her ear my love for her, but that's useless. My voice is no more than the buzzing of an insect that she sometimes attempts to swat away with her hand.
The room she sleeps in hasn't changed much in the many years since I departed that house as well as life itself, other than the walls have been re-papered, and gauzy lace curtains have replaced the heavy dark green drapes that once covered the window.
Carly stirs. See how her eyes flutter open. Her eyes are as green as emeralds, and upon awaking, filled with morning dew.
If blood still coursed through my heart, it would be beating like a drum.
There's Carly, sitting at the writing desk, pushing down the keys on something called a computer. She often curses its name aloud. I left the window this morning, allowing her privacy, and to respect her modesty, as she arose from the bed to dress and begin her day. Now, standing in the corner of the room, pressed against the wall like a shadow, I grieve for the days when I might have laid my hands tenderly on her shoulders and inhaled the scent of her hair, of her perfume, but touch and smell are two of the senses I haven't experienced since I returned from the grave in my present form. It's a small miracle bestowed on me and those like me, that I can hear and see. To be robbed of seeing Carly or not to hear her as she hums while sitting at the computer, or when she sits at the mirror and brushes her hair, would mean I was in hell, where I often fear I will be sent for eternity.
I blame myself for the bullets that struck me down because of my love for Marybelle Granville. I knew she had other suitors and had been warned to stay away from her. In secrecy, Marybelle told me she loved me also. I was drawn to Marybelle, her intelligence, gentle nature, and sweetness, like a bee to a flower, as I'm drawn to those same qualities I see in Carly.
I long to hear those three simple words – I love you – said to me by Carly just as Marybelle said them, as if they were being spoken to the only man that could ever make her completely happy.
Watch as Carly closes the lid on the computer and glances around the room. I believe she knows she's not alone, sometimes asking in a bewildered whisper, "Is there someone there?"
At times like this I dream of rushing across the room and taking her in my arms. I imagine her slender form wrapped in my embrace, my lips on hers …
But other than the warmth of my quickly spoken whispers in her ears uttering my feeble words of love, to be near her for more than a few moments causes her chills that brings goosebumps to her lovely fresh.
As she stands, picking up the small book of poetry she has been reading and walks to the armoire and takes out a jacket, I hope she's going to take a walk among the estate gardens.
In early spring, the gardens are filled with blooming crocus, daffodils, and tulips. I recall from my days walking hand-in-hand with Marybelle along the garden paths that the air is warm, but breezy and filled with moisture, but that is just a memory now. Neither heat or cold, dry weather or damp, leaves an imprint on my present form. As the many seasons have passed since the days when I thought I could never love anyone as much as I loved Marybelle, my ardor for Carly is just as strong if not stronger. See her sit upon a bench and open her book and begin to read aloud. "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height. My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight."
It's the poetry of Elizabeth Barrett Browning that my beloved Marybelle also like to read as I sat close beside her under the willow tree. If my closer presence to Carly didn't cause her to be chilled, I would sit beside her and keep my gaze on the movement of her lightly rouged lips as I listened to the music in her voice. But I have to content myself with standing among the yellow daffodils and watch and listen from a short distance away. When she finishes reading the last line of the poem, "I shall but love thee better after death," I weep as only a spirit can, emitting a whispered moan.
She looks up from her book and looks around. "Who's there?" she asks.
I was but twenty-four years of age when my mortal life was taken from me. I've lost count of the years I've been in this spirit – this ghostly – form, wandering no further from the place I was murdered to Marybelle's house. As a robust and adventurous young man, to be bound to this limited area of Earth is no different than being chained to a rock that has settled on the ocean floor. Earlier on the night I was bushwhacked, I had been at the tavern having an ale with my friends, when Marybelle's brother, no less, accosted and threatened me if I should attempt to see his sister again.
"I will see her this very night," I proclaimed with the brashness of my youth.
"Then you will wake in your grave," said he.
Over the years I've watched workmen come and go from the house in which Carly lives, installing fixtures, pipes, and wires. It's a big house with six bedrooms, one occupied by her parents, and one of the others is hers. What happened to Marybelle and her family I've never found out after they moved away, but I believe that unlike me they are eternally laid to a peaceful rest. While during the many years the house remained empty of inhabitants, I roamed its rooms and hallways yearning to fill that part of me that longs for love. If love at first sight can said to be true, it's how I felt the first time I saw Carly. That first night while she sat in front of the mirror slowly brushing her long hair and humming a melancholy tune, I whispered into her ear for the first time, "You're an angel." She held the brush still for a moment, as if straining to hear words spoken to her from a great distance, and then chilled by my nearness, hugged her robe around her shoulders. It was then that I learned that while she didn't know what I said, she could hear me. I also learned I was doomed to never spend more than a few moments nearer to her than the length of a couple of feet.
See Carly, standing there bathed in moonlight; her face made radiant, pale, and smooth as porcelain. Her hair flows over her shoulders like spun gold. In the coolness of midnight, she has left her bedroom still wearing her sheer white nightgown that catches the rays of moonlight, making the fabric iridescent. Her fixed gaze is on the road, now paved with concrete, where my life was stolen from me, appearing to be looking for something. She has done this many times before. The time she spends outside at this hour is fleeting and mystifying. Each time before she turns to go back into the house, I briefly appear at her side and whisper in her ear, "I love you."
Her steps halt for a few moments before asking, "Is someone there?"
My form shimmering in the moonlight, I answer, "Until the end of time."
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