It’s Just the Wind

I restlessly nurse my beer ignoring a gnawing feeling that I should be somewhere else. An anxiety, whose origin I can’t place, haunts me as I watch the old man sitting next to me in the mirror, an empty beer on the bar in front of him. I don’t know him but his empty, dark eyes staring into the distance seem somehow familiar. He pulls a pack of smokes from his shirt pocket, taps one out and raises it to his lips between trembling fingers stained brown from the habit. The bartender glares at him from the other end of the bar.

He smokes his cigarette quietly for some time then speaks in a low, hoarse voice, “If you buy me a beer, I will tell you a story.”
I watch him finish the smoke, dash the butt out on the bar, then pull another from the pack. We both sit silently as the bright cherry dutifully works its way down the length of the cigarette. A cloud of smoke lingers in the air around his head as he finishes it. He coughs, then again stumps it out on the bar.
“Fuck.” I think to myself and wave the bartender over.
The bartender sets a Budweiser in front of the old man. “Mac, you know you can’t smoke in here,” he scolds as Mac reaches again for his pack. He tilts the bottle, nearly draining it before setting it back down. The bartender glares at him for a few moments then shakes his head and retreats to his spot at the other end of the bar grumbling.
‘Mac’, I think to myself, slowly connecting the dots. Through time’s distant haze I place that familiarity I’d felt. Although much older and now grizzled, his face spawns faint memories of old news stories; a cloud of suspicion, murky accusations…a missing body.
A story to tell? Is he about to confess?
Fuck.
“I didn’t do it, you know,” he starts, his voice crumbling with age.
I guess not.
He turns my direction making eye contact. Searching for traces of belief his gaze darts back and forth from one of my eyes to the other. His sudden sober intensity chills my soul, I look away.
“I loved her.”
With that, he began his story.

We were planning our 13th anniversary celebration. On a playful whim, we let a coin decide our fate: Heads, someplace warm and sunny with tall, fruity drinks. Tails would be an adventure.
Tails.
I didn’t know it at the time, but that cursed coin flip was to be my last moment of whimsical happiness.
We had booked our anniversary week in Gloucestershire, England, at the historic Thornbury Castle. The breathtaking Tudor castle had hosted royalty, the rich and the famous since King Henry VIII’s reign. It was majestic and our first few days there were incredible. We spent days adventuring and nights dining in opulence and sleeping in luxury.
As the week wore on, I could see weariness settling in on my wife. Dark circles grew around her eyes, she began to withdraw. When I asked what tormented her, she replied that despite tiring daily activities and incredible accommodations, she had not slept well since arriving. Disquieting dreams haunted her every night. She could not recall them but awoke each morning with a lingering dread and growing anxiety. In my mind I wrote it off to unfamiliar surroundings, we didn’t discuss it further.
That evening at dinner she asked Lewis, our waiter, if other guests ever mentioned disturbing experiences while staying at Thornbury. Lewis, who had been refilling her glass of red wine paused, the wine still pouring, then stood upright. He tugged his jacket down to pull out any folds or wrinkles, although there were none. He looked at her, a slight smile slowly spread across his face and replied dryly, “No, my lady. Why do you ask?” She let it drop, put off by his odd demeanor.
Maybe… Maybe had I had pressed him further myself. If I had not dismissed her growing discomfort, maybe, just maybe things would have ended differently. But what could the waiter, what could I have known of bad dreams?
That night I woke to my wife shaking my arm. “Mac,” she whispered excitedly, obviously unsettled, “Mac, someone’s out there!” Still gripping my arm tightly, she looked toward the heavy door. I turned to look. We were very still for a moment then heard feet shuffling, sliding against the stone floor, moving away from the door. Booted footsteps faded away down the hallway.
Why would someone be standing outside our door? What could they want? Of course, I could not have known…
A bit rattled myself, I got out of bed, walked to the door, and turned the heavy iron key I’d left in the lock, just for good measure. “No one will get through this door,” I assured her, knocking against the heavy oak to emphasize the point.
But they would.
The next day the circles were darker still, making her eyes appear sunken deeply into her head. Her face was a bit pale making them stand out even more. She had not slept after the lurker left our door. I made light conversation trying to keep her mind, and mine, off the night’s events. As the day wore on, sunlight and adventure swept the remaining whisps of dread away and by the time we returned to the castle our spirits were once again buoyant.
While waiting for our evening meal, my wife again asked Lewis about the castle. She recounted the sound of footsteps haunting our door the previous night. Without looking at her, Lewis replied curtly that it was probably just the wind. He assured her that it was nothing at all to worry about. Unsatisfied with his response, she turned to face him. When she did her napkin slid from the table and fell to the floor. Expecting him to lean forward and pick it up, I was surprised when instead Lewis abruptly stepped backwards several paces, his eyes fixed on the table. I followed his gaze to the table where my wife’s napkin had slid off her silver knife and dinner fork, which lay on top of each other forming a perfect silver cross. Lewis hurried out of the room. Shortly a new waiter finished our dinner service.

.

Late that night my wife again shook me awake. She was gripping my arm verey tightly, her fingers digging into my flesh. Without a word, she stared intently at the doorway. Her lower lip trembled slightly. I looked toward the heavy door just as the handle began rattling as if someone were trying to open it. My wife’s terrified breathing grew heavy behind me as she held back a scream. My own heart pounded in my chest. A moment later hard soled boots again slid against floor away from our door and footsteps echoed in the hallway as they slowly receded from our room and down the stairs at the end of the hallway.
I laid awake the rest of the evening growing progressively angrier. Why was someone trying to break into our room! My wife held my arm tightly for a long time before exhaustion overtook her and she drifted back to sleep. Her grip slowly loosened and her breathing grew deeper, slower.
The next morning I angrily interrogated the poor soul at the front desk. I demanded to know who was trying to get into our room. Stepping back from the counter the clerk stammered that he was the only person on duty the previous night. He had not wandered the castle and he most certainly had not tried to open our door.
“It was probably just the wind,” he insisted. “It is an old and drafty castle…” his voice trailed off unconvincingly.
When we ventured out for the day we did not speak of the previous night, but neither of us were ready for light conversation. I told myself the heavy mood was influenced by interrupted sleep, but we were both haunted by the previous two evening’s late night visitor.
That strained silence persisted through our evening dinner. The new waiter served us again. Lewis had not returned since abruptly leaving the night before.
When we’d retired to our room, before sleeping I checked and rechecked that the heavy oak door was securely shut and the iron lock turned closed. Still, I laid in bed wide awake for a long time as the night crept on. Eventually I drifted between sleep and consciousness until I was awakened by the creepy sound of slow footsteps coming up the creaky stairs, down the hallway, and stopping outside our door. My heartbeat quickened as a mixture of fear and anger welled up inside me. I sat up in bed just as the heavy door handle begin to shake, someone again trying to open it.
I threw the blanket off and swung my feet out of bed onto the floor. My wife grabbed my arm and whispered harshly “No!” I looked back at her, seeing terror in her eyes, but still pushed myself out of bed and walked to the door. I turned the heavy key to unlock the door and swung it open angrily, ready to confront our stalker.
But…no one was there. I poked my head outside our room and looked up and down the corridor but did not see a soul. As I stood in the doorway wondering what could have made the footstep sounds we had been hearing, a cold wind rushed past me into the room raising goosebumps on my arms and sending a chill down my spine. My wife called me back to bed.
I slept restlessly for what remained of the night.
The next morning, I turned to my wife, expecting to wake her up. She lay next to me, her eyes open staring blankly at the ceiling, a haunted expression on her face.
“Can we go?” she asked in a meek voice.
As we were set to leave that day anyway, I assured her we would go.
“Can we go now?” she asked.
She then told me that sometime after I had returned to bed and slept, she had woken but was paralyzed, unable to move except to turn her head. She turned to me, and to her horror saw an apparition of a uniformed British soldier hovering above me, face to face. The soldier bore an angry expression and was mouthing silent words as if shouting at me, but he made no sound. She tried to reach for my arm but couldn’t move. She tried to scream but nothing came out. All she could do was lie there and wait for daybreak.
I tried to assure her that it was just a dream, it couldn’t hurt her. And now it was morning, the sun was out. Everything would be Ok.
Quite agitated, she said no, everything would not be Ok. We needed to leave. We needed to leave now. I looked at her for a moment without speaking, then told her I’d check out and then come back for the bags. She sat in the bed, a frightened expression on her face, but said nothing.
Her petrified disposition affected me. A heavy sense of dread weighed on me as I hurried to the desk to check out. I found myself wanting to run but held myself back to a quick pace.
After finishing up at the desk, I jogged back to the stairs, feeling I couldn’t get back to my wife quickly enough. As I reached the top stair, I heard a shriek from the direction of our room and stopped for a moment. I heard it again and recognizing my wife’s panicked screams I sprinted toward our room. As I neared the door, the handle began shaking violently as if someone were frantically trying to open it from the inside. But it didn’t turn.
I rushed to the door, grabbed the handle, expecting it to be stuck. It, however, turned quite easily, and as I turned the handle the room on the other side of the door fell silent. I flung the door open and rushed inside.
The room was empty. My wife was gone, our bags were gone, the room was neat and tidy as if it had just been serviced.

After finishing his story, the old man fell silent. A single tear worked its way down his cheek. He emptied his beer, stubbed out his cigarette and with a sigh he let out his final breath and slumped forward on his stool.

Author: Ken Gack, the Ripper

This story is based on real events as retold to Ken Gack in a bar by the young lady who experienced them. The lady did survive the story and some parts of this story may in fact be the result of a bit of creative license…

– Story Credit: Stephanie McGee