The Woman at the Window (Halloween Story)

[Kiva]

Preface

I thought I'd try something different. This will be a Gothic horror novella. I'm not a big fan of the genre, but I thought it'd be a fun experiment. The story is told in two voices across two time periods. For the 1795 segments, I had Claude Opus 4.8 translate my narrative into late 18th-century American prose. I then edited it again to remove overly archaic language. I'll try to add a new chapter every 1-3 days. Hope you enjoy it.

The Woman at the Window

Time casts a spell on you but you won't forget me
I know I could have loved you but you would not let me.
-Stevie Nicks


Chapter 1

October 2026

The kitchen looks like a demolition site. The walls are bare. Old electrical wires dangle above us as plaster falls to the floor. The new cabinets are still packed in their crate.

It was Daniel who wanted the house, but I must say the turrets and the wraparound porch convinced me. Although I knew there were still plenty of colonial-period houses in and around Boston, I never really thought we'd sell our condo and buy one. The real estate agent called the house a "rare surviving example of late eighteenth-century Federal architecture" and said it had a "colorful" history. We bought it for less than you would normally pay for a house this size in Boston. Yet the mortgage is so high that we will both have to keep working until we reach retirement age.

My husband, being a contractor, was overjoyed and was excited to begin the renovation. On the day we first looked at the house, I was in the parlor, looking at the wide pine floor and the large fireplace in the center of the first floor. I thought about all the people who had been in that room before telephones, electricity, or anesthesia were invented. Nowadays, as a nurse, I can keep an eye on a patient's heart rate from another room. I thought of the two hundred and forty years during which people have lived and died in this house--two hundred and forty years of marriages, births, funerals, arguments, and secrets. Daniel finds this romantic.

But for me, it depends on the secrets.

The house smells like wood, dust, and damp plaster. Daniel is in the kitchen, covered in dust. A streak of white powder stains his forehead, and when he smiles at me, I feel an urge to wipe it away.

I don't.

For a moment, I just watch him. This is what we do now: we fix things--the house and our marriage. Fixing has become our ritual, a way of moving forward. Every nail placed, every wall patched, is a small promise that repair is possible, even if we can never make it as seamless as it once was.

He comes over and kisses me, and I allow him. His hand stays on my waist; for a moment I am transported back to a time when I didn't have to wonder where his hands had been.

Then the memory comes.

"Laura, are you alright?" he asks.

The Marriott. The hotel room. The woman from the bar.

I pull away. He doesn't say anything. Neither do I.

Sometimes wounds have no words.

A slight, nearly inaudible creak comes from the old plaster wall behind him.


Autumn, 1795

My name is Natalie Ash, and in the autumn of my nineteenth year, the third since General Washington took the oath, I came to serve in the finest house along the Boston Post Road. I was heavy-hearted to leave Concord. The elms along the common were turning to gold and rust, and in the bustling market stalls, the autumn air carried the scent of bruised windfall apples fermenting in their casks.  I could hear the distant clatter of a horse-drawn chaise rattling down the rutted lane. Around me, women wore their linen caps tied snug beneath their chins, and the church bell tolled the hour from the meetinghouse green, as it had for every day of my life.

My father brought me as far as the turn in the road, carrying my trunk while I carried the smaller bundle in my gown.

"You will mind your manners," he said.

"I know, Father."

"And do as the goodwife bids you."

"Yes"

"You are fortunate to have found a place in such a household."

There were girls older than I who had no place at all, and families poorer than ours who would have taken any wages they could find. My mother had mended and washed for other families since I was a child, and my brothers were already old enough for work. There was little room at home for another mouth.

"They say Mr. Edmund Forbes is a respectable man. A good merchant and a fine Christian gentleman," my father said.

I said nothing.

"And his wife is known to be a proper mistress."

"Yes, Father."

He looked at me, and his countenance softened.

"Keep yourself so, Natalie. A young woman has little in this world but her good name."

I nodded. Then my father gave me the trunk and turned back toward home.

The Forbes house stood upon the rise above the orchard, white and handsome, with tall windows and a broad front door. I had never lived beneath a roof so high.

Mrs. Forbes received me at the door. She was a woman of perhaps thirty years. She wore a dark gown and a white apron with flour upon one sleeve.

"You are Natalie Ash?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"You may call me Mrs. Forbes."

Her eyes moved across me, taking account of my gown, my shoes, and the trunk beside me.

"Can you read?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"And write?"

"Yes." She seemed surprised.

"My father taught me." She nodded, though I could not tell if this pleased her.

"You will rise before the household. There is water to be drawn, ashes to be carried, fires to be laid, and bread to be seen to. You will assist in the kitchen and attend to other such duties as I give you. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Mrs. Forbes."

"Then come in. It is cold."

I passed over the threshold. The house was warm from the kitchen fire, and it had the scent of bread, woodsmoke, and beeswax. I heard the clock strike the hour.

"Come, girl. I'll show you your room."

My room was small and situated above the kitchen, beneath the sloping roof. There was a narrow bed, a wooden chest, a washstand, and one little window overlooking the orchard.

It was more than I had ever possessed.

Mr. Forbes appeared behind her.

He stood at the far end of the passage speaking with a man I did not know. He was dressed in a dark coat, with a silver buckle at his waist. When he turned and looked toward me, I lowered my eyes at once.

He was not a young man. I knew that immediately. He had perhaps fifteen years upon me, perhaps more. Yet when he smiled, I felt something inside me that I had never known before.

"You'll find us a quiet household," he said.

Mrs. Forbes looked at him. For the briefest moment, neither spoke.

When he turned and looked toward me, I lowered my eyes at once.

Mrs. Forbes continued speaking, telling me what would be expected of me, but I scarcely heard it.

Mr. Forbes had looked at me.

A prickle started at the back of my neck, though I kept my eyes lowered and hands folded tight around the handle of my trunk. A feeling came upon me. It was not fear.

[CuriousCombat]

Interesting premise. Looking forward to it.

[Kiva]

Chapter 2

2026

The first thing you notice about the house is the smell. Partly musty, partly something else. That's the thing about old houses. Each one develops its own unique smell. Daniel has already started on the master bedroom at the back.

"Some of this plaster is really old," he says. "Maybe even original. We'll remove this half and open it up. We'll extend the electrical wiring. We'll mount the TV monitor there..."

"Did we buy a house, or did I take home a patient?" I joke. "It sounds like we're talking about surgery."

"Stop, Laura," he laughs. "Stop thinking about the hospital. You've got nursing on the brain again."

"It's an occupational hazard."

"Are you diagnosing issues with the house?"

"It has problems," I answer. "So do -" I stop myself. It's not right to bring this up. I promised him a second chance. He looks at me as if he knows what I almost said.

"So do many homes this old," I finish, trying to salvage the moment.

That's the hardest part. It's dealing with lingering hurt, struggling to trust, and being unable to say it. In the immediate aftermath, Daniel cried. He called it a momentary lapse, said she meant nothing, and offered the usual excuses men make when they get caught. But forgiveness and learning to trust again are two different things.

He's trying hard. If he were cruel, indifferent, or still seeing her, I could hate him cleanly. No second-guessing. I could pack a suitcase, call a realtor, and leave.

Instead, Daniel makes me coffee before I leave for work. He texts me during his lunch break. He calls when he's running late. He doesn't have to do any of this. At least not anymore. But I know why he does it.

Promises mean nothing. Trust returns only through a thousand repeated moments when the thing you fear doesn't happen. Some days I think I'm getting there. Other days, I'm back in the hotel room.

Daniel turns his attention to the master bedroom window. It's a large, rectangular Federal-style window with 12 panes held together by a lightweight wooden grid, facing the trees behind the house. Of course, the original glass and frame have been replaced, probably several times.

The window is not quite closed, leaving two inches open on the side. Cool air blows into the room through the window.

"Feel that?" I ask.

"The latch is shot," Daniel explains.

"It was closed when I came in."

"I'll fix it." He grabs a screwdriver from his toolbox and tightens the brass latch.

"There." He closes the window. The latch clicks. "Happy?"

"Ecstatic."

Daniel laughs and leaves the room. I stand there alone.

I turn to follow.

I feel the cold October air ruffle the back of my neck.

 I turn. The latch is secure.

From downstairs, Daniel calls my name.

I don't answer.

I look at the opening where the autumn wind seems to come in. And for one strange moment, I have the unmistakable feeling that someone is outside the window, waiting for me to notice.

1795

I learned the household soon enough.

Mrs. Forbes was awake before the cock crowed and I was expected to awaken shortly after. There was water to be drawn, ashes to be carried, fires to be laid, bread to be cut, and a hundred other small duties which, taken together, seemed to fill every hour God had granted us.

I did not complain.

A girl in my circumstance had little cause for complaint. There were families where a servant was treated harshly, fed poorly, and sent to her bed with scarcely strength enough to say her prayers. The Forbes kept a respectable table, and Mrs. Forbes was not unkind.

It was Mr. Forbes who unsettled me.

At first, I thought no more of his attentions than I ought.

He praised my work. He asked whether I had slept well. Once, when I burned my hand upon the iron, he took my wrist and examined the place himself.

"You must take greater care, Natalie."

"Yes, sir."

His fingers remained about my wrist.

Not long. Only a moment. Yet I remember it. I remember it because, after he released me, I found myself wishing he had not.

That thought shamed me.

I said my prayers that night and asked the Lord to forgive me for it.

Afterward, I began to notice him.

If I was in the kitchen, he would find some errand that brought him there. If I was dusting the parlour, he would linger by the door. If I carried a tray upstairs, I sometimes found him upon the landing, though there was no reason for him to be there

One afternoon, he came upon me in the parlour whilst I was dusting the mantel.

"You have missed a place."

I looked where he pointed. There was scarcely any dust at all.

"I beg your pardon, sir."

He reached past me and brushed his finger along the wood.

Then he looked at me.

"You must be more particular."

"Yes, sir."

He smiled.

I lowered my eyes.

When he had gone, I stood with the cloth in my hand and listened to the clock upon the mantel.

I could hear its ticking plainly.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

I do not know how long I stood there.

That evening, Mrs. Forbes sent me upstairs with a tray.

She stood before the looking glass, removing her earrings.

"Set it there."

"Yes, ma'am."

I placed the tray upon the table.

I was turning to leave when she said my name.

"Natalie."

I stopped.

She was watching me in the glass.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Do you see how the sunlight comes through the sash glass?" she asked, pointing to the large master chamber window.

"Yes, ma'am."

"The glass was ordered from England before the troubles and paid for after. Take great care in its cleaning."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Does Mr. Forbes speak with you?"

"At times."

What does he say?"

"Nothing of consequence."

She turned from the mirror. Her face was very still.

"See that it remains so."

I did not understand her meaning. Or perhaps I did.

"Yes, ma'am."

I curtsied and left the chamber.

I thought of her words all that night. I thought of Mr. Forbes's hand upon my wrist. I thought of the way he looked at me.

And though I knew it was wicked, I found myself thinking that perhaps Mrs. Forbes had no right to be jealous.

The thought came quickly, and I was ashamed of it almost as soon as it had formed. For what could a gentleman such as Mr. Forbes possibly see in a servant girl?

Nothing. Nothing at all.

And yet, when he spoke my name, I heard something in his voice that made me hope otherwise. That was my first sin. Hoping that he might love me.

That night, long after the household had retired, I heard footsteps in the passage beyond my chamber. They came slowly. Then stopped outside my door. I sat upright in my bed.

The latch moved once. Then again.

I dared not breathe.

At last, the footsteps receded down the passage. I listened until I could hear them no more. I told myself it had been Mr. Forbes. Oh, God forbid. No.

Or perhaps a servant. Or the wind stirring some loose board. A house has many sounds. A house of timber and plaster speaks in the night. Yes, that must be the truth. At least, that is what I believed then.

I believed it because it was fearful to believe otherwise.

[Kiva]