Short fiction

The End of the Game

Fifteen years. Fifteen years Miss Jane Hawthorne had been bedridden. Fifteen years she had stared at the same lavender wallpaper, faded by the sun, at the same glass-eyed china doll on the mantelpiece. Her vast collection of books only on the other side of the room, but always beyond her reach. She was a prisoner in her own flesh; a fate she could never have dreamed.

    No one visited her, except her brother Percy and her niece Eliza. No one cared for Miss Jane Hawthorne.

  ‘I was very well to do at one time,’ she would say, ‘ask any of them, they’ll tell you.’ No one dared to ask who ‘they’ were. She was prone to fits of the vilest temper and no one would face it given the choice. It was the hidden fire in the weak and wizened frame that occupied the dusky chamber.

    Each day Percy would visit his beloved sister, ‘Hello, dear Jane!’ he would call as he ascended the stairs two at a time, ‘how’s the old…?’ He would always fade off. It was a ritual. This was part of the routine of Jane Hawthorne’s imprisonment. She chastised him for his cheerfulness and he feigned sorrow and carry on regardless. Jane never shared her feelings towards her brother with anyone, to her mind it ‘was not done’ to share one’s feelings. The only feeling she did share with anyone was bitterness, she had that to spare.

Percy was an average man, living an average life, by average means. Even this infuriated his sister; she had never been average, why did he settle for it? She couldn’t understand his lack of ambition. He said he was a realist, she said he was a fool. The only good thing Percy had done, as far as Jane was concerned, was produce Eliza; there he had done right and there alone. Eliza was a remarkable young lady, intelligent, loving and with a passion for literature that rivalled her aunt’s, especially Gothic novels.

    ‘I don’t know how you can read that rubbish,’ Percy would say.

    ‘Father!’ Eliza would exclaim before the inevitable ‘Shut up Percy!’ from her aunt; Eliza mouthed the words as they left her aunt’s lips, if she was not looking.

    ‘It’s no wonder you’re ill, that stuff probably rotted your brain.’

    ‘The enjoyment of literature, especially of the Gothic variety, is proof of higher faculties, of the ability to appreciate what one must imagine because it cannot be seen, especially in this day and age!’

    Percy pulled faces at his sister’s speeches that made his young daughter giggle. If Jane had seen him he would have been in for a lecture of the sternest type.

    ‘Oh, Aunty! I have just begun the best Gothic novel I have read so far.’ Eliza was prone to defusing tensions in such a manner. ‘It is called The Mysteries of Udolpho by Mrs. Radcliffe. Have you read it?’

    ‘Oh yes, my dear, very dull, very laborious—still, I have it.’ Jane gestured to a dusty tome that was keeping level a nearby dressing table.

    ‘Oh Aunty! You are monstrous sometimes!’ Eliza caught a mutter from her father and suppressed a smirk.

    ‘Do not weary me with Radcliffe, I have read all the greats and I don’t rate her highly. She is often called the paragon of early Gothic, and I despise paragons.’

    Eliza turned away, clutching her copy of Udolpho to her chest. It was getting late and she could not wait to return home and begin reading it again. Percy walked over to the dark curtains and drew them.

    ‘Right, I think we’re all done here then. See you tomorrow my sister, don’t go running off with some writer in the night now, will you?’ The indignation on Jane’s face followed Percy as he left the room.

    ‘Cretin,’ Jane muttered to herself. ‘Death be damned for leaving me dying slowly with idiots like you for company!’ she shouted after him. She hugged Eliza and bid her good night as she settled in her bed. After letting her irritation fester for a while, she allowed it slowly to die.

    ‘Why must you and Aunty bicker so, Papa?’

    ‘Oh, don’t you worry about that, my dear, it’s just a little banter, we’ve done it for years.’

Eliza frowned. She suspected that while her father genuinely loved his sister, the feeling was not mutual.

    The ancient clock ticked loudly, echoing through Jane’s dreams; when it struck one she could bear it no more and awoke. She reached over to her bedside table and lit the lamp. A great sigh escaped her and she reached for her book. Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities; she whispered the title under her breath. She placed the book beside her and leaned over once more in search of her spectacles. Suddenly she felt what could only be described as a cold hand on her back; she fell from the bed in shock. She lay face down on the floor for a moment, then with great strain, glanced back over her shoulder.

    ‘No one there! Well! Of course there isn’t. Don’t be simple, Jane!’ She looked down at the dusty carpet. As she glanced up at the lamp at her bedside, it flickered and died. She cursed as the darkness engulfed her, as water does a sinking stone. As she lay in the dark, a panic grew inside her. She attempted to reason it away.

    ‘It’s dark, and you’re helpless. No… no! Not helpless, just tired, that’s all. It will be hours before Percy gets here, how irritating!’

    The more she muttered the more she forgot her fear, until a new symptom presented itself. In the dark, the impenetrable dark at her back, she heard a noise. The sound of heavy breathing, like a dog that had chased down some prey. The more she listened the more it sounded like a dog, a large dog. The sound grew closer and closer. Jane tried to drag herself away; she pulled with what little strength she had. Her legs were worse than useless now, they were dead weight, slowing her down and keeping her in danger. Jane felt warm breath on her neck, sweat on her neck too, and when she could take it no more she screamed and used her last remaining strength to throw herself onto her back: she would face her enemy! But there was nothing, nothing but the dark.

    ‘Darkness there… and nothing more… Damn you, Poe, and your lines.’ Just then the light came back and the bedside lamp was all aglow. ‘What madness is this?’ Her eyes were heavy; that was the last thought that entered her head before morning.

    When the pale sun shone through the gap in the curtains that morning, Percy was already on the landing, he called out in the usual way, then suddenly stopped at the sight of his sister spread out on the floor like a rag doll.

    ‘Dear Jane, what have you been doing?’

    ‘Where have you been!?’ she snapped, ‘I have been lying like this for hours!’ With a struggle Percy picked up the frail woman and returned her to the bed. Eliza came up to see what the commotion was about.

    ‘Eliza dear, you had better send for Dr. Baker. Your Aunt has had a fall.’

    ‘It was no fall!’ Jane protested, ‘And don’t bother with that simpleton.’ Jane had a great contempt for Dr. Baker; for all his medical skill he had been unable to help her, and she never forgave him for that. An hour or so passed and the good doctor arrived. He went directly to Jane’s chamber, familiar with the route from previous visits. He was a portly man, balding with white hair, and wore small fine glasses, perhaps the only notable feature of his fat face.

    ‘Hello, Jane,’ he said a little too familiarly for Jane’s taste, ‘and how are we today?’ He was taken outside by her brother before Jane could answer him. Percy would often speak to the doctor outside Jane’s hearing, something that always irritated her. Dr. Baker came back in alone and sat down at the edge of her bed.

    ‘Your bother tells me you have been attempting a night-time stroll.’

    ‘My brother is an idiot,’ she retorted.

    ‘Well, while I wouldn’t be so harsh, I do think he is mistaken. I don’t think you would be so foolish as to attempt to leave your bed in the middle of the night after fifteen years of being bedridden, now, would you?’ Jane’s face showed her obvious surprise at the doctor’s logic. ‘So what happened? You tell me.’

    Jane explained all that had happened the previous evening: the light, the noises and the dark. The doctor sat patiently and listened, a pensive look on his face. When Jane concluded he scribbled something down on a little notebook.

    ‘What have you written there?’ Jane snatched the notebook from his hand before he could answer, she read aloud, ‘Hallucinations, possible night terrors brought on from excessive stimulation of the imagination combined with ennui! How dare you, doctor!’ He snatched back the notebook as Percy came in; the doctor took him by the arm and led him out of the room, leaving the door ajar. Jane listened strenuously and managed to make out some of the conversation.

    ‘I am sorry to tell you this, Mr. Hawthorne, but I believe your sister might have the brain fever.’

    ‘Is it serious?’

    ‘Well, generally no, but in her weakened state it could be.’

    ‘Can anything be done?’

    ‘I advise lots of rest, the room to be darkened and her books to be confiscated: it should help her mind relax.’

    ‘My books confiscated, over my dead body!’ Jane said aloud. Percy pulled the door closed. After a few moments Percy came in and Jane could distinguish the doctor’s heavy footfalls on the stairs and the door slam as he left. She eyed her brother slowly as animals do before a fight.

    ‘Not good, what the doctor says, Jane.’

    ‘The man is a quack!’

    ‘Now Jane, just because you don’t like the diagnosis doesn’t mean you can question the man’s credentials.’

    ‘I refute the implication that I am suffering from madness,’ she said coldly.

    ‘No one said that.’ Percy paused, ‘The doctor thought perhaps you were having an episode of grief over a lost loved one, a husband perhaps.’

    ‘I trust you put him straight.’

    ‘Yes, never married.’ Jane had always been proud of that when she was younger; she hated the idea of being tied down. Now, when she was tied in the worst possible way, she silently rued her defiance. ‘He said no books.’

    ‘And I say go hang! My books are my only pleasure in this hell.’

    Percy walked over and took the book from her bedside table. Much as she ranted and raved at him, he walked over and put it back on the bookcase. As he turned apologetically to her she closed her eyes,

    ‘Get out!’ was all she said.

    Things carried on as normal for the rest of the day. Eliza took her Aunt her tea and sat with her while Percy did things around the house. Nothing changed, except Jane’s increasing bitterness at the removal of her books. Eventually night came and Jane became apprehensive.        Though pride would not allow her to ask her brother to stay, she detained him as long as possible with trivial tasks. Eventually he left and she was alone again, with only her lamp to light the room. She could not sleep, not now, knowing something might be waiting in the dark. She sat in silence for hours. Eventually the clock struck one and her mind became sharp. Her eyes fell upon the china doll; it sat looking at her stupidly, as it always did. She sneered at it, ‘I hate you,’ and the doll winked at her. Jane started; the doll then raised a hand and waved. Jane’s fear intensified when the doll pulled itself to its feet and walked backwards and forwards on the mantelpiece, turning its head to watch her at all times. Jane looked about her, and opened her bedside table in search of something to throw. She found an old medicine bottle, and threw it at the mantelpiece, but her throw missed its mark by inches. The doll stopped walking then and climbed down from the mantelpiece. A new fear struck Jane, she could no longer see her enemy, or hear it, but it was there. She felt a tugging at her feet, and slowly the doll’s white face came over the side of the bed. It walked slowly towards Jane with its arms outstretched, as if calling for an embrace.

    ‘Begone, wicked creature!’ Jane screeched, as she lashed out at the doll, sending it flying from the bed. There was the sound of smashing porcelain and then all fell silent. Moments later she could hear stone grinding on stone and Jane felt the sweat on her brow intensify. Then she saw it, the china doll, with its broken face climbing back up the mantelpiece. When it reached the top it dragged itself into its old position, pointed to Jane once more then fell limp as it had been before.

    ‘I never liked you.’ Jane’s voice quivered with relief at the ordeal’s end and then a deep unnatural sleep overcame her that lasted till morn.

    When Percy arrived the next morning he saw the broken doll and the bottle by the mantelpiece.

    ‘Now why did she go and break that? Must have been another night terror.’ He turned to her, she was still sleeping. He noted this as odd; she normally woke as soon as he opened the door. When he finally woke his sister from her deep sleep she instantly made a demand.

    ‘I want a walking stick.’

    ‘Whatever for? You can’t walk, you know that.’

    ‘Just get me one!’ Percy assented, and promised to return with one tomorrow. ‘No, I want it by this evening.’

    ‘What? Why?’ This only brought on one of Jane’s fits so Percy backed down. Eliza entered to calm things down in her usual manner. Jane sat and conversed with her while Percy was out getting the walking stick.

    ‘How do you feel, Aunty?’

    ‘No worse than usual, why do you ask?’

    ‘It’s just, the doctor said…’

    ‘My dear girl, when you live as I have done you learn that doctors know nothing and come as often as they can to keep their income afloat.’

    ‘Oh fie Aunty, they do marvellous work.’

    ‘For a marvellous fee, I should say. And I do wish you wouldn’t use that ancient parlance.’ The berating of the medical profession continued for some time before Percy returned.

    ‘There we are dear, one walking stick.’ She took it from him greedily and gripped it with her bony fingers. ‘What’s it for though, Jane?’

    ‘It is for whatever assails me tonight, they shall feel my wrath for these night games.’

    ‘What?’ asked Eliza.

    ‘Aunty has been suffering from bad dreams…’

    ‘They are not dreams! They are phantoms! How dare you attempt to belittle me before my only intelligent relative!’ The shouting and the information that her aunt might be losing her sanity was more than Eliza could bear. She fled from the room with tears in her eyes.

    ‘Now look what you have done, Jane, I was trying to keep her from finding out about your illness.’

    ‘You mean you were trying to make me look a fool.’

    ‘No, you have done that enough already. Night assailants, indeed! The only night assailants you had were as a girl, and if you hadn’t been so picky you might have married one of them.’       This was more than Jane would stand; she raised her cane and struck Percy across the face, knocking him to the ground. He rose slowly, ‘You always were a stuck-up prig!’

    ‘Get out! Get out and never darken my room again, you are no brother of mine, get out!’          Percy straightened his clothes and with an air of dignity that almost surprised his sister walked slowly and calmly out of the door, shutting it behind him. ‘How dare he talk like that to me, of all people. And treat me like he would a common fool. I shall show them. Tonight I will be ready for whatever comes.’

    Night fell, and Jane clutched tightly at her cane. It was long and sturdy, with a solid brass handle, perfect for clobbering unwanted visitors. Time ticked slowly away as it always does when awaiting something. The clock’s simple ticking began to echo in Jane’s ears as the time neared the witching hour. She waited, and waited, and waited. Jane had always had a subconscious hatred of time, and its slow relentless march was irritating her. One o’clock came and went, then two. Jane felt herself grow weak from lack of rest. Could it be that she had been imagining things, hallucinating? Nothing was forthcoming tonight, it seemed. As she questioned herself the clock struck three and before her eyes a dark cloud appeared. She raised her cane and gripped it tight. The cloud was swelling and growing in the middle of the room. Then there was a whirling wind that whipped around her and her bed sheets, the chill went to the very bone. As the cloud grew the room around Jane began to fade, it was as if it was moving away, the room seemed to be breaking up around her. She raised her cane.

    ‘I’m not afraid of you!’ she yelled at the top of her lungs and swung for the cloud violently. The cane passed through it, as one might expect. Then the cloud seemed to take shape, the figure of a man. Perhaps ‘figure’ is too strong a word, but the outline of a man was clear. He seemed to be standing in midair; he then knelt down and floated slowly towards Jane. There was no detail to this form, simply a body of black. Then as it drew closer pearly white teeth became clear in the obscurity. Jane looked about her for anything she knew, there was nothing. She was in an abyss, not darkness, something else. She turned her face back to the figure; it was slowly, oh so slowly advancing on her. She felt a cold dread overcome her, she could not move, she could not speak. Her cane rested at her fingertips but she had not the strength to use it. Even with all her bitterness she could not muster the will to scowl at the advancing figure. She lay there, helpless as a child, with a great unknown pressing down on her. The unknown in front of her paralleled the fear of life she had harboured in her youth, the fear of being oppressed, tied down by family, friends, or love. Her eyes watched the white teeth as they got closer and closer, a smile had never seemed so terrifying. She closed her eyes but this only amplified her fear, and when she dared to open them, the figure of black was mere inches from her face. The smile hovered before her, and then the teeth parted.

    ‘Check,’ they said. Smoothly and calmly. In blind panic Jane tried to grasp her cane, knocking it from the bed. She waited for the thud as it hit the floor but nothing came. The teeth parted again, ‘Check,’ they repeated, and then Jane felt faint, her heart was pounding in her ears and her eyes darkened. Then a loud thud made her start. She was back in her room, nothing was out of place and it was daylight. She looked about her and saw the cane on the floor.

    ‘The thud? Perhaps… no. No, this is ludicrous.’ Jane’s thoughts were aflame and she needed to know what had happened to her that night. Now it was eleven in the morning, she could hear Percy downstairs. All was normal but normality did nothing to sooth her mind. Not yet.

Eliza had not been happy with things since the cane incident. Time had not alleviated her discomfort. She had not quite forgiven her aunt but knew she needed her more than she would ever admit. Especially now that her father would only do the housework and not actually talk to Jane. She continued to take her tea to her, and talk. They no longer talked about books so the conversation was awkward. Eliza avoided talking of the night terrors and quashed the subject whenever Jane brought it up. This farce of civility continued for several weeks. Jane became more and more obsessed with her night terrors and Eliza tried harder and harder to keep her from the subject. She also tried to reconcile her aunt and father, but to no avail. The more Jane talked of night terrors and demons, the more Eliza became sure her mind was coming undone. She had spoken to Dr. Baker but there was nothing he could do.

    ‘I’m sorry, young lady,’ he would say, ‘sometimes life deals bad hands.’ That meagre explanation never satisfied Eliza. Percy became less and less interested in his sister’s mental state. She was alive and still abusive, that was all he needed to know. Eliza was scared, for her aunt and her father; when Jane died Percy would feel it, more than he knew.

    One evening when Eliza went to say good night to her aunt, she was sat up in bed with a look of strong concentration on her face.

    ‘Aunty? I am going now.’

   ‘Yes, as am I.’

    ‘Beg pardon?’

    ‘I have resolved the mystery, my dear Eliza. The night terrors as you call them, it all makes sense.’

    ‘Oh?’ Eliza was half-relieved, half-alarmed.

    ‘Yes, they are a game.’

   ‘A game, Aunty?’

    ‘Yes, a delightful game between me and someone very special.’

   ‘Who?’

    ‘The Grim Reaper, Death himself.’

    ‘Oh Aunty!’ Eliza was suppressing tears and anger.

    ‘No, no, child! I am not mad, this is the truth. Long ago I cursed him for letting me live as I have for so long, and so it seems he wants to play games to get his own back. Well, I have figured him out now and all I need do is make my winning move.’ Eliza turned away to hide her tears. ‘Don’t cry, my dear, it will all be resolved soon.’ Jane pulled her niece to her and gave her a hug and kiss good night. She looked happier than she had done for a long time, and this gave Eliza some comfort as she walked out the door.

    ‘Tomorrow,’ Eliza said to herself, ‘Tomorrow I will bring Dr. Baker and…’ She didn’t know what, what he or anyone else could do now. Best not to think about it until tomorrow.

Eliza woke that morning with a start. She had not slept well, her aunt weighed heavily on her mind. She had a great sense of uneasiness; this she also attributed to her aunt, though she knew not why. She dressed immediately and, skipping breakfast, made for her aunt’s house alone. Eliza hurried along, her aunt’s words echoing in her mind, ‘it will all be resolved soon.’ What will? And how? None of this made sense, she would have to confront her about it now. As she opened the door she became unnerved, it was particularly quiet. The house of an invalid tends to be quiet, this one was eerily so.

    ‘Aunty?’ Eliza called quietly at first, then louder. She did not like the feel of the house. She went to her aunt’s chamber and knocked on the door. The lack of response prompted her to open the door. She entered cautiously and she saw Jane lying quite peacefully on her bed in the most perfect of slumbers. A wave of relief passed over Eliza. Then she examined her aunt more closely, she was smiling but deathly cold. Her perfect slumber was her final one. Eliza was overcome with fear, panic, sorrow and a mixture of other emotions she could not understand. After a moment of hysteria she ran to fetch her father and Dr. Baker, though she knew that death was the malady with no cure.

    It was late evening before Eliza composed herself. She remained at her aunt’s house. Dr. Baker had been and gone, as had her father.

    ‘I’m so dreadfully sorry,’ the doctor had said, ‘it comes to us all sooner or later.’ Percy’s response had been quite different; he had gone from rage at her dying so suddenly to sorrow for the loss of his only sister. It was painful to watch. Eliza had suspected some such reaction from her father; despite their recent dispute he had still loved his sister. He lamented their heated words and cursed himself for not making up with her. Eliza sat silently and watched him. Eventually he calmed down and went home to grieve. Eliza would not leave until she had paid her respects, which demanded she be in control of her faculties. When the time came she ascended the staircase and stood a moment before entering the chamber once more. Jane still lay there, still and cold and smiling. Eliza walked over and with tears in her eyes knelt by her aunt and kissed her, still cold. She wept for what seemed like a long time before the torrent of emotion had spent its force. When she rose from the bed something caught her eye, she knelt down to examine it. It was an envelope, partially concealed by the bedcovers. Cautiously she took it and with teary eyes left that room for the final time.

    She sat at a small writing desk downstairs, turned on a lamp and opened the letter:

    My Dearest Eliza,

    I write this to you, as the only one with the intelligence and imagination to find it credible. I have already told you about my little game, and now I must explain to you the final move I am to make. The night terrors were the moves of Death, his goal in this game to kill me with fright. He failed, fool that he was. But the means of my victory were unknown to me for the longest time, for simply going on living to wither further and die of boredom would also have been a victory for him. Then all at once it struck me, to win I must die in complete peace and comfort. I will not distress you with the means I used to do that. But if you are reading this I must have succeeded, and the game is over and victory mine.

    Do not grieve for me, my niece, for in the way one enjoys a Gothic novel I have enjoyed this little game, and my victory was all that I needed to die happy. Do not show this to your father or anyone else, they will put it down to a fit of madness before my final hour. You, my dear, know better. Tell your father I am sorry, sorry for what happened. But he is still a fool, as is that doctor; no doubt he gave some flippant consolation for my death! No matter.

    I leave off now, my dear. I love you, do not be sad: my miserable imprisonment is now at an end.

    With love,

    Your Aunt,

    Miss Jane Hawthorne.

With that end came the end of all the worldly business of Miss Jane Hawthorne, very well to do at one time, never married. Eliza’s tears blinded her for a moment as she held the letter to her breast. As the tears blurred her vision she thought she saw someone looking in through the window, dressed head to toe in black and deathly pale. He turned away and seemed to melt into the night darkness, if he was there at all.

Tom Reid