Ellen
The front doorbell chimed. I composed myself and smiled widely.
Then I pulled open the door and my smile faded.
‘You?’
I stared at the interloper on my doorstep. Freya stared back at me, blinking behind her large glasses. Her eyes still looked bloodshot and sore, I was pleased to see.
‘Why are you here?’
‘The Conservators sent me.’
‘But I was expecting …’ I found myself peering around her.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry. The person you were expecting is busy tonight.’
‘But why you?’
‘Ellen, you should know, not just anyone can move to Serenity Falls. There are standards, requirements.’ She cocked her head to one side. ‘I fitted all the criteria, and more.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I don’t like to boast about it, but I have family connections.’
I felt an unpleasant stirring in my stomach. I’d been fooled. Bested. I had underestimated young Freya. The naivety, the sweetness. All an act. She was indeed my nemesis. But not in the way I’d thought.
‘Now are you going to invite me in?’
I gritted my teeth and stood aside. ‘Come in.’
Freya wafted past me. ‘This is a beautiful house, Ellen.’
‘Thank you. I suppose you might as well come through to the kitchen.’
I led the way. The smell of baking filled the air. As it was so close to Halloween, I had gone the extra mile and made some of my gingerbread pumpkins. Right now, I felt like dumping them all in the bin.
‘It smells divine in here.’
I had laid the table. My best tablecloth. My famous sponge was on a cake stand, macarons on a small circular plate and the pumpkins on another. I had set out two of my best china teacups, milk in a silver jug, and the tea was brewing in a proper teapot with a cosy on it.
It was taking all my willpower not to shove the whole lot off the table and watch it smash upon the floor.
I tried to compose myself. They must have sent Freya for a reason. And if she was really so well connected, maybe I should try to suffer her gracefully. She was merely a means to an end.
‘This is very impressive,’ Freya said.
‘Well, I do like to treat my guests well.’
She hung a bag over the back of the chair, and that’s when I had the first inkling that something was wrong. The bag. It wasn’t big enough to contain paperwork, which I would expect if this was a meeting about me being given a more official position.
‘Tea?’ I offered.
‘Thank you.’
I poured tea into the two cups.
‘Oh, do you have any sugar?’ Freya asked.
‘Of course.’
I turned back to the cupboards and found a pot of sugar cubes. I don’t take sugar myself. Silly to forget, really. I placed the sugar on the table and sat down. I reached for my tea and tensed. The teacups had moved.
I always placed them so that the handle was to the right of the guest because most people are right-handed. But now I could see that the handle on the cup in front of me was off centre, pointing slightly towards me. I raised my eyes.
‘Is something wrong, Ellen?’
She had tampered with the tea. Poison, perhaps. Did she really think I was so stupid?
‘You know,’ I said. ‘I always think that attention to detail is so important. It’s the little things that count.’
‘Oh, indeed.’
‘The decoration on the gingerbread, the icing on the cake, quite literally. Knowing just how much bleach to add to a solution of contact lens cleaner to cause discomfort but not blindness—’ I leaned forward and carefully swapped the teacups around.
‘And brewing the tea for just the right amount of time.’
I looked at Freya. I could see worry in those bloodshot eyes.
‘Now,’ I said meaningfully, ‘shall we enjoy our tea before we sign the paperwork?’
I added milk, raised my cup and took a sip. I gestured for my guest to do likewise.
‘Come on now. It really is a delicious cup of tea.’
I took another, larger sip, eyes gleaming. I admit, I was enjoying her discomfort.
‘Please, drink,’ I cajoled. ‘Or I’ll think you’re being rude … and I might decide to take what I know to someone else.’
Freya raised the cup with a trembling hand, brought it up to those pink lips … and then took a long sip, almost gulping it back. I frowned, or at least I tried to. My face felt odd. Like I hadn’t got full control of the muscles.
I lowered my own teacup, almost empty. But as I tried to rest it gently on the saucer it slipped from my hand with a clatter. I stared at the chipped china, and then I looked up.
‘I …’ My voice didn’t want to work properly. My whole body felt numb, my lips and tongue oddly swollen.
Freya smiled. ‘I didn’t switch the teacups, Ellen. But I moved them, so you’d think I had. I knew you would notice and swap them around. You’re a clever woman. And cautious. But not quite cautious enough.’
‘Urgh,’ I gasped.
‘It’s a paralytic. You will start to lose control of your limbs, your ability to swallow and breathe. Death will come by suffocation.’
I dragged myself to my feet and staggered to the sink. I tried to force my fingers down my throat to make myself sick, but my hands felt like lumps of clay. I reached out blindly. My left hand found the kettle. I pressed the switch down.
‘I’m sorry, Ellen,’ Freya said from behind me. ‘Well, actually, I’m not. You did almost blind me, after all.’
The kettle whined.
‘But here’s the thing. You’re a nasty, old, vindictive woman, Ellen. No one likes you.’
I tried to swallow, but couldn’t. Steam rose from the kettle and the switch clicked off.
‘You’re just not Conservator material.’
I summoned the last bit of control I had, spun around and threw the kettle at Freya.
It hit her square in the face. Boiling water cascaded over her head.
She screamed and threw up her hands, staggering backwards.
I felt a momentary glimmer of satisfaction.
And then my legs gave. I grabbed for the table, bringing crockery crashing down around me.
As I fell back, my head whacked the worktop. I crumpled to the floor.
Freya continued to scream and wail. I smiled, lying there on the linoleum, surrounded by shattered crockery, legs twisted beneath me. I may be dying, but at least Freya would be left with a permanent memory of our final encounter.
I felt something dark and sticky beneath my right hand. Blood. I’d cut myself. It gave me an idea. It took all my effort to move my finger very slightly. But I forced it across the floor, scrawling: F G
I managed two more letters before my hand became a lump of dead meat: L H
I knew they’d clean the floor, of course. But blood lingers. It works its way into the fabric of a place. Tricky to remove entirely. A good home-maker knows. Traces of the living, of those who came before us, will always remain.
Maybe someone, someday, would decipher my message. And know my story.