The Twilight Garden

7

The air was crisp in the garden—Josephine had decided against resting in her room, opting for the sunlight of mid afternoon. Her mother was nowhere to be found, but that hadn't stopped Josephine from enjoying the day. For the first time in weeks, she felt at ease with herself, with the silence. Leland's offer of assistance had done everything to console her, and she felt as though her acquaintance with the doctor would grow more amiable as they continued to work together.

With a smile, Josephine leant her head back and closed her eyes, taking in the sweet sounds of the birds singing. It was soon, though, that a dark cloud passed over the sun and sent a chill through her arms—she opened her eyes to see a dark silhouette at the end of the path, between the hedges. It raised its hand, beckoning to her, and though she wanted desperately to remain seated, she rose from the garden chair and stepped forward.

'Josephine? Are you well?' Leland called from the house. She stopped and looked at him with blank eyes—she could see everything around her perfectly clear, but the colour had drained from the world and left only a dull, washed out blanket where vibrancy had just been. Josephine tried to call for him, to call out for help, but her mouth was tight and her voice refused to escape her throat. She fought the urge to turn away, to walk away, but whatever was compelling her had gained power over her limbs and she took a broken step forward.

Hands on her shoulders, fingers digging into her flesh, brought her back to her senses and she screamed —the figure had not left her sight. Its hand was still extended in an invitation, it's body no more illuminated than it had been moments before; in fact, it seemed, that the figure was made entirely of shadow, as though no light could touch it. There were no discernible features, no eyes or nose or mouth. Its hair was ragged and hung in clumps around its head, its limbs too long to be natural—the extended finger pointed in the direction of the strange walled garden in the forest, was knotted and skeletal.

'Do you see it,' she whispered, 'between the hedges?' He looked to where her gaze was drawn but saw nothing out of the ordinary. 'Please, Leland, tell me you see it.'

'I am sorry, Josephine, I see nothing.' She collapsed against him, lifting her hands to her face, covering her eyes and mouth as she sobbed.

'Why is this happening to me? What does it all mean?' The question was not meant for anyone in particular to answer, and even though Leland wished he did, he had no comforting words for her.

'Come inside, we will have a cup of tea and perhaps some biscuits.' He drew her away from the table, from the garden, and from the figure that haunted her vision.

'I spoke with my friend,' he began, setting his cup on the table, 'and he recognised quite a few of the names on the lists you provided. He was able to hand over the files without much fuss, as they were labelled cold cases.'

Josephine shook as she sipped her tea, trying to regain her composure but so obviously failing that she sloshed the hot drink on her arms. Wincing, she put the cup down on the table and laced her fingers together in her lap. She didn't want to be in the study, she didn't want to be surrounded by her father's words, his thoughts, the things he had possibly done to hundreds of children.

'I have them here if you would like to review them with me?'

'Not now.' She said, her voice faint. 'I want to tell you more, about my childhood..'

'Of course. ' He stood from the couch and went to the desk, removing his notepad. Josephine remained standing, near the wall, as far removed from her father's journals as she could be without leaving the room entirely.

'For most of my life, I have used music and art as a way to express myself. I have never been well spoken, my thoughts race through my head before my mouth can catch them. I rarely spoke outside of this study—most of the time, my mother wouldn't allow me to speak when she had company. When my father taught me to play the piano, it was the most exhilarating thing I'd ever experienced up to that point. I could play softly when I was calm, I could feed all of my anger and pain into the keys and bring out every emotion my heart tried to hide with the notes that rang out.' She touched the keys of the piano that sat in the corner, near the window. It was in desperate need of a tune, but she could still play it with expertise. 'It was as if my father had given me a voice that even my mother could not silence. Her company would hear me playing from the parlour, and they would find their way to this room, just to listen to my music. They would remark on my talent, and though my mother would try to regain their attention, they would ignore her. She hated it, but after a while, she agreed to let me entertain her guests so long as I kept the playing calm and quiet.