Trembling With Fear 7-14-24

His Footsteps on the Stairs, by Alice Yustas

She shivered at the sound of his footsteps. He was coming down to dinner. The husband, the man she entrusted her life to, gave her hand and heart in marriage. And now his mere presence in the house filled the wife of 12 years with terror. Her hands were shaking as she was pouring sugar from the paper bag into a porcelain bowl, little grains spilling on the table.

She was still young, and she had once hoped to enjoy her life for a few more years. But now she was locked here, in the quaint little house in a quiet neighbourhood, with the oppressive presence of her spouse in the air. She could sense him even when they weren’t in the same room. It was a constant sensation at the back of her head that she couldn’t shake off: the cold hand of terror.

Dinners were the worst. She didn’t know how he would spend his day, but he would always come down in the evening. Back in the good days, they would sit together over their meal and talk. That was a long time ago, back when their marriage was as fresh as a spring day. Now it was the winter of their love, the frost on the ground and dead leaves under the snow. 

These days, her husband would come down with that heavy dragging gait of his, and fall into the chair at the head of the table. He would sit there in silence, looking at his wife with a blank stare. No muscle would move on the man’s face, but the woman would sense the judgement in his look. She would feel so cold, her hands would go stiff: she would be afraid to make a wrong move, do something clumsy. A good spouse, she would make small talk, force a conversation. The husband wouldn’t answer – he would just goggle, with his head tilted at a funny angle. 

She would brace herself not to cry, and serve the dinner, knowing only too well he wouldn’t touch it. But once the food was on the table, she had an excuse to go to the bathroom. There she would let out her tears, and muffled cries of pain, she would whimper like a hurt dog. Sometimes, silence can hurt more than words, and the implications are scarier than actions.

The woman wished she could talk to someone about it, but she didn’t dare. The fear and the guilt were so deep in her, the very thought of sharing with someone was paralysing. This was her fault, she was to blame for all of it, and she would bear her cross in silence.

Nights were bad too. She could barely sleep – she would lie in bed waiting for her husband to fall onto the sheets, usually after midnight. He would just lie there very still, fully dressed, on the duvet cover. The man wouldn’t move or make a noise, and that’s what scared her most: the wife feared any moment he would explode. She also feared he would do something to her while she was asleep. That’s why she couldn’t close her eyes. She would lie in bed for hours staring at the ceiling – doing everything she could to stay awake. She would doze off at sunrise and wake up with a headache. But the sunlight made the shadows go away. 

In the morning, she would make herself a coffee and go out into their backyard. The roses were blooming beautifully, her pride and joy. Rosemary, lavender, and basil were green and vigorous. At the far end of the plot, the disturbed ground contrasted with the green of the perfect lawn, black stain on the emerald green. She would pretend not to see. There were so many beautiful flowers and herbs to distract her, with cheerful little bees buzzing around them. Her garden was her happy place, it was a place to escape, to breathe the air of freedom, and forget her fears.

Except the grave was still there as a silent reminder.

The reminder of how she, a middle-aged housewife, decided that she’d had enough, snuck up on her husband when he was having his afternoon nap, and struck him with a paperweight. 

Why? Because she missed the freedom of being young, and having adventures, going on dates, and never thinking about death. The quaint little house had become her coffin, and she no longer felt alive. In a crazy way, she wanted to turn back the clock – it was the fear of her own mortality that made her inflict death on her closest person. 

So she waited till it was dark, dug out a shallow grave, and buried the body. Except on the next evening, she heard his footsteps on the stairs. At first, she didn’t even realize it was wrong: her mind hadn’t yet adjusted to the new reality. But the husband was there, wearing the same shirt he had on when she smashed his skull, dirt on his hands, and drops of congealed blood on the collar. His neck twisted, and his face cocked upwards. 

And those eyes. Dead eyes? Of course, they were dead, you silly goose. The man is dead! But there was more to them. They had no expression, yet the wife could see the judgement in them. Whenever she would meet her partner’s gaze, she could sense it: as if the words spoken in his voice were going through her head: “I loved you, Eveline. I loved you, and I gave you everything I had. I gave you the house and all the free time for yourself. And you killed me! Was I such a bad husband? Was that shallow grave all I deserved?” 

He never uttered a single word, but his milky pupils were saying it.

Every evening they would sit at the kitchen table. The wife would serve dinner, like she had done for 12 years, and the husband would sit there and stare at her, without touching his food. And at night, they would lie side by side, the murderer and the victim, in a marital bed.

In the mornings, Eveline would go into her back yard. She would do it for a while, until one day, she climbed the roof instead.

From here, she could see the bright light above her: the stark blue silk of the summer sky, and the sense of freedom, for the first time in weeks. There was no smell of soil or old clothes; her late husband would never find her. The feeling of freedom was maddening to the wife, and she looked around her, appreciating the vast world outside her house. 

But sunshine was blinding, and she averted her eyes only to see the brown square of disturbed soil, looking back at her like an evil eye. She felt a tile move under her foot, and next moment she was flying, dazzled by the brilliance, until the light ceased, and the darkness embraced her.