17May2025
Dear Diary,
Tonight the lift in the sixteenstorey council block on Oak Street shuddered between the third and fourth floors, and the voice of my late motherinlaw drifted through the cramped cabin as if she were still hovering over the place where we first met. How long are you going to put up with this? she asked, her tone thin as the smoke from the cheap cigarettes I used to light after work.
Our family fell apart from the start. I married Mabel almost as soon as we left school, and I never gave her a chance to finish her exams. She could barely manage a drivers licence and that only because my father, a former mechanic, coaxed the local driving instructor into giving her a quick pass. Mabel never left the flat unless she had to buy groceries; the only other outing was hanging the laundry on the balcony.
I kept tabs on her every move. Even taking out the rubbish meant she had to keep her mobile in the pocket of her nightgown, lest I call and catch her slacking. The weekends that began on Friday evenings were the worst for her. I would arrive home demanding a dinner with a bottle of vodka chilling on the table, then, after the meal, sit at the kitchen table, stare at her with contempt, and mutter, Whats the point, you useless whelp? When will I have an heir?
After the meal I would finish my drink, saunter back to the kitchen, order another shot, and then, with the last sip, drag her to the bedroom and demand, Wheres the lager? She never bought it during the day, so she could steal twentyodd minutes for a brief walk in the cold night air, just enough to breathe.
The lift halted abruptly, and my motherinlaws spectre seemed to ask, Do you like how I treat you? I heard my own voice echo back, No, he wipes his feet on me. The ghost warned, Itll only get worse unless you loosen his grip. I felt a chill run down my spine.
She begged, Run, love, run! I could hear the panic in her voice. Where to? My mother lives in a studio flat with a new husband; my fathers remarried. Im a cutoff piece, Grandmother. I have no one. Her eyes welled, her nose trembled.
The apparition soothed, Being alone gives you total freedom, a chance to start anew. Imagine if you had a childwhat then? She asked, But where do I go? The ghosts eyes, once gentle, widened like saucers. An opportunity will arise in the coming days. Dont miss it. Keep looking out the window. Youll see.
She pressed for details, and the ghost said, Ive already told you enough. Use your wits, or youll be a fool. The lift will move nowdont be frightened. Go fetch the lager for your husband, and then, one more thing: rummage through the little wooden casket my mother left you after she passed. It isnt empty; it has a false bottom. Search it, but dont leave any witnesses. If you flee, take only the contents, leave the box behind so I wont be suspected.
Whats inside? Mabel whispered. Answers to your questions.
The lift creaked upward. Even though the voice warned, a shiver ran down her spine. She stepped out onto the street; the evening was warm enough to melt the lingering frost, and the river nearby promised to thaw soon. She thought, perhaps she could be reborn, too.
Later, I, drunk, collapsed onto the kitchen table, snoring like a beast. While my rumbling snores filled the flat, Mabel slipped into the bedroom, lifted the casket, and shook it. Threads, needles, hooks, buttons, and countless bits of old craft supplies spilled outnothing a seamstress would treasure. I grunted, Ill toss it if you keep it in sight. Your grandma was a weird one, but she left something for you, didnt she?
She probed the box, feeling for a hidden compartment. Nothing moved, yet the wood seemed thicker in places, as if a secret passage lay beneath. She pressed, twisted, and eventually a small panel snapped open, striking her stomach. Inside lay an envelope, a set of keys, and several little packets labelled in my motherinlaws scrawl: Switch on the brain, Freeze the fear, Ignite vigilance, Dont be a fool, Kill the weak streak, Feed the meat, and more. She laughed at the absurdity, recalling how the other tenants used to call my mother a witch, though she spent her days baking pies and knitting socks.
Opening the envelope, Mabel found deeds to a modest house in the countrysidea property my grandfather had built without a single nail, tucked away in a remote village. Another document listed a vintage Lada, the Jigul my father kept in the workshop as a collectors item. The accompanying letter, written in tiny, looping script, read:
My dear grandchild, the hour has come to open the casket. All my possessions, except the flat, are now yours. Since you are reading this, it is time. Take the documents, the caskets contents, and the car. Leave for the house; peace and happiness await you there. The money for the first few weeks lies under the seat cushion of the car. After that youll have to earn your own living. Perhaps youll even go to school. Grandmother
She knew my opposition to her marriage had driven my cruelty, yet even after my death my motherinlaw had continued to guide her. Mabel collected the papers, stuffed them into a folder, and tucked the caskets contents inside. The first instruction she read read:
Take the packet Ignite vigilance. Mix the powder into a glass of milk and drink it. Keep the paper; dont discard it.
The next read: Drink the milk on an empty stomach, the Dont be a fool powder inside.
She obeyed, slipping quietly into the kitchen where I still lay. She poured the concoction, drank it, opened the balcony, breathed the night air, then returned to the bedroom and checked the folder again. A new note instructed her to drink a cup of tea with the Kill the weak streak packet in an hour, then later a coffee with Feed the meat after another hour, staying alert.
She followed each task. The powder seemed to lend her a sudden surge of confidence; her body, once soft and unathletic, suddenly filled with a vigor shed never known. She stared at herself in the cracked mirror and saw a figure with firm shoulders, toned limbs, a firm abdomen, and a spark in her eyes.
At that moment I woke, my hair dishevelled, eyes blazing. What have you been doing in the lounge? I demanded.
She replied, voice trembling, Nothing.
I snarled, Looks like someones been working on you. A lover perhaps? I advanced, fists clenched, eyes flashing. She stepped back, fear flashing across her face, but then something in her hardened. She blocked my blows with a precision that surprised even me, deflecting each strike, and finally landed a punch to my nose, drawing blood. I fell to the floor, pale and breathless.
She looked at me without pity, lifted the folder, and read the next line: Well done, Im proud of you. Look out the balcony, dress as you are, leave the window frame open, place your bag by what you see, then drink the Freeze the fear juice. When you reach the car, stop at the café, order a milkshake with the Switch on the brain packet. Do not touch the other packets yet. Leave as quickly as possible. Grandmother
She obeyed, slipping on a pair of grey jeans and a black Tshirtidentical to what I was wearing. She grabbed the bag, slipped the wallet into the folder, and, barefoot and shivering, fled the flat. Near the rubbish bin she found a discarded pair of springtime boots, too big but serviceable, and a down jacket, ragged but warm. She stuffed them into the bag.
On the street she discovered a lifeless young woman, face down on the pavement, hair and clothes exactly like Mabels. The girl had apparently slipped on a patch of ice near the heating pipe that runs along the curb. The sight did not frighten her; the potion from the casket had steadied her nerves.
She dressed, tucked the documents and the bag into the folder, and darted toward the bus stop. No taxi was in sight, but a trolleybus trudged by, and she hopped aboard, heading toward the village where the old house stood.
The next morning she arrived at the garage on Willow Lane, where the old mechanic, Uncle Colin, recognised the Ladas registration. Im not keen on selling junk, he said, but if you need it, the keys are here. She handed over the paperwork, paid the modest sum of £25 from the cash hidden in the glove compartment, and drove off, the engine sputtering to life.
The voice of my motherinlaw echoed in her head as she merged onto the A1: Look up, youll see the signs. Turn left at the crossroads and head toward Sleaford. Good luck, love. She smiled, glanced at the rearview mirror where the ghostly image of my mother, gingerhaired and wrapped in a thick scarf, seemed to wave goodbye.
Now, as I sit here in this empty flat, the silence is deafening. The door has been locked from the inside, the casket remains untouched on the kitchen shelf, and the house in the countryside awaits its new owner. I have been left to contemplate the wreckage of my own making.
Lesson learned: power wielded without compassion only builds walls that eventually crumble. Respect, even in the smallest acts of kindness, is the only foundation that can sustain a marriage. I hope, someday, I can rebuild what I have shattered.
