14September2025
Ive been living in a sixteenstorey council block on the outskirts of Manchester for years, and the walls of that lift have heard more of my wifes misery than any church ever could. The voice that haunts me now is my late grandmothers, the one that used to nag me whenever I stepped into that cramped lift.
Our troubles began almost as soon as we met. I, Thomas, married Evelyn when we were barely out of secondary school. I never let her finish any education; instead I pushed her into a job as a shop assistant and then into my flat, where I kept a tight grip on everything she did. The only thing she managed to achieve on her own was a driving licence and even that was only because my father, a former mechanic, refused to let her leave the workshop without a reason, and his mate was a driving instructor.
Evelyn left the house only when she had to. The sole reason was to restock the fridge. Her idea of a walk was hanging laundry on the balcony after a wash. I monitored her every move, even the simple act of taking out the rubbish. My phone was always in my pocket, ready to ring at the slightest provocation.
Friday evenings were the worst for her. I would come home demanding dinner, insisting that a chilled bottle of my favourite whisky sit on the table. After we ate, I would sit back, barely hiding my contempt, and hurl insults at her: Whats the use of you, you useless fool? When will I have an heir? Id then retreat to the kitchen, finish my dram, and after the last sip demand, Wheres the beer?
She knew I would ask that, but she never bought any during the day, saving herself twentyodd minutes for a brief breath of fresh air.
The lift shuddered, stalled between floors, and my grandmothers voice seemed to echo in the cramped space: Do you like the way your husband treats you?
No, Evelyn whispered, He wipes his feet on me.
Only for now, the voice urged. It will get worse. Do you want him to loosen his grip?
God, no! Evelyns throat went dry. Of course not.
Then run, love, run!
Where? To my mother? She lives in a onebed flat with a new husband. To my father? Hes remarried. Im a cutoff piece, Gran. I have no one.
The very fact youre alone is a blessing. Freedom, a chance to start anew. What would you do if you had a child?
Where do I go? her eyes widened like saucers.
Opportunities will appear. Dont miss them. Keep looking out the window. Youll see.
What will I see?
Ive told you enough. Figure it out, if youre not foolish. The lift will move nowdont be scared. Go fetch the beer for your dear husband. And one more thing, the spectre whispered, search the little wooden box I left you after my death. It isnt empty; it has a false bottom. Find it without anyone seeing, and take only its contents. Leave the box behind so your man wont suspect your escape.
Whats inside?
Answers to your questions.
The lift lurched back to life. I felt a shiver despite the voices calm warning. The doors opened onto a crisp autumn evening; the snow was melting, streams were forming, nature was being reborn. Why not I?
—
My husband had drunk himself stiff on that very night, sprawled on the kitchen table, snoring like a bulldog. While his snores rolled through the flat, I slipped into the bedroom and shook the box. Threads, needles, crochet hooks, buttonsbits of forgotten craft supplies tumbled out. He had glared at the box earlier, muttering, Ill throw it away. Your gran was a character, leaving junk for her favourite grandchild. Its useless! I turned the wooden case over, feeling for a hidden compartment. The wood was solid, but a faint click sounded as I pressed a seam, and a tiny drawer sprang out, striking my stomach.
Inside lay an envelope, a set of keys, and several small packets stamped with cryptic instructions: Activate brain, Freeze fear, Ignite alertness, Dont be a fool, Destroy weakness, Feed the meat, and more. My gran had always been a storyteller; neighbours on the landing called her a witch, though she simply baked pies and knitted socks. No one knew what she did when the building was empty.
The envelope contained deeds for a cottage in the Lake District, the one shed spoken of when I was a childsolid stone, no nails, isolated, watched over by a lone farmer. Another document listed a vintage Morris Minor, its engine salvaged from a foreign car, now sitting in my fathers garage as a curiosity.
The letter, written in a spidery hand, read:
My dear Evelyn, the hour to open the box has come. All my property, apart from the flat, is yours. If youre reading this, the time has arrived. Gather the papers, the boxs contents, and the car. Leave at once. Peace and happiness await at Granddads house. Money for the startup is tucked under the footwell of the car. After that youll have to earn your own living. Perhaps youll finally learn something. Gran
She had known my husband would try to stop me; thats why she opposed our marriage. Even after I defied her, she never turned away, and even in death she guided me.
I packed the deeds, the keys, the packets, and the letters into a folder, tucking the powder from the Freeze fear packet into a glass of milk as instructed. The first note told me to drink the milk on an empty stomach. The second warned not to linger in the folder, lest I attract trouble. The third instructed me to sip tea with Destroy weakness after an hour, then coffee with Feed the meat an hour later. I followed each step, feeling a strange energy build within me. My body, once soft and untrained, seemed to fill with muscle; in the mirror I saw a sturdy, athletic figure, not a dancers frail frame but someone capable of defending herself.
Just then, my husband burst into the kitchen, eyes blazing. What have you been doing? he snarled. Did someone work on you? A lover? He lunged, fists flying. Instinctively I blocked every blow, my newlyhoned strength keeping his punches at bay. I stepped back, found my footing, and delivered a sharp strike to his nose. Blood spurted; he fell, panting on the floor.
I felt no pity, no fear for his health. I grabbed the folder once more. The next instruction read: Well done. Look out the balcony, dress similarly, leave the window ajar, place your bag where you see it, then drink the Freeze fear juice. When you collect the car, stop at the café, order a milkshake and add the Activate brain powder. Do not touch the other packets yet. Leave as fast as you can. Gran
I dressed in a grey pair of jeans and a black tee, just like the one Id found in a rubbish bin outside the building, slipped on a battered pair of boots and a thin coat Id salvaged from the same bin, and sprinted out barefoot onto the street. Snowmelt made the pavement slick, but the cold didnt bother me; the powder in my milk kept the fear at bay.
A stray teenager lay unconscious on the pavement, her clothes ragged, her hair matted. I felt no terroronly the clarity the grans concoction gave me. I took my bag, the documents, and the keys, and ran toward the garage where my fathers mechanic shop stood.
The night guard at the garage recognised me, remembered my fathers daughter, and handed me the keys without question. You sure you want that old Morris? he asked. I replied, Just the car, thank you. He gave me a cheap bottle of whisky to ease the nerves, and I bought a pair of budget winter trainers and a modest jacket from a nearby shop. Money hidden in the cars glovebox covered the first few weeks expenses.
I set off on the Morris, the GPS guiding me toward the Lake District. The road was busy, but the voice in my head kept me focused: Turn left at the roundabout, head for Satterthwaite. Youll find what you need there. Safe travels, my dear. My grandmothers imageher red hair, her woolly bonnetappeared in the rearview mirror, smiling.
The journey was long, but each mile felt like a step away from the shackles Id lived under. When I finally arrived at the cottage, I felt both exhausted and exhilarated. The house was exactly as Gran described: solid stone, quiet, surrounded by rolling hills. Inside, the attic held a small chest where I stored the remaining packets for future use.
Looking back, I realise that the only thing that truly held me back was my own fear of stepping into the unknown. My gran gave me the tools; I gave myself the courage.
Lesson: Freedom is not granted by othersit is seized by those willing to run, to think, and to act, even when the world tells you to stay seated.
