| A Word Edgewise
by Mary Joe Clendenin |
 |
THE INNOCENT MAN?
Dear Mary Joe Clendenin,
I know you like ghost stories, and I have to tell mine to someone before it is too late. Time is getting short--maybe only minutes. I hope this letter gets to you some way. That's my only hope.
I guess the proper place to start is to say that I did not kill my wife. I know I have been the prime suspect for all these years, and I may confess to the dark deed for reasons you will understand as this story unfolds.
The load on my conscience has grown heavier with each passing night, until I've crumbled with the weight--not the load of guilt but a far greater load. I wished her dead. I wished her dead so many times and yet had no power to do the deed myself. I am a coward. But, Oh, how I wished her dead!
Prudence and I married late in life. If there was ever a woman misnamed it was Prudence Long, because her character denied her name completely. I met her at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting--admittedly, I had a problem, too, a big problem. I was gripped by alcohol so severely that my heart hammered to escape this ravaged body. Her condition was no less bad, but manifested itself in a different way. We talked often of the difficulty we were having. She called me when she needed encouragement--and helping her, at first, helped me conquer my drinking habit.
I was convinced that I could continue to help her, so, we married. I was wrong, her drinking became worse. It was almost like the marriage license was her permit to drink more.
We fought about her drunkenness. We fought publicly when I had to go to bars and drag her home. She screamed and struggled and called me every filthy name ever pronounced. We fought at home where she threw dishes, shoes, anything she could lift, at me. I didn't dare go to sleep before she passed out, for fear she would kill me in my sleep. She taunted me for being too weak to choose to live the life she thought I wanted.
I suppose that part, her teasing me for not getting drunk with her, was her reaction to jealousy at my being able to quit drinking, but her hate for me grew like yeast. Day by day, going home from work became more difficult. Oh, I wished she would be dead when I got there.
But I didn't kill her. I was on a business trip to Houston when she drove into the lake and drowned. Every minute of my time was witnessed by several people. My alibi seemed tight, until some of her free-loading, drinking buddies began to spread rumors.
I missed her. You can't live with someone for five years and not miss them when they are gone. I missed the filth, the smell of liquor, the smell of vomit, the clutter. But it was nice to come home to a neat and well-ordered home in the evenings. Lonely, but I wasn't sorry she was dead. I was rebuilding my life--until--well, that's the rub.
The first time strange things began to happen, it was about 11:30 at night. I had just dozed off, when something shook my bed. I'm a light sleeper, so instantly my eyes popped open and I lay rigid, thinking I had an intruder, but nothing else happened. Just that shake of the bed as if someone sat on the side of it. No sound. No breathing or footsteps. No shadows. Finally, I teased myself about being too imaginative and went back to sleep.
About three nights later, and later at night, !:30 to be exact, my bed shook again. Needless to say, I had been very careful to lock doors and windows before retiring. Again, I was instantly awake and aware. This time I heard the rustling of fabric--like satin or something--my wife had a dress that sounded like that. It was a familiar sound I might have slept through --had it not been for the experience before. Somehow, I expected another occurrence--but I wasn't ready for it. I turned on my bedside light. Nothing. Then, I heard steps going down the stairs. Reaching for a gun I kept in the drawer of the nightstand I tiptoed to the door. No one was there.
It took me longer to relax this time. I had never wanted a drink that bad in years, but finally, after reading some dull reports that usually made me sleepy, I dropped off and slept the rest of the night. Things looked better in daylight.
Every night after that, things happened. The next night I lay sweating, cold and clammy as I heard something you won't believe. Prudence had long black hair, beautiful hair. It was the one beautiful feature of hers that did not tarnish with her drinking--and a source of pride even to her besotted mind. As I lay there I heard her brushing her hair--heard the stroking, the caressing as the brush went the length of the hair--and I saw little sparks of static electricity as the brush released the ends. Prudence was there. I know it was Prudence trying to drive me to take that drink.
Things got worse after that. Soon she was laughing at me as she brushed--but when I finally found strength to turn on the light she was not there. All noise stopped with the light. But the next night the light would not come on. I had a candle there, and finally managed enough control of my shaking hands to light it--but she blew it out. I smelt the whiskey on her breath.
I can't tell you how I suffered, how much I wanted to drink myself into a stupor before I went to bed each night--but I knew in my soul that if I broke and took that first drink, she would have won. I saw her in the moonlight in the room last night, the first time I really saw her. She is getting stronger each night. In the dark, her glowing, gloating face floated above me. She towered over me radiating evil from ever pore of her being--Being--she couldn't BE. She wasn't. She was dead. But she is here. In this house.
If I confess. If I go to jail--will she find me there?
What is in store for me tonight. It's past midnight. I have to go to bed sometime. What will become----.
That's all. The letter was in an envelope, stuck inside my screen door. It had no stamp, no postmark.
I checked the local jail, went to back issues of the paper, but found only a record fifty years old of a woman driving into a lake near here.
Now, I listen closely when awakened by something in the night. I can almost feel that man's terror--whoever he is--or was. And the sounds; I remember when I wore my hair long and could hear the static electricity as I brushed. I think I could identify that sound--but there are others in the dark of night.
Have a safe, happy Halloween.