I know I am used to creeping about this house on my own, but I wanted to know what it feels like, tiptoeing about in this dark and almost empty house at night, like she does. I wanted to know what it is she feels when she climbs up to my room and stands outside my door. I wanted to understand why she does it.
I waited until two a.m. It was pitch-dark. Inky black. I felt completely awake—tingling with excitement. It was a strange feeling, as if I was the only person in the world, and no one could stop me or see me. It was as if Thornhill belonged to me. I felt powerful.
The house itself felt different. So, so silent. Moonlight shone onto the stairwell as I tiptoed to the floor below.
But as I got near her door I heard another sound. At first I couldn’t work out what it was. It was a muffled gasping sound. I stood with my ear to her door, holding my breath. It was crying. Sobbing, in fact. It was such a lonely sound.
I stood, listening. At first I felt a rush of triumph. Now who’s the unhappy one! But then I realized what that meant. And I felt ashamed. Ashamed that I could feel pleased that someone was crying in the night with such despair.
There I was, standing outside her door in the dark, listening to her crying, just as she had listened to me.
I slid the note under her door and crept away. But she must have heard me, or seen the note, because as I reached the second landing and looked back, there she was, her door open, standing there looking … awful. Her eyes were puffy and red and swollen with tears. Her hair was disheveled and tangled. She stood in her doorway, crying, leaning against the doorframe, my note crushed tight in her fist. I couldn’t recognize her as that confident, rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed beauty that they all had followed with such adoration. She stood there, gazing up at me, tears rolling down her face as her shoulders shook with sobs. She looked small and desperate and helpless.
I looked down and we held each other’s gaze. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t go to her. I wouldn’t comfort her. I turned and just kept walking as if I had seen nothing, as if I was unaware of her suffering. As I reached the fire door up to my staircase her door clicked shut.
But now that I write this in the comfort of my room, the morning sun streaming through the windows and the birds singing outside, I am haunted by the sight of her and I can’t get that sound out of my head.
July 24, 1982
How can that sad, forlorn-looking girl be the same monster who has tormented me?
What’s happened? I don’t understand! Yesterday I didn’t see her all day. I spent the day up here. I felt sad, uneasy. Confused.
But as always I got absorbed in the making of this new puppet. I stitched a costume; tiny, tiny stitches as I listened to the squeals, laughing, and crying of the children in the nearby houses as they played in the heat. It was too hot. My needle kept slipping in my sweaty fingers. It was a relief as the sun went down and the evening came. I went to bed with my window open and without blankets.
And I slept. But then, at some point, she was there.
At first a scraping, scratching sound and I thought she must be scratching more letters. But then—as before—she started banging on my door.
It began as the usual
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
But then, it became worse, as I had never heard it before. It was a pounding, a slapping, slamming, kicking, like she was hurling herself at the door, which shook and juddered as if the wood and hinges could barely hold her back.
My head was tight with fear, but this—this was so, so extraordinary I found myself huddled in the corner of my bed, hugging my knees, watching the door, amazed, waiting to see what would happen next.
And what happened was even more unexpected. She started crying, shouting, screaming. I couldn’t make it out at first because of the banging, but there were the odd words—the usual—“Freak!”—“Weirdo!” etc., but others such as “Friends!” and, I think, once, “Hopeless!” but I can’t be sure.
She must have been making a real racket because Jane and Pete came running up the stairs. I heard the drama unfold outside my door. At first they shouted at her, trying to be heard above her own wild cries. Then came their exclamations to each other as they tried to understand what was happening and tried to calm her down. Jane began talking in a very low, slow, quiet voice, gently questioning until the banging and shouting stopped and everything became still. They led her, still quietly sobbing, back downstairs.
I listened as their steps receded and the fire door swished shut behind them. I lay there in the dark, my heart racing, bewildered, my mind running through what had just happened. I waited for Pete or Jane to come back up and check if I was okay. But no one came.
After a while I got up and went to the window and looked out on the houses. A light was on in one of the windows and someone stood looking out at Thornhill. At least, I thought she was looking out at Thornhill, but then I realized it was a woman with a small child in her arms, rocking it back and forth as she looked out at the night. I stood watching as she gently swayed for the longest time before walking slowly back into the room. For a moment or two she was out of sight, but then I saw her draw the blankets over the sleeping child, smooth them into place, and kiss the child’s head. The lamp light went out and that window disappeared in the darkness.
I went back to my own bed, calmed. Moments like that must be happening all around the world every second of every day. For most people that’s just normal—so everyday that they won’t even think about it. I wonder what it would feel like to have someone be like that with me and I thought of Kathleen and the smell of her apron as she hugged me and called me a funny little chick. As I went to sleep, I decided to think about that instead of the bizarre happenings of the night.
When I opened my door at daybreak this morning it was dented, scratched, and splintered. And gouged deeper into the paint was the word “LESS.”
Friendless.
Does she mean me?
Or her?
Thornhill has been silent all day. It is as if there is an illness in the house. As if someone is on their deathbed and everyone is tiptoeing carefully around. It is too hot, too oppressive to move. I have wedged open my bedroom door and the fire door to help create a breeze from my open window, but I don’t think it makes much difference. The air is so still. I heard Jane on the phone a few times and Pete and Jane whispering in the entrance hall. At one point I thought I heard Dr. Creane, but otherwise it is all still and quiet except for the doors being clicked shut on the ground floor and occasional footsteps. It feels as if the house itself is holding its breath.
And I am sitting here upstairs. Alone. No one has come up to speak to me, to check I am okay. But that’s all right. I have been making my next doll, listening to the quiet and wondering what will happen to us all.
July 28, 1982