Does Time Stand Still

By: Connie Vigil Platt
September 11, 2008

Abigail Myers, well past girlhood, at age thirty-two, a trifle overweight with a pasty complexion and stringy mouse colored hair, had never been considered a pretty girl. In a frantic attempt to become popular she dyed her hair a blond color that was never to be found in nature. She used a heavy hand to apply make-up to compensate for lack of looks.

She was desperate to be accepted by her acquaintances. As a child she had imaginary friends and as an adult she wanted a boyfriend more than anything else in the world.

By the time the lawyers got through settling the estate of her parents, she still had enough left to enable her to buy the home of her dreams and a tidy trust fund for a steady income. The money was designed to come every month as long as she was single. If she married the money was to be donated to help unwanted animals. Her parents set it up this way so fortune hunters couldn’t take advantage of her.

Since she had no need to work to earn a living, Abigail decided to buy a great old drafty house with lots of character.

The realtor found her a house had that was a great two story fourteen room brick Victorian mansion with white painted lacy gingerbread trim all around the porch, making it look like an old fashioned wedding cake, a large lush lawn with a fenced garden in the back with white, pink and red roses climbing around a trellis.

She chose the upstairs bedroom facing the backyard for her special room. It had lacy curtains on the windows and delicate wallpaper on the walls. She thought the flowered pattern with a blue background was relaxing it looked new and it fit the room. That way she could look out on a clear night and watch the animals in the yard. She would sit on the windowsill, brushing her long brown hair, and dream about what it must have been like when the house was new. Women in long ball gowns and men in fancy dress with elaborate carriages and high stepping horses while the people entertained guests.

The house was completely furnished so she had a brass four-poster bed and a handmade quilt; a dressing table with a padded stool, a three-panel mirror had hinges so you could position it to see your reflection from different angles, and a wooden rocker Abigail placed next to the window. It was fast becoming a bedroom out of a design magazine. She had always preferred filmy, lacy long pastel colored dresses with flowing sleeves, her plump arms encased in folds of delicate material. So she fit right in the time period when the house was built.

The second night she was there she heard a muffled hum outside. When she went to the window there was only a sliver of moon shinning through the tree branches making everything seem muted or fuzzy. Looking down she could see the shadow outline of two people, a man and a woman. It looked as if they were arguing. But it was hard to see with the poor light. It seemed as if the woman was trying to leave and the man was holding her. Abigail couldn’t make out what they were saying but after a short while the woman evidently agreed to what the man wanted and they left arm and arm. Walking across the grass toward the garden gate.

Abigail went to bed thinking no more of it. Probably the neighbors had company, as she didn’t recognize who they were. She didn’t really know any of the people in the surrounding houses; she only knew them by sight as she kept to herself, being reclusive by nature.

The next night as she sat dozing in her chair, again she heard something out the window. Sort of like a low subdued drone, she looked out and the same man and woman of the night before were sitting in a swing and he appeared to be whispering in her ear. She couldn’t hear what they were saying but every now and then the sound of a girlish giggle would waft upwards. She opened the window to hear better but they left soon after. This time they were a little clearer. She didn’t remember a swing in the yard but made a mental note to check on it by the light of day.

In the morning Abigail went outside and there was no swing. The only lawn furniture was the ornate wrought iron table and chairs shaded by the leafy oak tree. She rationalized that she must have gone to sleep in her rocker and dreamed of a more relaxed time, when people could sit and talk on a swing on a summer night. It was so real but dreams often are.

An elderly neighbor was outside picking flowers when she saw Abigail. “Well hello. Abby?”

“Yes I am but how did you know my name?”

“Aren’t you some relation to Abigail Miller Birner? The woman that was killed in that house?”

“No but can you tell me anything about her?” Abigail shivered as if a goose walked over her grave.

“Well the story is that Jacob Birner came home from his office down town and killed his wife with the fireplace poker. It so happened it was her birthday. She was only thirty-two. You look so much like her. Would you like to see a picture? My grandmother lived here in this house at the time. It was a terrible tragedy It made all the papers. Nobody seems to want to live here now. My grandmother used to tell me about them, she said they seemed to be nice people but a little stand-offish. I’ll go get that picture now.”

Abigail nodded.

The old woman went in the house and came back with a faded cracked photograph. As well as Abigail could tell she did have a slight resemblance to the dead woman.

She let her hair go back to her natural color and started arranging it as close as she could to the woman in the garden. She dressed like her as much as she could.

Every night she watched this man and woman. The woman usually wore a floor length gauzy dress while the man wore dark pants and a white shirt the sleeves held by armbands, he seldom had on a coat. It seemed as if he had gotten home from an office and was relaxing with his wife before dinner.

Then Abigail started seeing them in the daytime, sometimes sitting on a blanket on the grass drinking lemonade. The woman would be wearing a large floppy straw hat to keep the sun off her delicate features. Once they were playing croquet, swinging the mallets and laughing gaily as the balls rolled off in the wrong direction. The woman wore her long dark hair in a complicated mass of curls while the man looked handsome and dapper even in shirtsleeves.

These people had to be from a different time but Abigail was so enchanted by them it didn’t matter. Every time she saw the woman a tingle ran through her body She was so obsessed she started copying the dress style of the woman.

She didn’t want to leave the house for fear they would do something she might miss. The manifestations were becoming more defined, becoming clearer the oftener she saw them. She had given up entirely on her writing she was too engrossed in watching them. She still had never gotten a good look at them. Every time she saw them they seemed to be getting more substantial then the shadows she saw at first.

Once when she went to bed the quilt was rumpled and there was an indention in the pillow, as if someone had gotten up in a hurry.

She let her hair go dark and spent a good deal of time brushing and curling, trying to make it look like the woman in her visions. One day while sitting at her dressing table Abigail looked in the mirror, the glass clouded and she saw an image behind her. One that wasn’t her reflection, she turned to an empty room. Turning back she saw a shadow form; more of an outline, in one of the side mirrors, then it was gone like a wisp of smoke before she could identify it. Leaving a faint aroma of perfume in the wake. Every time she sat at the dressing table after that she saw the shadow image, sometimes two figures along with the faint aroma of some exotic perfume. Shadows and smells that hovered on the edge of consciousness.

All at once the couple seemed to be always fighting. He would grab her and shake her. She would pull loose and run away, he would stand and shout at her. Abigail was never able to make out the words but it was obvious that the good times were over. Doors would slam and bedsprings would creak as if someone had flopped down on a bed in one of the other rooms. Abigail did hear what sounded like sobs from time to time. As if a woman was crying.

Abigail went to the doorway, “Can I do something for you?” She asked the empty room. She felt a slight draft of wind in answer.

Late one night, after Abigail had gone to bed, there was shouting then a thump downstairs, a crash of furniture followed by the sound of breaking glass and a woman’s scream, Abigail sat up in bed clutching the covers to her chest. With a trembling hand she turned on the bed lamp and reached for the telephone to call 911, her fingers slipped off the phone twice before she got the call made.

When the operator answered Abigail said. “There’s someone in the house. I’m all alone can you send someone?”

“Has there been a fire or an accident?” the operator asked.

“I don’t know send someone Please.” Abigail said.

“You must know if it’s a fire or an accident.”

“Yes, an accident I guess.”

“Give me your address and I’ll get someone out there as soon as I can. Don’t leave the house and do not accost the intruder.” The operator answered in a bored voice.

“I won’t, I won’t, and will you stay on the line with me until they get here?” Abigail asked. Huddling under the blankets she stuttered out her address.

Abigail could hear the operator sigh. “I suppose I can. They should be there any minute now.” She said.

Looking out the window Abigail saw the flashing red light of the patrol car.

“There’re here. I’ll hang up now thank you.” Abigail told the operator as she heard the phone hang up.

There was banging on the door.

“Open up! Police! Open up. Can you hear me lady?”

“I’m coming, don’t go away!” Abigail shouted.

She scrambled out of bed turning on the lights as she went. She made it downstairs without tripping and jerked open the front door.

There were two uniformed officers standing on the porch, a young woman and an older man. The made their way into the house and turned on the lights in the living room. A vase had toppled from the mantle and a chair was knocked over, a mirror that hung over the fireplace had crashed to the floor and lay in glittering shards; the coffee table was pushed in the middle of the room. The fire poker was lying on the rug instead of in the fireplace rack where it was supposed to be. The two policemen looked at the devastation in the room and then looked at each other.

“How long have you lived here? Has anything like this happened before?” the woman asked. Her eyes flicked around the room landing on the wall above the mantle where now hung a painting of a dark haired young woman.

Abigail felt a shiver run up her spine as she looked at the picture.

“I’ve been here about three months I guess. No nothing like this has happened before. It’s a quiet neighborhood.”

“Is that you or a relative?” the woman officer asked pointing to the portrait.

“Oh no, that’s not me I don’t know where that picture came from. I don’t remember seeing it before now.” Abigail answered staring at the picture in wonder. It the woman in the picture was the same woman in the garden. The same woman the neighbor has shown her.

“Have you seen or heard anything before tonight?” The woman deputy asked ignoring the statement that Abigail didn’t know the woman.

Abigail stared at her without answering she was sure they would think she was crazy if she told them what she had been seeing, a man and woman fighting, picnicking on the lawn, watching her in the mirror. Looking down she saw a red stain on the carpet that hadn’t been there before.

Both of the officer’s eyes followed her gaze.

“Years ago a woman was killed in this room. She was only thirty-two,” the male officer said.

Abigail stared at the likeness on the wall; at his words, a shock went through her body as if a lightening bolt had struck her. Today it was her birthday, she was thirty-two.

“We’ll wait while you get some things to take with you.” The officer said.

“No thanks I’d better stay here and clean up.” Abigail answered.

In the cold hard light of morning things looked differently, by afternoon she was back to her old self. Abby took a tray of lemonade to the table under the oak tree. She sat and waited. Before long the man she had been seeing in the garden came and sat beside her.

“Are you alone?” Abigail/Abby asked.

“No you’re here.” he said and put his arm around her holding her tenderly.” We won’t be bothered by anyone now.”

“You’ll never hit me with the fireplace poker again will you?” Abby snuggled closer in his arms, looking up and smiling.

“No of course not.” He shook his head. “When you told me you were leaving me for your lover and you stumbled and fell against the fireplace tools. I was so distraught I took my own life.”

Abigail had arranged her hair in an amazing array of curls. Her cheeks pink with excitement making her almost pretty as she sighed with contentment. The transformation was complete, Abigail had become Abby.

Abigail shook her head no. “I didn’t know that but I never did consider another man, all I ever wanted is you. I never had a lover, nobody could compare to you.”

No one has seen Abigail Myers outside of the house for years. The town’s people consider her to be an eccentric recluse. The bills are pushed through a slot in the door. She has her groceries delivered and pays by mail. Little children avoid the house at all times but claim to hear strange noises on October nights with a full moon.

Abigail/Abby has finally found someone to appreciate her qualities and help her spend her money.