The Half That You See by Rebecca Rowland (best summer reads .TXT) 📕

we would remain “forever.” Ms. Sheriff, the real estate agent, called on us and said the contesting heirs of the estate had gotten together again and had agreed to sell to us at a much-reduced price because of “our great love of the house.” Right there, on the spot, Martin agreed. This news was greeted in the village by such effusions of friendliness that I must be a cynic to doubt their affection. Once all of the various authorities had finished with the “case,” the Parson of our village announced “a proper funerary service for the child.” Because of the newsworthiness of the entire business, this rite attracted more people than could be held within the church. The lad was buried under his own gravestone far from that of the step-mother. And so, life went on as before. Apparently.

Not long after, and I suppose, to further alleviate any misgivings I might still harbor, the Camden Town carpenter brought photos to us that his assistant’s twelve-year old lad had taken of the operation. I remember the boy had his phone’s camera up the entire time. There they were exactly as I remembered them: the men shoving in the door. The next photo with the door down showed a strange white smudge of some sort in the photographed doorway. The one after showed the white smudge again, and the last photo, too, and there, the white smudge which rose halfway up our bodies in height was past where Martin and I stood as we were about to go in. “Don’t you see, Mum?” the carpenter gently asked. I looked and looked, so he explained, “It’s kind of distorted, but see! This white? It’s a spirit! That’s how they photograph. Here he’s running past you out into the air! And here,” at the third photo, “he has his hands up in the air. The little boy. At last he’s free!”

I let him and all of them believe that I believed his explanation; but to me, those white blotches were merely weird refractions of the light and dust that day. I let everyone believe that I understood and was comfortable with their explanations. What else could I do? I was now the Doyenne of the Shire. It was shortly after that when the local CID came to interview me. She was very proper and delicate and sensitive to any possible queasiness I might still have had. She asked me many questions Martin and I had both answered before and then asked if, while I stood on the lintel not daring to go in, I had seen what was carved out by the little boy on the immured room’s wainscoting.

“It’s with the historical society now, I believe. The entire wall,” I told her. Yes, she knew. But had I read it? Yes, I had. In looking away from his body, I’d lit upon it. Starting a few feet off the ground, as though by a small child standing, I’d read:

The dor is loct agains me.

I nock and nock but no one cums

Further down, as though he might be kneeling or sitting, and possibly upon another day entirely, he had carved out:

The windo is no longr ther

I hav no fud I hav no drinc

I nock and nock but no one will cum

And at the very bottom, mere inches from the ground, was carved out very raggedly:

I nock and nock but no one will cum

now I must go sleep

She was content with my answers, meaning, I suppose, that no one had added to or taken away from the messages, and she left saying I would not be bothered again.

I am bothered. Although we’ve settled into the house and it is filled with guests and friends and folks from the village, and our family visits often, there are still moments when I lie tossing in bed, having awakened too early, unable to go back to sleep. I always think back to those messages and I hope and pray that after having carved those last letters, he never woke again.

And then there are those times that I awaken suddenly out of a bad dream I’ve barely escaped, in the blackest middle of the night, and I hear him tapping.

Elsewhere

Bill Davidson

Colin Gregory came awake just before the radio-alarm sounded, reaching out a long arm to turn the volume to silent, just as he did every morning. Then he lay very still, also just as he did every morning, a Godless man praying that this would be a good day for Beth.

One without pain.

Soon enough, the usual irritating patchwork of noises intruded. The closest was Denise, snoring lightly beside him. Not an unpleasant sound exactly, but it was so close that it was right on top of him.

A year ago, before his mother moved in with them, there was a little bit more legroom as their bed was a super-king. The sort where you could retreat a few feet, get yourself some space. But the old woman had been forced to fit an entire life into a single bedroom, so he and Denise gave the master up. The super-king had barely left space to stand in this, much smaller, room, so it had given way to a standard double.

The resident on the floor below, someone Colin didn’t know, wouldn’t even recognize, had left the radio on. Capital probably, maybe Radio 1, something with noisy music and brash young voices. It occurred to Colin that it would be a lot less irritating if it was tuned to another station, music he knew and liked.

Mum, a poor sleeper and relentlessly wheezy breather, was already up, wandering the apartment, going to the toilet without closing the door, a habit she struggled to leave behind now she was sharing this apartment. The main noise, though, was traffic. That rumble never really stopped, even in the early hours, and living on the tenth floor didn’t seem to help. At this time, it sounded like everybody in London was out there, revving engines and laying