A PATAKI CHRISTMAS CAROL
Stave 2 – Miriam's Ghost (Part 1)
Helga knew, as she approached her house, that it was some time after 10pm. 'Stupid Football Head keeping me out in this freezing weather. If I die of pneumonia I'll kill him'. Beyond that, she knew there would be no problem. Sixteen, fourteen, twelve, it didn't matter – the days of Big Bob caring about setting her a curfew were long gone, and the more time she was out of there the better. Reaching the entrance, Helga turned to her pocket, rooting around for her keys, until a low shift in the light at the corner of her eye drew her attention back to the door.
Few people in the neighbourhood cared about having a door knocker, but Bob had once been one of them. Another status symbol, like his obnoxious, camo Hummer. Helga always thought the wrought metal lion's head, fairly small but thick and heavy, was ostentatious and pointless; it clashed ridiculously with the mostly-glass door, and everyone used the doorbell regardless. The edifice, once gleaming black, was now rusted and uglier than ever. But this is not what Helga saw. In the place of the knocker, surrounded by a pale, ethereal light, was the ghostly-white face of Miriam Pataki.
Helga was very, very rarely stunned to silence, but who could be blamed at a time such as this. Blinking her eyes rapidly, the face remained, eyes closed behind lopsided, square-rimmed glasses and straight, light-blonde hair waving gently, as if suspended in water. "Mo… Miriam?" Helga whispered, as she slowly extended a trembling hand, her own face now merely inches from the bizarre vision in front of her. At that moment, the previously closed eyes of Miriam Pataki shot open – Helga barely had time to release a small shriek as she reflexively propelled herself from the door, landing painfully at the edge of her stoop. Looking back, Helga rubbed her eyes; only the rusted, grinning lion remained.
Helga's mind raced as she shakily rose to her feet. 'That didn't happen. That wasn't real. It's late, I'm hungry and I probably knocked my head when jolly old Saint Arnoldo whammed into me before. Take a dee-eep breath Helga ol' girl…' Helga found her keys, mentally swearing to herself that this event never happened and would never be mentioned again, internally or otherwise. Especially not to Dr Bliss – she would have a field day. Opening the door, semi-consciously avoiding the taunting gaze of the lion knocker, she was greeted by the usual sight of her home. A dark, dusty corridor, now starting to smell vaguely of damp. A dim light and low sounds emanated from the trophy room down the hall. Removing her boots and coat, Helga resolved to perform her nightly rounds. She left the lights off, preferring the peace and stillness of the darkness. The trophy room was a poorly maintained museum. Each of its relics, once polished to a proud and gleaming shine, was now a dusty reminder of a girl who was no longer there. And in its centre, Big Bob Pataki dozed in his chair. By the empty bowl on the table next to him, and the fresh stains on his already-marked vest, Helga could tell that he had, at some point, succeeded in making himself a bowl of soup. She regarded Bob with disinterest, he wasn't so big anymore. With Bob barely able to function, and with an absentee Olga, the reigns of the formerly-beeper-now-cell phone 'empire' had been passed to an eager partner in the business. The small income Bob still received as a semi-retired partner paid for the house, and for the meagre amount of food that himself and Helga deigned to eat. Beyond that, they barely drove, they never travelled, they never ate out or took in shows (Helga's thoughts briefly turned to distant memories of steakhouses and terrible, singing, dancing Rats, but those thoughts were quickly dismissed). What little was left once the few bills were paid, plus whatever Helga earned here and there, she tidied away into a college fund. Bob had no need of it, and Bob no longer cared. Switching off the TV from whatever dull gameshow was playing, Helga moved on to the kitchen. Helga did her best to keep it clean, she lived here after all, and the only mess visible was the small pot and empty can from her father's soup. Placing these in the sink, for now, and taking a clean bowl, Helga prepared a small bowl of sugary cereal and ascended to her own room.
On the surface, Helga's bedroom had changed little, though her shelves were now filled with academic literature. Her old books of romance, fantasy and poetry had long-since been discarded. She had stopped writing in journals some time ago, once their contents started to depress her. Entering her closet to find pyjamas, Helga's eyes wandered to the trapdoor above, and she knew that THAT was where the biggest change to her room lay. The secret space, once filled with pink notebooks, colourful lights and always, always an elaborate, football-shaped shrine, was now empty. Vacant. Helga thought this was entirely appropriate, and preferred not to dwell on whether her refusal to use the space for another purpose was a deliberate statement to this end. She had no more room in her life for silly fantasies or girlish prose. Changing into her nightwear, Helga lay in her bed, eating her meagre dinner and idly attempting to think about Romeo and Juliet for her report without remembering a particular grade school play.
Shortly afterwards, and just as Helga's consciousness began to fade, she was startled awake by her cell phone's sudden buzz. She glared, blearily, at the screen – an unknown caller. Never one to be nervous or shy about such things, she answered.
"What?" she offered in a low growl
There was no response. No greeting, no static, no sound. Cursing about scam callers, Helga put down the phone. Almost instantly, however, the phone buzzed again, somehow seeming even louder in her now-awake state. Before she could react, the noise was joined by the ringing of the house phone, the doorbell, and what Helga quickly surmised were the dozen or more sample cell phones stored in her father's bedroom. 'But those phones don't have batteries…' she was able to coherently think, before the awful cacophony came to an instant, simultaneous halt. Never before had Helga understood how a silence could be deafening. No shouts or motion downstairs. 'How did Bob not hear that? How did the people across the street not hear that?' It was as Helga finished asking herself these questions that, finally, the silence was broken once more. From below, Helga began to hear soft footfalls, distant at first but quickly, she realised to her discomfort, coming closer as they touched upon the stairs. 'That isn't Bob!' Helga fretted to herself, 'Bob still stomps when he actually bothers to move! Well nobody robs Helga G. Pataki!' Having been paralysed by the bizarre ringing experienced moments ago, Helga was grateful to find herself able to quietly jump from her bed and, on instinct, grab the wooden baseball bat from underneath it – a long untouched remnant of times at Gerald Field. The footsteps were close now, very close. She knew that the intruder, whoever they may be, had reached the landing and was unhesitatingly approaching her door.
Bracing herself, bat raised, Helga was an instant away from throwing open the door and descending on the interloper with the fury for which she was famed, when her hand was stayed by two, almost simultaneous events. Firstly, her nose wrinkled as she detected a strong, burning odour; an unwelcome and (she would soon realise) familiar blend of strong spirits and sweet fruit. The second was the sudden appearance of a pale, softly-glowing hand phasing through the door's wooden panels. Repeating her earlier backward leap threefold, Helga sprang away, wide eyed, to the foot of her bed as more of the spectral figure entered her bedroom. She recognised the entity immediately.
"MIRIAM?!" she cried, before unleashing (for the first time in many years) a high, panicked, deafening shriek, loud enough to dwarf the earlier ringing.
Several miles away, Arnold stepped out of the hospital, tilted his head and turned to the smoking, off-duty EMT beside him.
"Hey, did you hear something just now?"
"Nah." The EMT shrugged and returned to his cigarette.
Arnold shivered, and started his journey home.