A Summer's Spirit
by Amanda Long
He could feel her in the room with him.
Lifting his head from where he had the forehead pressed against the wooden table, his eyes blinked in a hazy daze.
It was late into a summer night, the darkness pressing against the glass of the windows, but the thick heat sweltered against his skin. Edwin had loosened his cravat hours before, yanking off his coat to toss it across the back of a chair.
It was the first summer without her. His wife, Hazel, had perished in the early morning of a winter’s day. Her breath had misted in a cloud above her head, as the cold had settled into the room during those hours just before sunrise. Now, Edwin was sitting amongst the abhorring heat, feeling it slip between his long white shirt and skin, pooling between the fine hairs on his arms.
For those months since the cold melted into the dew and sunlight, he would swear he saw Hazel out of the corner of his eyes. It would be a flash—a dull color of her red hair, a swish of deep blue skirts behind the doorway. His friends told him to drink away the pain, to forget about his wife’s untimely death. But he would find himself sobbing on the counters of the tavern, muttering how he wished it hadn’t happened in such a way, how they were both too haunted for this world, and then she had died. She had been ripped from this world, her hair scattered across a pillowcase, pale nightgown switched with black lace in a casket.
When he told his friends the first night about witnessing a swish of her spirit, they told him he had been drinking too much. It seemed, to them, once he tore his way through alcohol to keep the nightmares away at night, to keep the quiet from swallowing him hole, that, in turn, it tore him apart. Haunted by one’s dead wife? How appalling.
Edwin, however, knew better. He knew the touch of lavender Hazel would put beneath her ears on her neck. The scent would waft in the room moments after he thought he saw a flash of color. Her favorite teapot—one gifted from her mother as a wedding present, an antique from her grandmother—would turn in a circle, a flame would light beneath it. Sometimes, Edwin thought he would hear her chuckle in the shadows of their bedroom, as the door would creak open ever so slightly.
He blamed it on guilt. He had been there when she had taken her last breath, as her body had rippled and cried before death. Shock had broken him, gaping down at her body once her pale green eyes gazed up toward the ceiling, lips parted slightly. He grappled with the fact that Hazel had died in their bed, against his touch. She was too young, much too young, to die in such a godawful way.
Guilt. He understood it well. His friends attempted to soothe him, to appease his broken heart over the death of his wife. For the year before her untimely death, they had quarreled. Many in their circle hadn’t known what their core issues were, but Hazel and Edwin knew—there were wayward looks, wayward talks with others. Jealousy snuck between the cracks of their marriage, shredding the pieces of their adoration and love for one another. Edwin knew he was at fault for the fights, he knew it all stemmed from him.
Drinking made him forget. He loved Hazel with every breath he took when they had first met six years before their marriage. He wooed her on the streets, beneath the stars. He befriended her father to ask for her hand. They had married on a midsummer evening, the grass dying underneath their feet—an omen, he should have known. And yet, sometimes, love wasn’t enough.
Rubbing his eyes, taking another swig of his drink, Edwin stared ahead into the room. It was lit by two candles, the orange glow minimal and hardly casting away any shadows. It was only enough he could walk through the room without crashing into the desk and chair. The fireplace was empty, as it had been too hot for a fire. This night was too hot, this room was too suffocating.
He sensed her in the room; he could taste her perfume, lingering on his tongue. The sweat from the heat and the alcohol dripped down his temples, slicking down his black hair, moistening his mustache. Running a hand through his hair, he glanced around the room. No matter the alcohol he had drowned down his throat, he couldn’t make her go away, he couldn’t stop thinking of Hazel and what had happened.
“I know you are here,” he called out, slamming his palms against the desktop, his words a little slurred like his vision, and his throat ached. His eyes flicked quickly to the calendar at his left, and he muttered a groan. Their anniversary. How could he have forgotten?
In front of him, the door pushed open a little. The light from the candles in the hall crept along the floorboards. He waited, his chest tightening, as he watched fingers, one by one, curl around the edge of the door. They were a ghostly blueish white, a pale comparison to the true skin tone, and a glittering ring glinted on the third finger.
The billowing of a skirt came next, a hazy purple. Then a figure came around the corner, the reddish hair a lighter orange in this form, but it was in fact his wife. Hazel; from the severe nose to the thin lips, the jutted chin. She was beautiful if one looked at her from a certain angle, but straight on, Hazel was too many angles and sharpness.
As he watched her enter the room, he gave her a wide smile. The alcohol and guilt had eaten away his terror of witnessing his dead wife walk into his office, though he couldn’t quite believe she was there. Hazel, Hazel, Hazel. He rose to his feet, unsure if he would cry at her presence or try to hug her spirit.
The closer she came to his desk, the more memories flashed through his mind. The way she laughed. The whispers she told him late at night. The decorations of flowers in her hair on their wedding day. The long looks at his brother one dinner. The sight of her in bed with Edwin’s little brother weeks prior to her death.
His heart twisted as she approached, stopping just before him. She stared at him, her eyes lacking sparkle, her face expressionless. He choked out, “Hazel, my dear.”
He remembered the rage that had simmered in his blood every time he had looked at her, recalling the sight of her body entangled with his brother’s. He remembered the rage as she had laid there, the life dimming from her eyes, just beneath his touch.
A growling snarl escaped from Hazel’s spirit, and she shot over the desk, something like sharp fingers digging into his temples. Her eyes seemed to glow red, her lips twisted in utter fury. As he felt them shredding into his eyes, breaking open skin, he laughed and laughed and laughed.
She knew.
She knew.
Lifting his head from where he had the forehead pressed against the wooden table, his eyes blinked in a hazy daze.
It was late into a summer night, the darkness pressing against the glass of the windows, but the thick heat sweltered against his skin. Edwin had loosened his cravat hours before, yanking off his coat to toss it across the back of a chair.
It was the first summer without her. His wife, Hazel, had perished in the early morning of a winter’s day. Her breath had misted in a cloud above her head, as the cold had settled into the room during those hours just before sunrise. Now, Edwin was sitting amongst the abhorring heat, feeling it slip between his long white shirt and skin, pooling between the fine hairs on his arms.
For those months since the cold melted into the dew and sunlight, he would swear he saw Hazel out of the corner of his eyes. It would be a flash—a dull color of her red hair, a swish of deep blue skirts behind the doorway. His friends told him to drink away the pain, to forget about his wife’s untimely death. But he would find himself sobbing on the counters of the tavern, muttering how he wished it hadn’t happened in such a way, how they were both too haunted for this world, and then she had died. She had been ripped from this world, her hair scattered across a pillowcase, pale nightgown switched with black lace in a casket.
When he told his friends the first night about witnessing a swish of her spirit, they told him he had been drinking too much. It seemed, to them, once he tore his way through alcohol to keep the nightmares away at night, to keep the quiet from swallowing him hole, that, in turn, it tore him apart. Haunted by one’s dead wife? How appalling.
Edwin, however, knew better. He knew the touch of lavender Hazel would put beneath her ears on her neck. The scent would waft in the room moments after he thought he saw a flash of color. Her favorite teapot—one gifted from her mother as a wedding present, an antique from her grandmother—would turn in a circle, a flame would light beneath it. Sometimes, Edwin thought he would hear her chuckle in the shadows of their bedroom, as the door would creak open ever so slightly.
He blamed it on guilt. He had been there when she had taken her last breath, as her body had rippled and cried before death. Shock had broken him, gaping down at her body once her pale green eyes gazed up toward the ceiling, lips parted slightly. He grappled with the fact that Hazel had died in their bed, against his touch. She was too young, much too young, to die in such a godawful way.
Guilt. He understood it well. His friends attempted to soothe him, to appease his broken heart over the death of his wife. For the year before her untimely death, they had quarreled. Many in their circle hadn’t known what their core issues were, but Hazel and Edwin knew—there were wayward looks, wayward talks with others. Jealousy snuck between the cracks of their marriage, shredding the pieces of their adoration and love for one another. Edwin knew he was at fault for the fights, he knew it all stemmed from him.
Drinking made him forget. He loved Hazel with every breath he took when they had first met six years before their marriage. He wooed her on the streets, beneath the stars. He befriended her father to ask for her hand. They had married on a midsummer evening, the grass dying underneath their feet—an omen, he should have known. And yet, sometimes, love wasn’t enough.
Rubbing his eyes, taking another swig of his drink, Edwin stared ahead into the room. It was lit by two candles, the orange glow minimal and hardly casting away any shadows. It was only enough he could walk through the room without crashing into the desk and chair. The fireplace was empty, as it had been too hot for a fire. This night was too hot, this room was too suffocating.
He sensed her in the room; he could taste her perfume, lingering on his tongue. The sweat from the heat and the alcohol dripped down his temples, slicking down his black hair, moistening his mustache. Running a hand through his hair, he glanced around the room. No matter the alcohol he had drowned down his throat, he couldn’t make her go away, he couldn’t stop thinking of Hazel and what had happened.
“I know you are here,” he called out, slamming his palms against the desktop, his words a little slurred like his vision, and his throat ached. His eyes flicked quickly to the calendar at his left, and he muttered a groan. Their anniversary. How could he have forgotten?
In front of him, the door pushed open a little. The light from the candles in the hall crept along the floorboards. He waited, his chest tightening, as he watched fingers, one by one, curl around the edge of the door. They were a ghostly blueish white, a pale comparison to the true skin tone, and a glittering ring glinted on the third finger.
The billowing of a skirt came next, a hazy purple. Then a figure came around the corner, the reddish hair a lighter orange in this form, but it was in fact his wife. Hazel; from the severe nose to the thin lips, the jutted chin. She was beautiful if one looked at her from a certain angle, but straight on, Hazel was too many angles and sharpness.
As he watched her enter the room, he gave her a wide smile. The alcohol and guilt had eaten away his terror of witnessing his dead wife walk into his office, though he couldn’t quite believe she was there. Hazel, Hazel, Hazel. He rose to his feet, unsure if he would cry at her presence or try to hug her spirit.
The closer she came to his desk, the more memories flashed through his mind. The way she laughed. The whispers she told him late at night. The decorations of flowers in her hair on their wedding day. The long looks at his brother one dinner. The sight of her in bed with Edwin’s little brother weeks prior to her death.
His heart twisted as she approached, stopping just before him. She stared at him, her eyes lacking sparkle, her face expressionless. He choked out, “Hazel, my dear.”
He remembered the rage that had simmered in his blood every time he had looked at her, recalling the sight of her body entangled with his brother’s. He remembered the rage as she had laid there, the life dimming from her eyes, just beneath his touch.
A growling snarl escaped from Hazel’s spirit, and she shot over the desk, something like sharp fingers digging into his temples. Her eyes seemed to glow red, her lips twisted in utter fury. As he felt them shredding into his eyes, breaking open skin, he laughed and laughed and laughed.
She knew.
She knew.
Amanda Long is a writer from the Bay Area in California. She's a graduate from San Jose State University with a bachelor's in English Literature. She works at a bookstore and loves absorbing all kinds of storytelling. When she's not spending time with friends or laughing with her coworkers and managers, she's finding new stories to tell.