The Woman by the Door

by Matthew Wilkin

It was in the summer of 1936 that I finally had the opportunity to visit the cottage at St James’ Close. Even before the events that unfolded there it was a place with which I already felt curiously acquainted. A photograph of it had sat on our family mantle for as long as I could remember and as a child I often regarded it with much longing and a kind of fanciful and unfounded nostalgia. I say unfounded for I had never actually visited the site in person. Rather my boyhood yearning for something beyond the soot-stained streets and alleys of York, an environment to which I had grown drearily accustomed, led me to visit it frequently in the vivid imaginings that only childhood can foster.

The cottage shown in the picture was, truthfully, rather non-descript – a small, somewhat squat building made of whitewashed stone with a simple thatched roof. On the front of the building stood a low, wooden door adorned with a large, almost unsightly black ringed door knocker. On either side of the door, about a foot either side, two small, sunken windows, set deeply into the thick walls, gave the building a sense of depth and sturdiness. Beyond the thin panes of glass lay shadows too deep for the eye of the camera to penetrate but which to my youthful imagination spoke of crackling fires and thick, scented stews; of rich conversation and warm laughter.

Framing the cottage was a garden of such remarkable splendour that the structure emerged from amongst it as a rock amidst the foaming breach of an ocean wave. As a boy I analysed every detail of that garden; the tall columbines with their bulbous, drooping heads, bursts of forget-me-nots and bugleweed, explosions of verbena and buddleia and patches of long-stemmed daffodils. In the foreground of the picture, almost obscured by vegetation, stood a small white gate and fence leaning forwards at an angle as it tried in vain to hold back the encroaching surge of foliage. Snap dragons, dandelions and tulips burst forth from the overgrown flowerbeds whilst a wooden trellis to the side of the cottage tenuously supported a cascade of sweet peas which ran in a frothing stream down from the thatch. Yet the detail I loved more than any other and which always drew my eye was the young woman standing by the door. She was waving at someone beyond the extremities of the frame – the photographer presumably - with one hand resting on the door frame and the other raised above her head, blurred and streaked by exposure as she motioned. Most curious of all however was her total lack of features for at the moment of taking, she must have suddenly moved or called out, causing her face to blur and smudge. The scene, murky and faded with age, nevertheless seemed to fire all my senses at once. Indeed at times I felt I might climb inside the frame and stand amidst that colourful and picturesque scene, smell the sweet, intoxicating scent of spring and excitedly return the wave of the woman by the door.

For all the hours I spent regarding the picture, I knew surprisingly little of its history, in part due to my mother’s curious reluctance to discuss it. Despite my repeated enquiries as to the details of the picture, the raising of the subject would be met with a fog of vague memories and half-remembered details. Indeed at times her whole demeanour would change. Her face would cloud with what, as a child, I regarded as uncertainty, but now, with hindsight, recognise as a kind of inscrutable fear that she dared not acknowledge. The facts that I did manage to ascertain (over a number of years) were as follows; the cottage was owned by her uncle, a man whose name was never shared with me, whose violent temper, exacerbated by alcohol and war neurosis, was unleashed frequently upon his wife. Sometime in the 1890s however the couple disappeared quite suddenly and the cottage was left abandoned. Beyond these facts my mother remained inscrutable leaving the fate of the players a melancholy uncertainty.

In 1936, my mother passed away. She and I had grown somewhat distant in her later years and though I wept at her funeral I was able to carry on with my day-to-day responsibilities without being swept away by grief. I had no real desire to return to my childhood home but I felt obliged to take stock of her possessions and to pay my respects, so on a dull Tuesday afternoon in the spring of my 32nd year I once again laid eyes on the Cottage at St James’ Close. The picture had moved since my last visit, resting facedown on top of a glass-fronted bookshelf. Turning the frame over in my hands I was struck with a memory of it so sudden and jarring that for a moment I felt light-headed. I stumbled backwards, lowering myself into an armchair and suddenly I was a boy again, my legs crossed under me, my shoulders hunched over as I peered into those dark, inviting windows. Every detail came rushing back. The iron door knocker; the sagging trellis and fence and, of course, the woman by the door. I fondly drew my thumb across her unreadable face and, noticing the displaced trail of dust it left behind, turned the frame over and removed the cracked leather backing of the frame. It was then that I saw, for the first time, the writing on the back of the picture. The sudden shock of discovering some new detail of an object I presumed myself so familiar with gave me cause to stop for a moment. The lettering, hastily scribbled in blunt pencil, read, ‘St James’ Close, Surrey, 1893. Goodbye Angelica.’ As I gazed at the words they seemed to retreat into the paper, growing smaller and smaller and in my mind’s eye I was there, by her side at the doorway, the late afternoon sun glinting in my eyes. Yet there was something else there. A feeling of anxiety and of uneasy trepidation, as though I were standing on the edge of a dark cliff from which I could either step back or lean toward. I returned home to London gazing absent-mindedly out the window of my train carriage, the photograph folded neatly in my coat pocket and my future now pointed irrevocably over that dark cliff and rushing towards towards a small, abandoned cottage in Surrey.

Looking back on the weeks that followed I marvel at my naivety. I console myself in the belief that no one could have forseen the truth that awaited me at that cottage nor expected the horrors it would bear upon me. Within a week of returning to London I had purchased half a dozen maps of Surrey and the surrounding counties, spending every evening pouring over them, feeling every inch the amateur sleuth as I searched for any sign of St James’ Close. Finally, one week to the day after arriving home, I found it – in a copse of woods outside of Halsemere, a small innocuous square marked St.JC. Grinning, I turned my eyes to the photograph, still propped on my nightstand. Yet as my eyes focussed on the woman, my elation began to fade. Her face, which just yesterday had been blurred, now seemed more in focus, her jaws clenched tightly; her eyes pleading. Taking the picture in my hand I noted with great surprise a detail previously unnoticed - a thin, vertical line crossing the girl’s ankle and disappearing through the door (which now appeared curiously ajar) - and into the darkness beyond. It was, I realised with rising disquiet, a shackle. The girl was chained to something within the cottage.

Determined and headstrong, I resolved to put aside my unease and travel to St James’ Close to see the cottage for myself. The weather was warm and bright as I made my journey by train to Haslemere. The sun radiated off the lush green fields and small red-roofed villages that hurtled past and my sense of dread was blown away by the warm, rushing air, replaced instead with one of distinct excitement. I felt once again like the boy in the armchair, hunched over and dreaming of the scent of honeysuckle and lavender. On arriving in Haslemere I made my way along Grayswood Road enjoying the gentle transformation of bustling market streets to open country lanes filled only with birdsong and the drone of crickets from amidst the hedgerows. I walked for what might have been a couple of hours, my jacket draped over my arm and sweat forming on my brow, until an opening in the trees to my left revealed a small dirt path, almost obscured by weeds and foliage. After a few moments orientating myself with my map, I stepped over the thick ivy and brambles that crowded the way and ventured into the cool darkness of the wood. The path, though overgrown, was still definable, even in the strange verdant half-light of the forest. As I pushed my way through low-hanging branches I noticed a small break in the trees through which I could make out the bright glare of sunlight reflecting from a solid, white surface. In a determined trance and with renewed vigour, I broke off from the path, stumbling through the undergrowth and emerging in a clearing of such natural serenity that I audibly gasped. It was nothing less than my childhood dreams become manifest.

The cottage sat pristine and glowing amongst the flowering garden and I was overcome with the scent of hyacinth and jasmine. It was as if time had stayed its hand and let this clearing remain in its youthful prime – there was the gate, hung unevenly amidst the mass of vegetation and over there the frothing mass of sweetpeas pouring down the sagging trellis on the outer wall. As I approached the door, still ajar and adorned with its unsightly metal ring, I was suddenly overcome with the powerfully sweet, intoxicating scent of nectar. As if in a dream, I saw my hand reach out toward the rough surface of the door and watched as it swung open with a smoothness that defied its age, drawing me once again over that cliff edge and into the darkness beyond.

I knew at once that something was wrong. Some intangible instinct, buried deep within me, began to awaken and vibrate. The light seeping through the murky panes illuminated a scene of devastation and ruin quite at odds with the exterior I had left behind. The floor, wet and stinking of rot, was strewn with dead leaves and detritus while chairs and furniture lay scattered in disarray. In the centre of the room a long table, coated in muck and grime, lay set as if for supper. 

Even now, years later I struggle to recall what I became aware of first – whether it was the sound or the movement – yet I know that my eyes were drawn to the head of the table where a thick, black rope lay strewn, winding amongst the table settings. To my mounting horror I watched as the rope began to slide sluggishly across the table, its thick, unwinding coils slowly displacing the carefully placed settings. Yet as it moved I realised that it was not in fact a rope, but rather a chain, being dragged slowly and purposefully into the shadows in the corner of the room. I became sharply aware of the sweat clinging to my back in cold droplets and of a spreading panic deep within my chest. The chain slipped from the table with a jarring clank of metal on stone and after pausing for a moment, continued its slow, relentless slither towards the shadows, where I now, in abject terror, saw a figure crouching in the darkness. The chain was pulled hand over hand, tighter and tighter until it lifted from the floor and pulled taught, suspended and vibrating under the strain. I drew my gaze along the length of the chain to its opposite end where it clung, padlocked, to a black iron stove. A rattle of breath long held wheezed slowly from the thing in the corner pulling my gaze back to the apparition. My own breath faltered, my eyes fixed on the darkness. Then it spoke. The voice – dear God, I hear it still – rasping and crackling like dry, crumbling leaves. ‘He never came back,’ it choked. ‘He swore he would come back.’ My hands rose to my mouth as the true cruelty and madness my great uncle had inflicted on his wife became clear. He had indeed left St James’ Close - but without her. 1893. Goodbye Angelica. As my mind raced, the chain slackened, dropping to the floor as the figure in the corner rose up and with a wave of stench and rot stepped into the dim light. I turned and fell, my hand latching instinctively onto the steel door-knocker beside me. I swung into the door, injuring my shoulder as I once again heard the rapid scraping of the chain accompanied by hurried footsteps approaching me from inside the cottage. Moaning in blind fear I managed to steady myself and ran stumbling through the garden before losing my balance altogether and collapsing in a heap on the forest floor. Scrambling to my feet, I launched myself beyond the treeline but not before glancing back. In one terrible moment I saw the cottage, ruined and derelict, the thatch roof rotted away, the walls cracked and exposed. The garden, which moments before had bloomed so beautifully, was now a dark tangle of weeds and thorns and by the door, stood the woman, her face still grey and blurred and the chain tight around her ankle as she waved and waved and waved.

Though it happened too many years ago to count, I often think of St James’ Close, though in truth I would rather not. At Christmas or Hallow’s Eve my friends take turns telling ghost stories of headless horsemen and jabbering skeletons as they laugh and squeal in delight. I remain silent. I know what ghosts truly are. They are an odour. A lingering memory that clings to places and people like the stench of rotting leaves. I still have the photograph, creased and dog-eared after many years of handling and I still find myself looking at it regularly. I have to. For every time I look, Angelica has moved slightly further from the house; the chain stretched a little longer. She is on her way to me and one day soon, when I can no longer see her in the picture I will know it shan’t be long till I hear the scraping of chains and the smell of damp leaves and I will get to revisit St James’ Close once more.