PRELUDE

Pearl slumped over her porridge, drifting into a deep slumber that providence marked as her last. Tears trickled down Thomas’ weathered cheeks as he reached across the table and dabbed the corner of her mouth with his napkin. “It’ll all be over soon enough, my love.”

Puffy and red-eyed, Thomas scanned the quaint kitchen that had hosted nearly every meal in their 50-year marriage. His eyes hovered on a photo of their wedding day, he and his bride standing in the June sun outside St. Michael’s Church. To Thomas, the photo never did Pearl justice. She was exquisite. Across the room, his eyes caught the chipped dishware, the first purchase they made as a couple, nestled in the antique glass cupboard they inherited from his parents. On the wall next to the cupboard, a photo of their last holiday to Malta, wearing their matching raffia hats, hung tilted on a crooked nail. Thomas strove in vain to preserve these sweet memories, but they retreated like waves on a shore, supplanted by the terrible act he had just committed—even if it were inevitable.

Thomas pushed himself from the table and cleared the dishes one last time. He set them in the sink and stared as the water washed over the bowl, rinsing away the evidence down the drain. Not that he cared anymore; he didn’t intend to cover up his deed.

As he dried the bowl and returned it to the cupboard, the whispers of the other woman floated through the lips and voice of Pearl. An occurrence all too common these days, even when Pearl slept. Thomas leaned forward on the counter, squeezing his eyes shut, and prayed, wishing away Pearl’s torment in her last moments. He thought back to the unattended kitchen knife and the carving of those words Pearl had gouged into the table—and the cuts into her wrists. Shallow and hesitant, but there had been blood. Oh god, so much blood. Thomas grimaced at the memory, using it to excuse his evil act and blame the other woman—she gave them no recourse.

But the act was done. It wouldn’t matter any longer, at least for him and Pearl.

Thomas hung the towel on the rack and closed the cupboard door. He sat back on the counter, wiping his tears with his sleeve, and marshaled his strength for what followed next. He took a deep breath, then shifted his attention back to his wife, whose sleep deepened bit by bit. He sulked behind her and ran his fingers through her short brown hair and down her shoulders, tenderly straightening her blouse and flattening the wrinkles.

Had he made the right decision? Doubt festered in his thoughts, which swiftly vanished as Pearl sleep-whispered again, pleading more intensely. Nothing could satiate that question; Thomas conceded defeat years ago.

“Come, my dear, let’s get you off to bed,” said Thomas as he slid his arm under Pearl’s and then scooped up her legs. Her frail body slid against his chest as he lifted her from the kitchen chair. She rested her head in the nook of his neck; her weak and tepid breath sweeping over his skin as she continued whispering.

As he lifted her and staggered away, his eye caught the words Pearl had carved into the table. He had planned on sanding it out before it all ended, but what use would that serve now? They weren’t Pearl’s words after all, but the ever present, desperate plea of the other woman.

“Shush, my dear. Just rest. There’s no need to worry about that answer any longer,” he said, tears trickling into a full stream.

Thomas lumbered out of the kitchen, past the sitting room, and up the staircase. Cumbersomely, he navigated each step while he bore his sweet Pearl in his arms. One last time, they’d make the journey together to retire to their room. Pearl’s end would be peaceful—that he made sure of—but he expected his own fate to be far less fortunate. The other woman wouldn’t allow it.

Soon those words no longer came from Pearl’s sweet lips, but from the ether and air surrounding them. Her voice swirled and engulfed Thomas as he struggled the last few steps toward his bedroom. Rage consumed her pleas as they manifested into demands and threats. Thomas pushed forward, reassuring himself. It’s almost over. It’s almost finished, he thought.

His arms burned from the weight of his wife, despite her meek size. His knees buckled as he reached the bed and leaned over to set her down.

Ignoring the other woman the best he could, he tended to his wife. He changed her into her pajamas and slid her under the comforter, placing her favorite book on her lap as if she were reading. Fallen asleep amidst Mr Darcy wooing Lizzy. A fitting way to close out your chapter, my love. His trembling hands held hers one last time before he kissed her breathless lips. Pearl was gone.

While his time to solve the other woman’s plea had ended, he knew it would soon be passed onto another. It’s how it always worked; it’s how it always would. April 18^th, after all, was in two days. Thomas pitied the soul who’d bear this mantle, though not enough to spare them of it—if it were indeed possible.

Scurrying to the desk that overlooked the garden, he reached in a side drawer and withdrew a black and white marbled composition notebook. In the pencil drawer over the chair, he fetched a key and placed it along with the notebook atop the desk for whomever found him and Pearl. Taylor will know what to do, he thought.

A creak from the upstairs landing floated into the bedroom. He listened to the horror of the thump-shush meandering down the hall toward him. Is she here? Thomas thought in a panic. He fumbled his things, knocking the key off the desk, as he hastily set them down, before rushing to the closet door.

Fingers sweaty and twitchy, he grabbed a bedsheet from the closet and fastened one end to the outer doorknob and the other end to a belt. He tossed the linked pair over the door, letting them droop down the opposite side. Thomas knelt, fidgeting with the noose in his hands, and looped it around his neck. He glanced at his wife and tried to eke out a final goodbye, but the woman wouldn’t let him; Bella wouldn’t let him.

Thump-shush, thump-shush.

She had entered the room.

Screwing his eyes shut, he let his legs go limp and fell forward, cinching the noose tight. His pulse thundered under the pressure of the belt. Blood swooshed through his constricted arteries, weakening with each passing second.

Thump-shush, thump-shush.

The sheet stretched taut and the closet knob bent under his body’s full weight. Thomas’ lungs burned, his final breaths gurgling, as he struggled against instinct, resisting the urge to stand. His eyes bulged like two tiny balloons clenched in a fist, trying to burst from his sockets.

Thump-shush.

Bella, unnaturally twisting her joints, contorted and snapped herself to the ground, facing Thomas. Filthy, dark hair framed her dead eyes as she pressed against him. Her spectral hand, gnarled and rotten, clutched him by the hair and wrestled his ear to her cracked and putrid lips, tormenting him for the last time with those words. Those words which haunted him and the parish of Hagley:

Who put me in the wych elm?