A Secret Lie

Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to have flesh and bone again and breathe the air outside. The mirror resting above the dresser in the bedroom reflects the park overlooking a serene lake. I look in the mirror to gaze at the beauty outdoors without directly looking into the sunlight. I want to hear the ducks quacking and children happily splashing nearby. But the house traps me here. If I try to leave, the sunlight will burn me during the day and the blasts of cold keep me in during the night. Now, I am a figment of imagination that drifts in the wind like the aftermath of a terrible storm.

I died about a year ago. I constantly struggle to remember the life before my death, but every time I pull up a blank wall. I don’t know why I’m left stranded in this cold, bitter world, wandering the halls of this abandoned, fungus infested house. Cobwebs droop like white threads hanging from the corners of the ceiling and dust bunnies settled on the creaking floor boards. Part of the roof had fallen in, and a dented pit in the floor collected the rain and water. The grimed covered windows only let the sunlight seep in as thin shafts.

It seems like years since I have had any human contact. How I crave the feeling of warm flesh against mine. The feeling was foggy in my mind like a memory that had been long buried and couldn’t find its way back to the surface. I feel cold all the time like someone has dumped a bucket of ice water on me. Gusts of wind blew through my body from the cracks in the windows and sometimes I could hear the row of bangles on my arms chime, but I can’t feel them against my skin anymore. Most of all, I feel pain, like a lump of hard marl lodged in my chest; dreary, empty, lonely.

***

Just before dusk, a man comes through the broken door for the first time since I have been here. I watched him curiously from behind the living room door. He wears a dark hoodie that covers the top of his head and baggy jeans. His face is clean shaven and glasses sit squarely on his angled nose. He checks his watch and frowns as he runs his fingers through his hair, sliding off his hood in the process. He gazes around and mumbles something to himself suggesting the filth of the place and taps his foot absentmindedly on the floor.

He goes straight for the picture frame hanging from the living room wall, facing a dusty coffee table with an empty vase. He removes the painting of two lovers sitting under a moonlit sky on a park bench. Behind the painting rests a combination lock. He smoothly rotates the lock to the right numbers and the door clicks open. An old journal with yellowed pages lay inside. On the cover was a name. Sanjana R. He picks it up, taking care not to tear the pages; he flips open the front cover. The creaking of the old paper echoes through the silence in the empty house, but the man ignores it. He takes out his phone and snaps pictures of the first few pages and places the journal back in the safe. He repositions the painting, taking time to adjust the edges so it doesn’t look like it has been moved. He steps back and stares at the painting of the two lovers for a moment. Silence penetrates the room once more as a flicker of emotion passes his eyes. He blinks it away and heads straight to the bedroom to pull open the dresser. He picks up an old flip phone and flicks it open. It takes a few minutes for the phone to light up. He scrolls through a list of names and purposefully writes an address down. Then, as abruptly as he has entered the house, he leaves. The dust, which had been briefly disturbed, began to settle around the air as if no one has been here once more.

Curious, I place my fingers next to the frame, but they just go through the picture. I put my hand through the painting ignoring the lock and grasp blindly at the journal. Knowing full well that my hands would go through it and would only grab air, I try without success. Just when I was about to give up, I hear whispers coming from the wall. They are almost inaudible and I can’t make out any words. I touch the wall again trying to somehow connect to it, feel it. The whispers grow louder.

I reach out to touch the journal again and this time I feel it; the creased paper under my hands and the rough surface of the sheet. I peer inside the safe. The signature on the front looks familiar. I trace the name with my hands and it feels like I had written that name before. Flipping through the pages, I realize that it is my handwriting.

The first few pages of the journal were lab notes and procedures. The next few pages catch my eye. A detailed image of the human brain was drawn with the parts labeled and the prefrontal cortex highlighted. A procedure detailing the making of the formula was given. Tables followed on the next page apparently tracking change in intelligence over time. From the data, I concluded that the drug wore off after 48 hours.

I keep reading. Several pages were scribbled with mathematical formulas that I can no longer comprehend. After several blank pages, the journal continued like a diary.

March 10, 2015

This research is dedicated to my dear husband, John. John is a simple man, and I love him dearly. His aspirations to change the world inspired me greatly. I discovered the secret to give him that dream. This formula made him smart. It made him take risks he wouldn’t have otherwise taken. Even I’m starting to like the new John. Within one month, he developed five apps for Apple and shot sales up by 40%. This is a day worth celebrating.

March 19, 2015

I thought this would make my Johnny happy. And we can move back to the countryside like we always wanted. But, he wanted to make more. I wanted to be a supportive wife and so I made more of the formula for him. His brilliant mind never fails to amaze me. He talks about revolutionizing the internet.

May 4, 2016

Over half a year, we made about a million dollars. John bought us a nice condo in the city. It’s a nice place I suppose. It just sometimes feels a bit empty. John works late nights now, having meetings with important people. His colleagues all seem to be trapped in an inescapable cycle of necessity. They wake up they eat their breakfast and go to work. After a busy day in the office, they come back and eat again and sleep. Some days I couldn’t get two words out of him. I can’t complain I suppose. I’m partly responsible for his current success and I don’t want to rob him of it.

At this moment, my head spins and I want to grab hold of something, but my hands fall through the coffee table. My entire body trembles and shakes like a fish writhing on a hook. Hot and cold waves flood through me as the dust shifts from the wooden floor. Memories of my past life rush back to me.

My bangles clink against each other as I was swirling the contents of an Erlenmeyer flask. John dropped by to see how I was doing on the formula. He took my hand and told me how much he loved me. Then, we walked hand-in-hand down Bloor Street to get a smoothie at the corner store. My phone rang then. My mother called to ask if I was eating my meals.

***

I go into the bedroom and reach into the dresser. I realize that I can touch the phone. Indeed, it was mine. I switched it on and scrolled through my old texts and contacts. The names and words stares back from the screen as if they come to life. The phone clatters on the floor, scattering the dust.

Time becomes like liquid.

I calm myself down to prepare to read the next pages of the journal.

December 2, 2016

John suggested something to me that disturbed me today. He says he wants to buy up all the tech start-ups, and then he can monopolize all the tech companies. He would have access to all the data in the world and it will make him at the top of the food chain. Any new tech start up would have to go through him. I didn’t see much point in the matter as we have more than enough money to retire if we wanted to. He didn’t agree with me. Instead he grew more distant and focused on his work.

January 14, 2017

John and I had our first big argument. I threatened that I will stop making the formula and he didn’t like that. He was still persistent to keep going with his plan, and it was the only way I could stop him.

May 6, 2017

I suggested taking some time away and going to the country side to visit my father. He grudgingly agreed. He told me on a side note that the country will sooner or later be industrialized and taken over by tech. There wasn’t much point fantasizing about the country. I wanted to argue, but I was afraid he would change his mind about going so I kept my mouth shut.

On the journey, he seemed surprisingly pleasant again like when we went on our honeymoon. He was patient and asked what I wanted to do every step of the way. I missed this John and I was happy to be spending time with him again.

That was where the entries stopped. The last entry was about a year before I died. I see the past play in front of my eyes like re-watching an old film. I see the images of my body buried under the house. It hardly seemed like a proper burial. I feel the cold dampness of the soil against my skin, but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t scream. I guess I was dead at this point, or knocked unconscious. Someone reached into my pocket and groped for my phone. Then, darkness enveloped me as the outside world disappeared and stillness settled around me. Something wet and slimy touched me. Timid at first as if testing if I was alive, and then forcefully wrapping itself around my legs, my arms, my body. They felt like tiny slugs writhing all over my body, holding me down, sucking the life out of me. Then they came out of my mouth, my ears, my nose, and every hole I had on my body. Disgusted, but I couldn’t escape this madness. I felt invaded, my body stripped bare as death took me. That was my last memory as a human. My human memories came flooding back to me and a burning hatred flooded over me. If I still had a heart, I bet I would hear it pounding furiously against my rib cage.

***

John comes back to the abandoned house a few nights later with a small young woman in tow. She is probably in her early twenties. It has been so long since I heard the sound of laughter. Their hearty laughs bring about some life. They carry in liquor with them and get drunk on the dusty sofa opposite an old television set. Resentment and anger coil in my stomach like a cobra as I watch this unknown girl curl up next to my husband.

“You know my secret?” He whispers in her ear. She chuckles as he breathed down her neck, caressing her cropped black hair.

“No, what?” Her voice is a high pitched soprano.

“There’s a secret formula,” he admits sheepishly. “I stole it from my ex-wife.”

“Formula? How you mean?”

“Made me smart. The formula,” he slurs his words a little, and there is something maniacal as he barks out a laugh.

“No really. There’s no such thing.”

“Yes. It’s true! I’ll show you.”

Slightly unsteady, he moves towards the frame and tears it off the wall. He attempts to unlock it twice before he could open it. This time he grabs it with one hand and holds it up in the air for the woman to see.

She scoffs. “Let me see that.” She takes it from his hands and opens it. Her small brown eyes bulge out a little. “So it is true…” she jeers, a smirk forming on her small lips. “What happened to her?”

“Oh…” he hesitated. “You know, lab incident. She’s gone now. Regrettable.”

Lies. I want to scream at him, but he wouldn’t hear me.

“Oh, how unfortunate. At least she left you with this.”

He laughs. I glower at them distastefully as he makes love to her on the couch and falls asleep.

The next morning, she wakes up before him. He didn’t put the journal away last night. I want to tell her to leave him.

I blow just enough wind to make the top pages of the journal flutter and my bangles jingle. The spine creaks in protest. The woman turns her attention to the journal and lifts it from the dusty floor. She opens the journal, but before she can get very far, John wakes up. He glares at her angrily.

“How did you get that?”

“Um, you showed it to me last night, remember?”

“What!” clearly confused. “Give that back, it doesn’t belong to you,” he growls.

“Ok, sheesh, didn’t know you were so possessive over your ex-wife’s stuff.”

He snatches it from her and put it back in the safe.

“You know it’s funny, my ex-wife always had a love of the country,” he reminisces. “I suppose I can see its appeal now that I’m here. It’s certainly quiet.” He pauses looking again at the painting. “We should go back,” he says suddenly.

“But we just got here,” the woman protests.

“I have to get back to work.”

They shuffle out of the house and I am left alone once more.

I want to cry. My Johnny. He murdered me. After all I had done for him. He must have found someone else to make the formula. He didn’t need me anymore. He’s the reason I am trapped here. I stare blankly at the painting of the two lovers, imagining of what could have been. Hatred bubbles up inside me and I want to tear down the painting, but my hand simply just goes through. I seethe in silence.

When he comes back, I’ll be ready for him.

***

Months passed before any sign of human life enters the house. Instead of John, that other girl shows up. Her eyes shift nervously from side to side to check if anyone is inside. She heads for the picture frame and regards at the painting inquisitively. She considers the two lovers as if imagining herself inside the painting. After a moment she breaks her reverie and takes down the frame and turns the lock. It opens smoothly and she takes out the journal. She clears the dust away from the sofa the best she can before sitting down. She flips through the journal like a novel. I watch her closely as she read the pages trying to gauge her reactions. She sits like stone however betraying no emotion.

I must signal her somehow. My current predicament only allows me to touch the objects that I owned when I was alive; objects that connect me from the past life to my current state. I seized the journal and try to jerk it away from her. She thought her hand slipped as the journal pulls away from her and re-grips the journal. I try again.

“Help me!” I moan. “Help me!”

This time, she is startled and drops the journal. I move the journal across the floor and her eyes grow wide with fear.

“Help me!” I moan even louder.

“Who-o’s there?” She asks. The journal’s pages flipped rapidly and propped open at the first diary entry. “You’re the dead wife.”

“Bring John to meeee,” I cry with all my might. She hears me and shrinks backwards.

“Why do you want John?”

“He killed meeee.”

“What do you want from me?”

“Bring him here, please….”

Her blood runs cold and she doesn’t move. Another idea possesses me and I float right at her. A tingling sensation overcomes me as I feel the warm flesh come into me and the coursing blood spread through my body. A piercing scream rings through the house before I take hold of her spirit. Her consciousness tries to fight back, but I was stronger. I suck the air into my lungs and step out of the house for the first time.

***

The next day, Vanessa and John come through the door. I have convinced him to come back to this old dump on some false pretense to go on a mini-vacation. I give Vanessa’s mind back after threatening her to play along shortly after we entered the house. She glances around nervously expecting me to appear. Her body trembles as she reaches into her pocket for a lighter to light a cigarette to calm her nerves. A piercing ring from my phone startles her.

The lighter slips from her hands and the fire caught the dusty floorboards.

“What the hell, Vanessa! Put it out!” John tears off his shirt in attempt to smother the fire, but I am quicker. I blow the fire across the floor and it catches the tattered curtains.

“Let’s get out of here!” John made a dash to the door.

The door shuts in his face.

“You betrayed me John!” I scream at the top of my lungs.

“Sanjana?! Is that you?” John shouts over the roaring fire. Vanessa is trembling in the corner fearing the worst.

“I want justice, John!”

“Sanjana, listen to me. I didn’t want to kill you, but you left me no choice. You wanted to stop me, and I was so close to getting everything I wanted. We would’ve been together…”

“Too late John! I never wanted this. Any of this. All I wanted was you. But you left me out here to rot…”

“No Sanjana, forgive me. I never meant it to get this far. It was an accident. I knocked you over, and I was going to bring you back, but then you stopped breathing. I panicked, so I buried you here. I hid the journal here so no one else could find it. When my supply ended I had to find someone to make more so I came back. Please let me go Sanjana!”

“You brought this on yourself John!”

Without further hesitation, I throw the journal into the licking fire. The flames crackle and dance as if mocking their fate. The pages curl and the fire consume the pages violently like a hungry animal. With a loud crack, the foundation of the house shook like its weight was too much to bear. I hear the mirror that I spent nights looking through crack in the bedroom. Another violent gust of whirlwind shakes the walls and it gives way beneath the roof. The painting falls to the floor, tearing in two, right between the two lovers. Then the entire house collapses on the screaming bodies until silent fragments lay to rest on the cold dirt ground.

My bangles disintegrated with the house and I taste freedom at last. I head into the trees where the shadows hide my silhouette. And there, I would wait for an unlucky maiden to come by so I can take her place.