Moss Walls

They say the walls screamed after it saw the horrors inside–collecting in the stone each decibel of terror that came from the mouths of Theodore Moss and his teenage daughter, Bea. Sometimes, even on the stillest of nights, when the crickets song has tucked away the anxious sun and the darkness begins to tell secrets, passersby claim they hear a wind whistling, rattling the shell of the Moss Victorian mansion so aggressively that such a force could only come from within its belly.

I know what you are thinking. There are no such things as ghosts. I once was like you–the skeptics and realists alike, scoffing at the idea of the dead lingering in our world, teasing the living within the shadows and whispers of the earth. To me, every odd circumstance and unexplainable occurrence had an explanation, every equation had one answer. I'd discredit every wive's tale and campfire story, telling each spinner of yarns that ghosts are things of fiction. But then again, at the time–I just hadn't seen one yet.

Some say the Moss family was haunted by something dark, even before their fateful death. Not that they had financial misfortune or lack of opportunity. No–on the contrary, they had more than they could ever know what to do with it. Dogs groomed with ribbons in their hair. Stainless white walls with gold-rimmed paintings. International fabrics with embroidered edges for towering dresses. Rooms that went unfilled on land beyond vision. They had no physical interference from joy–but still–a deep sadness cursed their existence, blue minds like winter, frozen in the discontent of their riches.

The Moss' property tickled the edges of the nearby town. The fields of Theodore and Charlotte were so vast that many thought they owned the town itself–which one would be right by thinking that. You see, Theodore came from extreme generational wealth, with a wink of royalty in his lineage. He didn't work a day in his life, but he also was never asked to. Money was laughable. The paper didn't hold meaning, with the most glamorous pleasures in life never giving him satisfaction.

Although Theodore had a cruel nature and a resilient entitlement in his air, women were drawn to the life he could grant a possible suitor, never leaving his bed without female company. He lived within a liquor bottle, living recklessly and foolishly until a time came for his carelessness to be questioned–the day the last of the Moss bloodline, Theodore's father, passed away.

With this tragedy, Theodore only became richer, and more terrified of having nothing to show for his life. He wanted a child, even if to only keep his wealth beyond his death. So Theodore chose the most beautiful woman in town, Charlotte, to wed.

Well–Charlotte was one of the two most beautiful women in town, for Charlotte had a sister that she shared a birthday with, that tempted Theodore equally in stature and physicality. But unlike Charlotte, she had a loose tongue and morals that would tarnish the Moss bloodline. Theodore thought a child should have a stagnant, submissive mother that would fulfill the roles of an attentive housewife and the lust of a husband–so he chose Charlotte.

Charlotte didn't come from extreme wealth or money of any form. She happily took his offer of marriage to save herself from destitution, in exchange for a husband that loved selfishly. But Charlotte was loyal and forgiving. She accepted his indiscretions and absences, believing every white-mouthed word and misbehavior. She had a house to run and servants to manage. She had more than enough room to escape the heavy weight of her husband. Every room except the third-floor parlor. That room was the only place that Charlotte was to not step foot in. And the key that was held only by Theodore reminded her of that often.

Soon after they wed, Charlotte became pregnant. And much to her surprise, Theodore became entranced with her stretching belly–singing to her womb and kissing the carvings in her skin. They named her Beatrix–Bea–which means she who brings joy. Theodore finally had something that he didn't buy. Bea was half of him, and he loved her with every piece of his burdened soul. But his love never seemed to be enough for Bea, and she grew to be just as disdainful and incorrigible as the tree she sprouted from.

Charlotte would braid Bea's hair and Theodore would buy her the finest dresses, but she had an evil spirit in her that drove people to madness. They couldn't cope. Theodore had affairs–then stopped trying to hide them. Charlotte would take long trips away, leaving Bea with the servants, or Charlotte's sister. Anything to escape the miserable reality they had brought unto themselves. Then one day, it all came to an end.

The family was nowhere to be found and the servants grew confused. The Moss family didn't mention a trip. No note was left. All luggage was accounted for. A search of the property was issued. Every room was scoured without a speck of dirt to question. Until only one room remained.

They found them–scattered on the floor of Theodore's third-floor parlor. The door was kicked open by a police officer, accompanied by the screech of a maid after seeing Theodore and Bea's lifeless bodies. And where was Charlotte, you might ask? That was one of the mysteries about it all. She was never found, dead or alive.

Some people in the town said that the husband of one of Theodore's adulterous partners grew enraged after learning of their wife's infidelity and saught out to kill Theodore and his family. But when he saw Charlotte, he thought the only way to find revenge on Theodore, even in his death, was to keep Charlotte hostage. Some say they catch a glimpse of her in the windows of jealous husbands' houses, awaiting her escape.

Some people think Charlotte had gone mad, blaming Theodore for their unruly child and the grief of their marriage, making her insane with jealousy. They claim she wanted to take him to the place that she despised the most. The parlour where he would shut himself away, with liquor on his lips and a stranger in his bed. She picked the lock of his parlor and murdered everything of Theodore’s in the place he loved most. They say she ran away and changed her name after the crime, disappearing into thin air.

The townspeople have speculated for fifty years and still have not found truth within the four creaking walls of that haunted room. All they know is through every season and time, the green paint in the parlor never seems to fade–almost like the room keeps the color vibrant as the jealousy that was splattered on the walls that night. Some say a midnight flicker of candlelight peers through the glass every night, making the green walls glow as a ghostly figure stares out the window at night.

But the body of Charlotte will forever remain a mystery–for only one soul knows the truth about what happened to her.

Me.

What people never knew was Charlotte died long before Theodore and Bea did. She didn't deserve to live the life that was handed to her. And I knew that for a long time. I am her twin sister, you know.

We didn't have money or status. We didn't even have parents anymore. We only had each other. Until one day, Theodore Moss chose her. We shared a face, a birthday, and once last name, but he favored her for being the weak one–the sister that was easier to manipulate into an ideal wife. They got married, and even though Charlotte knew the despair of being poor, I still didn't see a penny. She would visit me in pity and shame my lack of fortune–as if she wasn't just like me before he found her.

She had everything I wanted. But she was doing it all wrong. She had servants that doted on her and a child from her marriage. Her estate was larger than she ever knew and her pockets overflowed into waste. She had everything she could ever dream of, and she still had nothing to show for it.

Her husband would cheat. Her child would disobey. Her servants would steal. If he chose me, it wouldn't be that way. Theodore would love me feverishly. We would have children–four, at least. They would be educated, clever, and successful. They would follow Theodore around in admiration and be the pride of my bosom. If only he chose me.

But he didn't choose me. He chose Charlotte.

I couldn't just kill her out of jealousy. That wasn't enough. I wanted everything she had the opportunity to misuse. I needed to kill her to become her.

The funny thing is, Theodore was so distant to notice the small differences in our faces. The dark freckle dangling under my right eye. The fingernail scar on my bruised knee. The tone of laughter that came with spring daisies.

As for Bea, she was so young when I took her mother–for all she knew, I was her mother. I became Charlotte. But I also was myself. I would take 'trips' as Charlotte, and return to my menial life. Theodore thought I was finding distance from his infidelity when I was actually just crawling back into the skin I left behind me like a snake. I'd talk to my friends and mop my floors. I'd make my small home look lived in, and write in a journal every night. I painted the walls and paid bills. I existed. And then Charlotte would return from her trip and return to life as she knew it.

But even as my version of Charlotte, it still wasn't enough. Theodore still had affairs. Bea never softened. And my mind never could be content. Until I killed them.

It was a perfect crime. "Charlotte ran away after going mad and killing her family." It was so tragic. People sent flowers and gifts. I cried over my misfortunes for any audience willing to stay. After they couldn't find Charlotte's body for some time, I inherited it all. The house. The land. The parlor. Everything. I got married. I had children. I had servants and dresses and art. I finally had everything I wanted.

Some asked me why I didn't board up that parlor, banishing guests to open the door in curiosity. My sister did murder her family in there, for heaven's sake. But every single time they ask, I tell them the same thing. That the room is far enough away to ignore, and sentimental enough to keep as a memorial. But, I don't lay flowers or mouth prayers of forgiveness.

I light candles–every night– as I dance alone in the parlor, stroking my cheek, my bare feet creaking of the screaming floors while the moss walls glow like the viridescent presence of the dead.

For didn't I tell you I've seen a ghost?

But not like you think. I see a ghost every time I look in the mirror–for Charlotte is still trapped in my body. Green eyes revealing her jealousy, for this time, she wants everything that I have.