The Face at the Window: Three Stories

by Louise Welsh

Genres: Ghost; Short Stories

Synopsis

The three stories in this short collection from acclaimed author Louise Welsh all confront fear. In 'The Face at the Window' Fiona is convinced someone is breaking into her house, but the only evidence for the break-in is a face at the window that no one else can see. In 'Realm of the Census' Maryanne travels from house to house, collecting census information from strangers, and encounters a woman who lives with ghosts. In 'The Queen of Craigielee' Ailsa is photographing the interior of an abandoned high-rise which is about to be demolished when she sees the faint figure of a girl in a doorway of one of the condemned flats. These three dark stories are tales to savour; they will linger in the mind long after you've finished reading them.

Release date: February 13, 2014

Publisher: John Murray

Print pages: 96

Sample

Introduction

I do not believe in ghosts, but I have not quite conquered my fear of the dark, and there are still nights when I lie awake, disturbed by some noise I am too scared to investigate. I wouldn’t want to give the impression that I am a coward. I have faced down an actual flesh-and-blood burglar; put on my teaching voice and ran him out of my flat, down the stairs and across the square, but there are unseen dreads that I find less easy to conquer.

Recently I lay awake all night in a perfectly nice hotel room, terrified of what might happen if I fell asleep. Something was wrong with the proportions of the room, my rational mind said. The ceiling was too low, the walls too squat. But the hairs on the back of my arms and neck rose, as if the town was about to be struck by an electrical storm, and the deeper part of me was certain that were the room dusted with luminol, old blood stains would bloom back into sight, splashed across the magnolia paintwork, the biscuit-coloured carpet. Something had happened, instinct told me, which meant that it was better not to go to sleep.

It was nonsense of course. I believe in the laws of physics. I believe in gravity and the power of reason. But only two nights ago I dreamt I was walking through an unlit house in the dark. The place was unknown to me and, in the way of dreams, I had no idea why I was there or what I was looking for. On I went, and the feeling of unpolished boards beneath my feet was so real that I checked the soles of my feet for splinters when I woke. At first all was fine, but then I experienced a sudden and real moment of terror. I knew there was something waiting in the darkness and that my hand was about to touch it.

The three stories in this short collection draw on my own fears. They feature strong, resourceful women who approach the dark. Fiona, a mature professional, is convinced someone is breaking into her house, but the only evidence for the break-in is a face at the window no one else can see. Maryanne travels from house to house, collecting census information from strangers. Ailsa is photographing the interior of an abandoned high-rise which is about to be demolished.

‘What is it but a step in the dark?’ that old Edinburgh rogue Deacon Brodie is reported to have said as he stepped off the gallows. But a step in the dark is a great thing. No one knows where it will lead us, or what will be waiting when we get there. I hope you enjoy these three tales. If they disturb your sleep, I will have done my job.

 

Louise Welsh, December 2013

One

Stevie Flint had lived in London for seven years. She no longer had the soundtrack to the movie of her life playing in her head, but had only just turned thirty and could still appreciate the buzz of the city as it headed towards night. She walked out of Tottenham Court Road Underground station, noticing a faintly sulphurous tinge to the air. Stevie shaded her eyes with Jackie O sunglasses, suddenly remembering Jasmine’s, the only smart dress shop in her home town, its window screened with yellow cellophane to protect gowns from a rarely existent sun. London had a hint of yellow to it today, she decided, a septic glare. She set out in what she hoped was the right direction for the private members’ club Simon had suggested. Her new sandals were too high for a long hike but she had traced her route earlier on Google Maps and been reassured that she could walk the distance without too much damage to her feet.

Soho was full of pubs and all of them were full. Drinkers had spilled out on to the pavements and it seemed that everyw. . .