Article 10: As Time Goes On

Julie Birch

As the sun let rays of light fall upon the city of Salem, the shadows grew more prominent and bolder in the wise old graveyard. Fog hovered over the grass and was particularly heavy above the assigned plots of the past residents of the infamous haunted city.

Moans started erupting from under the surface of the earth. Heads began forming. The souls resembled the bodies that once housed them. Some grew gracefully, swirling blissfully into shape, while others grew with movements of twitching and violent jolts. One, in particular, grew with elegance. Her name was Constance. Constance Wright. Although her body was not solid, the details of her shape were prominent, and her features could capture eyes easily. Her hair remained pinned back. The dark strands were just as secure as the day she passed, all those days before. Her cheekbones protruded and supported her eyes, hollowed, wide, but still holding on to life. Her lips softly greeted each other. The corners were depleted from the shape they once were. Her smile always being a little less than what it once was.

“Good evening, Grandfather, good evening, Grandmother:” Constance said towards an older couple that had risen hand in hand.

“Good evening, my beautiful Constance!” The older man said with a wave in Constance’s direction. He wore an old suit with a tail that seemed to have never creased. Although the monocle, worn in his right eye, was nothing but mist, the shine from the setting sun still managed to reflect off of the lens.

“Hello, darling!” The women responded to Constance, who was standing connected to the older man’s hand. She gave a gentle nod to Constance as the man gave a tip of his top hat. As Constance hovered over the set path of the graveyard, she followed a specific route that she always travelled on nights the moon was full.

The city was much different since Constance had passed. The streets were far less rigid, having been replaced with a smooth substance that reminded Constance of one large stone. One of her favourite differences was the signs. Instead of hand-painted, semi-peeling letters on the tops of the buildings, there are now bright, colourful signs that are luminous like straight and curved lines of constant shooting stars. However, Constance could always rely on one shop that remained the same. A bakery. The shop was a small white building with a white canopy shielding the door and windows. The canopy always reminded Constance of icing, which she found quite fitting for the family-run business. The windows were filled with savoury pastries, and the sweet and comforting smell surrounded Constance, filling her presence with warmth, something she had not wholly felt since long ago.

As she made her way across town, a familiar view came into sight, the Wright Manor, the walls Constance called home. The place where she was born, grew, played, and unfortunately, came to the end of her time in the physical world. She stopped at the gates entrance, reminiscing of the times when her touch did not cause her relatives an uneasy feeling. Although many will say that Constance’s life was short-lived, she, unfortunately, believed this statement. However, she was wealthy enough to have felt love and happiness for most of her life with very little sadness.

The manor was still full of life—the only remaining original member of the Wright family. The lights remained bright, giving life to the rooms with a soft golden hue. The windows remained so clean that one could have easily assumed that there was nothing there. And although the furniture may have been refinished, moved, or possibly even replaced, the manor was still recognizable, still her home, standing firm with its arms open to greet her once again. Yet, as Constance laid eyes on her childhood home, she felt a sense of longing to be home. Nothing held her back except for fear. Not only was the manor home to Constance, but to many others as well. In particular, there was one person she wished she would never face again.

As the night grew older and the stars moved across the sky, Constance paced the road in front of the home, careful never to cross the property line.

Time passed, and slowly but surely, the lights in all the rooms diminished. Constance felt a sense of pulling in her abdomen and knew it was time to rest again. She followed the tugging in her soul and let it lead her back to the graveyard. The other souls were forming crowds down the roads, following the tugging in their abdomens and letting it guide them as well. Some sad, wailing. Some content, contemplating what they wished to say on the moon’s final phase. As Constance grew nearer to her assigned plot, she felt a sense of dread, knowing what was going to happen next. All around her, the others were drifting away to their resting places. Constance watched as her grandparents, still hand in hand, leaned back, smiling at one another as the earth consumed their presence. She allowed herself to keep moving and stopped as she reached a headstone that read: “Here lies the body of Constance Wright. Aged 18. Beloved to all.” She turned until her back was against the stone and allowed herself to fall back, feeling the dirt’s cold embrace her.

Constance knew where she was, at home, in bed. She also knew what was going to happen. Her skin was off with moulted patches of amethyst colouring. Constance felt her chest tighten and grew solemn as she knew the events that were about to take place. The nurse walked gently, leading Constance’s parents, siblings, aunts, uncles, and cousins into the room. Her mother and sisters were crying, the others wearing a grieving expression. Constance tried to tell them she loved them. Unfortunately, the words were never able to escape the poisoned throat. She felt her lungs resist the oxygen that was trying to keep her alive.

“It’s okay, darling; we know it is painful. You can let go now.” Her mother managed to let the words go with a smile while looking down at her eldest daughter. As Constance has spent many moons in the afterlife, she has relived this moment repeatedly. Every “last breath” was spent looking at the faces in the room to determine who knew. The years went on, and Constance learned exactly whose face to look at. As her eyes became heavy, she looked towards the back of the room. He stood with power. His chest was flared up, the crown of his head held high, his legs stood firm far enough to become sturdy. There, placed far away from the others, was her uncle. He tried to hide it, the corrupted smile, the sense of accomplishment radiating from his hollow eyes. It was him. He did it. She was, and will always be, the only one who knew the truth. Constance would never have the chance to tell her father that she drank the glass of iced tea that was sitting in his office. She would never be able to say to him that it tasted funny and how her uncle came in after she had sipped the last drop, furious from her actions. Constance could never tell what was needed to be said as her uncle guarded the manor, his parents forever residing in the four walls. She tried so many times to see her parents again, but she never got very far. If she tried to enter the property, her uncle would appear, not how he once looked but instead as a monster- a beast that looked like it was made of darkness, causing children to have nightmares. Someday, Constance was going to make things right, and ultimately, everyone will know the truth.

Authors’ Bio: Julie Birch is a first-year student enrolled at the University College of the North. She is currently working towards a Bachelor of Arts degree. After this degree, Julie hopes to move further in her education and gain a degree in the science field focusing on pharmacy in hopes of becoming a pharmacy technician. Born and raised in Thompson, Manitoba, Julie has grown to have a love for the outdoors and all that it brings to us. Her love for reading started at a young age, and it only grew from there. Mystery or horror stories were usually found in her hands. Julie has much appreciation for family and friends, and she continues to have their support as she moves forward in her schooling.

Instructor Remarks: Julie was in my ENG.1002 class in the fall term of 2021. Her creative short story, “As Time Goes on,” was her submission to fulfil the creative writing component of the course. Julie brings her creativity to bear on this piece of literary work as she connects the world of the dead with that of the living. It is such an exciting read that evokes in the reader the thought that the dead may actually be living, but in a different way—Dr. Joseph Atoyebi.