The Girl in the Pantry
Joe had always been frightened of Grandma’s kitchen. It was the only house he knew of that had a pantry, and in the pantry there was a ghost. This was certain. Whenever he stayed overnight, he heard someone running to and fro inside its walls, beating on the door and crying with the voice of a little girl.
Once, he had dared to open the pantry, thinking that perhaps one of his schoolmates who lived nearby was doing it to scare him. When he opened the door, there was nothing to be found but a chilly, unsettling feeling. It was the cold of the entire kitchen, always there but not worth thinking about, until now. This, that awful pantry, was where it started and where it was strongest.
‘We are going to have to move into Grandma’s house,’ Joe’s mother said one day.
He cried and objected until he was exhausted. She tried to explain. Grandma had to go into a special home, and there was something to do with money, and this was why they had to move out of their flat and into the old house. There was no getting around it.
Joe tried never to be alone in the kitchen, but even with a whole group of his friends in there with him, there was still the cold all around him. When he was alone, and sometimes when his mother was with him, he could hear the ghost from any part of the house, upstairs and down. It was always the same: hammering, wailing, a brief stint of running footsteps, then hammering and wailing again.
One night, when Joe was on the landing between bathroom and bedroom, he heard the ghost’s words: ‘Let me out! Oh, please let me out!’
She sounded so frightened, Joe’s terror was tempered with pity. It even occurred to him that perhaps there was a real person in there this time. Bangings and wailings were one thing - houses made sounds - but a voice was something quite different. Holding his breath, Joe went downstairs and crept into the kitchen.
‘Please, oh please! The mice! They’ll bite me! Oh, do let me out!’
The words at once chilled Joe to the bone and tugged on his heartstrings. He wanted to flee, but his conscience compelled him to open the door. He did… and saw nothing. The cold rushed at him. He peered into the black space, but there was not even a voice now, much less a face to go with it.
Once, he had dared to open the pantry, thinking that perhaps one of his schoolmates who lived nearby was doing it to scare him. When he opened the door, there was nothing to be found but a chilly, unsettling feeling. It was the cold of the entire kitchen, always there but not worth thinking about, until now. This, that awful pantry, was where it started and where it was strongest.
‘We are going to have to move into Grandma’s house,’ Joe’s mother said one day.
He cried and objected until he was exhausted. She tried to explain. Grandma had to go into a special home, and there was something to do with money, and this was why they had to move out of their flat and into the old house. There was no getting around it.
Joe tried never to be alone in the kitchen, but even with a whole group of his friends in there with him, there was still the cold all around him. When he was alone, and sometimes when his mother was with him, he could hear the ghost from any part of the house, upstairs and down. It was always the same: hammering, wailing, a brief stint of running footsteps, then hammering and wailing again.
One night, when Joe was on the landing between bathroom and bedroom, he heard the ghost’s words: ‘Let me out! Oh, please let me out!’
She sounded so frightened, Joe’s terror was tempered with pity. It even occurred to him that perhaps there was a real person in there this time. Bangings and wailings were one thing - houses made sounds - but a voice was something quite different. Holding his breath, Joe went downstairs and crept into the kitchen.
‘Please, oh please! The mice! They’ll bite me! Oh, do let me out!’
The words at once chilled Joe to the bone and tugged on his heartstrings. He wanted to flee, but his conscience compelled him to open the door. He did… and saw nothing. The cold rushed at him. He peered into the black space, but there was not even a voice now, much less a face to go with it.
As the days went on, Joe continued to hear the girl crying in the pantry, beating on the door and pleading to be let out. One night, he propped the pantry door open before he went to bed, wondering if this might calm the ghost. It did nothing to help. As he lay trying to get to sleep, he heard her voice again, coming up through the floor.
‘Oh, please let me out! There are mice in here!’
The next morning, when Joe was eating his cereal at the kitchen table, his mother went to get something from the pantry and came out shivering.
‘I think we should be careful to shut this door,’ she said. ‘It’s cold enough in there as it is.’
‘Maybe it’s a ghost,’ said Joe.
‘There’s no such things as ghosts, darling.’
‘Let’s ask Grandma about it later.’
They planned to go and see her in the home that afternoon. Joe was nervous. He had never been to an old people’s home before, and thought it likely to be full of very mad and very ill people who had nothing to do except wait to die.
‘Oh, please let me out! There are mice in here!’
The next morning, when Joe was eating his cereal at the kitchen table, his mother went to get something from the pantry and came out shivering.
‘I think we should be careful to shut this door,’ she said. ‘It’s cold enough in there as it is.’
‘Maybe it’s a ghost,’ said Joe.
‘There’s no such things as ghosts, darling.’
‘Let’s ask Grandma about it later.’
They planned to go and see her in the home that afternoon. Joe was nervous. He had never been to an old people’s home before, and thought it likely to be full of very mad and very ill people who had nothing to do except wait to die.
When they got to the home, Joe saw that some of the old people were very much as he had imagined, but others seemed fine. Grandma, to his relief, was one of these. She was in her own room, doing a jigsaw puzzle with an unsteady hand. Joe pulled up a chair and tried to help her, but he found the puzzle too big and the pieces too small.
‘Mum,’ his mother said, ‘that pantry of yours is freezing. What do you say we have it knocked down? We can make the place a bit more modern and open plan.’
‘Whatever you do to my house,’ said Grandma, ‘I won’t know a thing about it, will I?’
‘Grandma,’ said Joe. ‘Do you think there might be a ghost in there?’
‘Joe,’ said his mother. ‘What did I say?’
‘Darling,’ said Grandma, ‘would you please fetch me a cup of tea? I just find that I want one.’
‘Yes, all right,’ Joe’s mother said, sounding put out, but she went all the same.
‘Now then, dear,’ said Grandma, looking Joe in the eye. ‘Have you heard her?’
Joe sat bolt upright and stared at his grandmother.
‘Yes!’ he said. ‘Have you?’
‘Oh, often. Your grandfather used to hear her too. It’s just sensible people, I think - not people like your mother. But even they can sense something. There’s nothing to be afraid of, Joe. I know it’s dreadful to hear her, but she can’t hurt you.’
‘I don’t think I’m afraid of that,’ said Joe. ‘I just wish I could help her.’
‘Well, knocking the pantry down won’t do that, unless I’ve missed my guess.’
‘Do you know who she is, Grandma? Did she suffocate in there or something?’
‘Oh no, dear,’ said Grandma. ‘That is, I know exactly who she is, and no, she didn’t die in there at all. Her name was Emma Hart. Did you know that Hart was my name before I married Grandpa?’
‘Yes. Then you’re related?’
‘That house has been in my family for a long time. Emma was my aunt - my father’s sister. I do not think he was ever locked in the pantry, but I daresay the rules were stricter for Emma, as she was a girl.’
‘What sorts of things did she do?’ asked Joe, fascinated. He hadn’t dreamed that any adult would even entertain the idea of the pantry ghost, and now here was Grandma knowing everything about it!
‘She had a great many stories,’ Grandma said. ‘She used to fidget in church, and put her elbows on the table at mealtimes. It doesn’t sound much now, but things were more difficult for children in those days.’
‘And she was locked in the pantry for that?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Once, she drew faces on the fingers of her gloves. That, I believe, was a pantry offence.’
‘But how could she have told you stories?’ asked Joe. ‘She died as a child, didn’t she?’
‘No,’ said Grandma, ‘she didn’t.’
‘Who didn’t what?’ Joe’s mother asked, reappearing with a cup of tea.
‘I’m telling Joe about my Aunt Emma,’ said Grandma. ‘She was a naughty girl who grew up to be a very interesting woman. When she was about eighteen, during the war, she was a suffragette.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Joe.
‘They campaigned for women to be able to vote. Emma was very proud of being a suffragette, but by the time she joined, they were thinking much less about the vote and concentrating on the war effort. She seemed disappointed to have missed the hunger strikes and all the horrible things that went on. Still, it was during the war that people started to listen to them, and just afterwards that some women got the vote.’
‘Were you born yet?’ asked Joe.
‘No, dear,’ said Grandma. ‘Not for another ten years. I used to go and see Emma in her flat, where she’d lived since she was old enough to leave home. Even though my grandfather was killed in the war - you see, he was the one who locked her in the pantry - she didn’t want to stay in the house. All her life she lived in that flat with one of her friends, and was none the worse for her pantry days, except that she had a lifelong fear of mice. She never married, and she and her friend died within a year of each other.’
‘How old were they?’
‘In their eighties, dear.’
‘Mum,’ his mother said, ‘that pantry of yours is freezing. What do you say we have it knocked down? We can make the place a bit more modern and open plan.’
‘Whatever you do to my house,’ said Grandma, ‘I won’t know a thing about it, will I?’
‘Grandma,’ said Joe. ‘Do you think there might be a ghost in there?’
‘Joe,’ said his mother. ‘What did I say?’
‘Darling,’ said Grandma, ‘would you please fetch me a cup of tea? I just find that I want one.’
‘Yes, all right,’ Joe’s mother said, sounding put out, but she went all the same.
‘Now then, dear,’ said Grandma, looking Joe in the eye. ‘Have you heard her?’
Joe sat bolt upright and stared at his grandmother.
‘Yes!’ he said. ‘Have you?’
‘Oh, often. Your grandfather used to hear her too. It’s just sensible people, I think - not people like your mother. But even they can sense something. There’s nothing to be afraid of, Joe. I know it’s dreadful to hear her, but she can’t hurt you.’
‘I don’t think I’m afraid of that,’ said Joe. ‘I just wish I could help her.’
‘Well, knocking the pantry down won’t do that, unless I’ve missed my guess.’
‘Do you know who she is, Grandma? Did she suffocate in there or something?’
‘Oh no, dear,’ said Grandma. ‘That is, I know exactly who she is, and no, she didn’t die in there at all. Her name was Emma Hart. Did you know that Hart was my name before I married Grandpa?’
‘Yes. Then you’re related?’
‘That house has been in my family for a long time. Emma was my aunt - my father’s sister. I do not think he was ever locked in the pantry, but I daresay the rules were stricter for Emma, as she was a girl.’
‘What sorts of things did she do?’ asked Joe, fascinated. He hadn’t dreamed that any adult would even entertain the idea of the pantry ghost, and now here was Grandma knowing everything about it!
‘She had a great many stories,’ Grandma said. ‘She used to fidget in church, and put her elbows on the table at mealtimes. It doesn’t sound much now, but things were more difficult for children in those days.’
‘And she was locked in the pantry for that?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Once, she drew faces on the fingers of her gloves. That, I believe, was a pantry offence.’
‘But how could she have told you stories?’ asked Joe. ‘She died as a child, didn’t she?’
‘No,’ said Grandma, ‘she didn’t.’
‘Who didn’t what?’ Joe’s mother asked, reappearing with a cup of tea.
‘I’m telling Joe about my Aunt Emma,’ said Grandma. ‘She was a naughty girl who grew up to be a very interesting woman. When she was about eighteen, during the war, she was a suffragette.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Joe.
‘They campaigned for women to be able to vote. Emma was very proud of being a suffragette, but by the time she joined, they were thinking much less about the vote and concentrating on the war effort. She seemed disappointed to have missed the hunger strikes and all the horrible things that went on. Still, it was during the war that people started to listen to them, and just afterwards that some women got the vote.’
‘Were you born yet?’ asked Joe.
‘No, dear,’ said Grandma. ‘Not for another ten years. I used to go and see Emma in her flat, where she’d lived since she was old enough to leave home. Even though my grandfather was killed in the war - you see, he was the one who locked her in the pantry - she didn’t want to stay in the house. All her life she lived in that flat with one of her friends, and was none the worse for her pantry days, except that she had a lifelong fear of mice. She never married, and she and her friend died within a year of each other.’
‘How old were they?’
‘In their eighties, dear.’
For days, Joe puzzled over what he had heard. If Emma had been old when she died, and lived in a flat somewhere, why was she haunting Grandma’s pantry? Books and films had convinced him that ghosts haunted the place where they’d died, or where they’d been not long before, and that they stayed the age they had been at the time.
Joe’s mother had the pantry knocked through, as promised. Joe hoped that Emma would be able to escape it, but knew in his heart that she wouldn’t. Sure enough, he heard her on the very first night after the workmen had finished.
‘Let me out, oh, let me out!’
Now that the pantry was gone, Joe had an urge to go down again and investigate the noises. He had an idea that he might be able to see the ghost this time. He wasn’t sure whether he really wanted to see her, yet he felt that he must. He crept downstairs as quietly as he could, and into the kitchen.
Joe did not really expect to see Emma’s ghost… but he did! She was a faint outline in the darkness, with hands and feet and long hair and a dress to her ankles. Joe could just about make these things out, though she was almost invisible except for her eyes, which were clear and wide and terrified.
‘Let me out! Please let me out, Father!’
She banged on a door that wasn’t there, and produced the same bangs as always. She looked around, shrieked, jumped over something and ran to the wall where the pantry used to end.
‘Don’t leave me in here with the mice! Oh, let me out, I beg you!’
Back and forth she ran, banging on the invisible door, crying and screaming at mice that only she could see. Joe tried to meet her eyes, but she didn’t look at him. Of course, he realised, to her he was outside the pantry and she was in. He thought of stepping into the space where the pantry used to be, but found he didn’t have the courage. He took just a few steps forward, to where the door had been, and said in a frightened whisper, ‘Emma?’
Her name had hardly passed his lips before she vanished.
Joe’s mother had the pantry knocked through, as promised. Joe hoped that Emma would be able to escape it, but knew in his heart that she wouldn’t. Sure enough, he heard her on the very first night after the workmen had finished.
‘Let me out, oh, let me out!’
Now that the pantry was gone, Joe had an urge to go down again and investigate the noises. He had an idea that he might be able to see the ghost this time. He wasn’t sure whether he really wanted to see her, yet he felt that he must. He crept downstairs as quietly as he could, and into the kitchen.
Joe did not really expect to see Emma’s ghost… but he did! She was a faint outline in the darkness, with hands and feet and long hair and a dress to her ankles. Joe could just about make these things out, though she was almost invisible except for her eyes, which were clear and wide and terrified.
‘Let me out! Please let me out, Father!’
She banged on a door that wasn’t there, and produced the same bangs as always. She looked around, shrieked, jumped over something and ran to the wall where the pantry used to end.
‘Don’t leave me in here with the mice! Oh, let me out, I beg you!’
Back and forth she ran, banging on the invisible door, crying and screaming at mice that only she could see. Joe tried to meet her eyes, but she didn’t look at him. Of course, he realised, to her he was outside the pantry and she was in. He thought of stepping into the space where the pantry used to be, but found he didn’t have the courage. He took just a few steps forward, to where the door had been, and said in a frightened whisper, ‘Emma?’
Her name had hardly passed his lips before she vanished.
Joe thought hard about the stories he knew. They had been wrong once, but they were all he had to go on. Perhaps Emma had unfinished business. Perhaps there was a murder he could solve… though that would be tricky… or an object he could find. Someone’s will… an heirloom she’d wanted buried with her… a body! Joe shuddered as this last thought occurred to him. He convinced himself that he wouldn’t find any bones - Emma’s story had nothing to do with people going missing - and then searched every nook and cranny of the house.
He found nothing, and he continued to hear her. He grew less frightened of her, and sometimes felt compelled to go and watch her ghost, and to try again to speak to her. He couldn’t see her every night, even if he could hear her, but sometimes he would enter the kitchen and see those frightened eyes.
He found nothing, and he continued to hear her. He grew less frightened of her, and sometimes felt compelled to go and watch her ghost, and to try again to speak to her. He couldn’t see her every night, even if he could hear her, but sometimes he would enter the kitchen and see those frightened eyes.
‘I just want to help her,’ he told Grandma, the next time his mother had been sent for a cup of tea. ‘How can I set her free?’
‘It isn’t really her, Joe,’ Grandma said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘She lived a long and happy life, dear. Don’t you know what ghosts are? Well, I do. Now, some people who think they’re clever might say I’m wrong about this or I can’t prove it, but only very silly people want proof of such things. I know this to be true.
‘Ghosts aren’t departed spirits. They are just feelings. When someone is very sad or angry or frightened, the walls absorb those feelings. Nearly everyone can sense when something terrible has happened in a place. Sometimes you just walk into a room and get a horrible feeling, because it has been left there. Now some people, like you and I, are very clever and very sensitive. We pick up on Emma’s feelings so strongly that we can hear the words she spoke.’
‘I’ve seen her as well,’ said Joe, ‘now that the pantry’s been knocked down.’
‘So I should think,’ said Grandma. ‘The walls recorded her image too, just like a video tape.’
‘A what?’
‘I mean that it’s only a picture, dear, like on a television screen. When you watch a film, and are looking at an actor, at that very moment he is somewhere else and has probably all but forgotten the thing you are watching.’
‘Well, all right,’ said Joe, ‘perhaps it isn’t really her. But it’s still part of her. Isn’t there anything I can do to make those feelings go away?’
‘Well,’ said Grandma, ‘let’s think. If it’s her fear and misery left behind… perhaps you can find her happiness. That must have been left behind too somewhere, now, mustn’t it?’
‘I suppose.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Grandma, can you remember the address of her flat?’
‘It isn’t really her, Joe,’ Grandma said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘She lived a long and happy life, dear. Don’t you know what ghosts are? Well, I do. Now, some people who think they’re clever might say I’m wrong about this or I can’t prove it, but only very silly people want proof of such things. I know this to be true.
‘Ghosts aren’t departed spirits. They are just feelings. When someone is very sad or angry or frightened, the walls absorb those feelings. Nearly everyone can sense when something terrible has happened in a place. Sometimes you just walk into a room and get a horrible feeling, because it has been left there. Now some people, like you and I, are very clever and very sensitive. We pick up on Emma’s feelings so strongly that we can hear the words she spoke.’
‘I’ve seen her as well,’ said Joe, ‘now that the pantry’s been knocked down.’
‘So I should think,’ said Grandma. ‘The walls recorded her image too, just like a video tape.’
‘A what?’
‘I mean that it’s only a picture, dear, like on a television screen. When you watch a film, and are looking at an actor, at that very moment he is somewhere else and has probably all but forgotten the thing you are watching.’
‘Well, all right,’ said Joe, ‘perhaps it isn’t really her. But it’s still part of her. Isn’t there anything I can do to make those feelings go away?’
‘Well,’ said Grandma, ‘let’s think. If it’s her fear and misery left behind… perhaps you can find her happiness. That must have been left behind too somewhere, now, mustn’t it?’
‘I suppose.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Grandma, can you remember the address of her flat?’
Joe’s mother would not take him to Emma’s old flat, but she did allow him to write a letter to the occupant.
Dear Occupant, he wrote.
Sorry to bother you. My Grandma’s aunt Emma used to live in your flat and was very happy there for a long time. I was wondering if there was anything from your flat I could have like something small a pin or something, as I would like to have something from when she was happy, so would Grandma. She lived there during and after the war (Mum says world war 1) and was a sufrajet, thank you.
Yours sincerely,
Joe Higgins (age 8)
He hoped that including his age might make the Occupant take some notice of him. Whether it helped or not was impossible to tell, but either way, he got a reply a week later.
Dear Joe,
Thank you so much for your letter. I am very proud to be living in a flat where a suffragette was happy for a long time! Perhaps, if it is all right with your family, you would like to visit me one day.
In the meantime, please find enclosed a photograph which I think you will find very interesting. You’re in luck! This must surely have belonged to your grandmother’s aunt. I found it under a loose bit of carpet when I moved in, and did not for one moment consider throwing it away. I like it very much, but now am glad to be returning it to its rightful owner.
I would love to hear more about Emma. You see, Joe, I too have lived here for a long time and been very happy.
Best wishes,
Miss Catherine Turner
Joe shook the envelope, and onto his lap fell an A5 black-and-white photograph of four young women. They were smiling and all holding onto a piece of paper by their fingertips. There was bold lettering on the paper, none of which could be deciphered. Even so, Grandma was able to explain everything the next day.
‘That’s a pamphlet announcing the public event that celebrated the suffragettes’ success,’ she said. ‘That’s Emma on the right there, if I’m not very much mistaken. One of the others must be her friend from the flat. Did she write the names on the back? Most people do, you know. Well, in this family, anyway.’
For the first time, Joe looked at the back of the photograph. Four names were written in a barely legible, faded blue scribble:
Amelia Weekes
Greta Wilson
Emma Hart
Jennifer Harrison
February 21st, 1918
‘Hang it up in the kitchen,’ said Grandma. ‘If your mother says she won’t let you, tell her to see me.’
Joe’s mother was fine about it. She found a frame for the photograph, and hung it in the part of the kitchen that used to be the pantry. After that, Joe still heard the ghost sometimes, but it was not nearly so often nor quite so loud. On the nights when he did hear her, he didn’t mind it so much. He would simply close his eyes and picture the photograph of Emma’s smiling face.
© A.R. Collins, 2014
Dear Occupant, he wrote.
Sorry to bother you. My Grandma’s aunt Emma used to live in your flat and was very happy there for a long time. I was wondering if there was anything from your flat I could have like something small a pin or something, as I would like to have something from when she was happy, so would Grandma. She lived there during and after the war (Mum says world war 1) and was a sufrajet, thank you.
Yours sincerely,
Joe Higgins (age 8)
He hoped that including his age might make the Occupant take some notice of him. Whether it helped or not was impossible to tell, but either way, he got a reply a week later.
Dear Joe,
Thank you so much for your letter. I am very proud to be living in a flat where a suffragette was happy for a long time! Perhaps, if it is all right with your family, you would like to visit me one day.
In the meantime, please find enclosed a photograph which I think you will find very interesting. You’re in luck! This must surely have belonged to your grandmother’s aunt. I found it under a loose bit of carpet when I moved in, and did not for one moment consider throwing it away. I like it very much, but now am glad to be returning it to its rightful owner.
I would love to hear more about Emma. You see, Joe, I too have lived here for a long time and been very happy.
Best wishes,
Miss Catherine Turner
Joe shook the envelope, and onto his lap fell an A5 black-and-white photograph of four young women. They were smiling and all holding onto a piece of paper by their fingertips. There was bold lettering on the paper, none of which could be deciphered. Even so, Grandma was able to explain everything the next day.
‘That’s a pamphlet announcing the public event that celebrated the suffragettes’ success,’ she said. ‘That’s Emma on the right there, if I’m not very much mistaken. One of the others must be her friend from the flat. Did she write the names on the back? Most people do, you know. Well, in this family, anyway.’
For the first time, Joe looked at the back of the photograph. Four names were written in a barely legible, faded blue scribble:
Amelia Weekes
Greta Wilson
Emma Hart
Jennifer Harrison
February 21st, 1918
‘Hang it up in the kitchen,’ said Grandma. ‘If your mother says she won’t let you, tell her to see me.’
Joe’s mother was fine about it. She found a frame for the photograph, and hung it in the part of the kitchen that used to be the pantry. After that, Joe still heard the ghost sometimes, but it was not nearly so often nor quite so loud. On the nights when he did hear her, he didn’t mind it so much. He would simply close his eyes and picture the photograph of Emma’s smiling face.
© A.R. Collins, 2014