The house was silent. Empty. The only sound being the grandfather clock ticking as the seconds passed. This was always Aidan’s most dreaded point of existence. The time before. The time leading up to the moment. The moment when his heart would break again, and again. Over and over. Day after day. Forever.
He was stuck in this moment in time. Planted high on the wall above the fireplace, his portrait faced the window looking out into the garden. Why had he done this to himself? Had he known before his death that he would spend an eternity watching them, he would never have given himself the best view in the house. He most likely would have burnt this house to the ground.
The clock struck midnight and suddenly the manor was filled with it. The power beyond death that allowed them this moment. Aiden recoiled into the painting that held him in place. That kept him in this moment. Eyes trained forward, unable to do anything but watch.
In the garden two spirits came to be. Their statues, the tops coated with snowfall, stood opposite each other, guarding each side of the gate. Their stage was vast. The garden following from the gates to the window of Aiden’s ghostly prison.
The house had stood for many years. Passed down from father to son for more generations than Aiden knew of. Their portraits lined the hallways just as his did. As the eldest son, Aiden inherited the house, the title and the coldness that came with them both. He inherited the ice that filled his heart. That had filled his father’s heart.
His brother, James, had the joy that came without responsibility. He socialised while Aiden stayed solitary. He laughed while Aiden sulked. He drank while Aiden drowned. The differences between them were countless, the similarities heartbreaking.
James met her in December. The Christmas Eve ball Aiden hadn’t attended. His name watched him from the embossed card. Golden with demand. Aiden wasn’t much for parties and formalities. But something in that shining invitation poked at him. A week passed and the night of the ball arrived and after all the poking and prodding and probing that one invitation could do, Aiden tossed the invitation to his brother and retired to his study.
He didn’t have time for balls. Didn’t have time to dance and force a conversation he wasn’t interested in. He wouldn’t think of what he was missing.
Until James announced his engagement. Aiden was pleased. Until he met her. Until he wished he had attended that ridiculous ball himself. It didn’t look so ridiculous now. It looked beautiful. Graceful and elegant in a light blue gown that made her blonde hair sparkle. And he was sure it sparkled. Just as the invitation had.
He had the statue of her made. A wedding gift he had told himself. And then he realised that perhaps he ought to have one made of James too. Aiden hated him. Hated himself more.
The wedding happened in the spring, held at the manor. The statues were presented. Oohs and ahs went around the garden. The roses peaked out of their buds to see the magnificence. It was a perfect likeness of her. Painstaking recreation of her beauty. It had taken a month to complete, and Aiden had overseen the whole process. She circled it. Her deep brown eyes taking it in. And Aiden watched as the biggest smile he had ever seen formed on her lips. Her eyes met his and he stopped breathing. A giggle fell from her as she thanked him. Thanked him and thanked him. Aiden had never been happier.
As the wedding came to a close, many guests had come to him with their compliments. How wonderful of you to do that for them. Such a kind gift. I’m sure your brother is most thankful.
Ah, yes. James. The reminder of his brother’s existence sent him straight back to his study. He watched from the window and the couple danced on the lawn beneath the darkening sky. He looked to his brother’s statue. Completed in mere days to not waste time on something he did not care for.
The rest of Aiden’s life passed in a similarly uncaring way. They had, of course, as if to torment him further, moved into the manor with him. It was large enough that he could go days without seeing them. Confined to his study, he spent his days working. He had no need of anything other than the company of his papers and books and the mess that he had encased himself in.
Occasionally, she would enter, bringing him tea or dinner. She worried about him. And for those short moments he would feel his cold heart unfreezing. Would become conscious of the mess she was surrounded by. And he thanked her for her kindness.
But she would always retreat. Leave him and return to her husband. The ice would return, and the harsh shards of his heart would pierce him again.
Time went on. They grew old and faded. The snow came and went. The flowers bloomed and died. The years passed but each night they returned.
Their spirits came together to dance beneath the spotlight of the moon. And Aiden’s portrait watched them without reprieve. He begged to be free of this eternal torment. But he remained above the fireplace in his study watching them, just as he had on their wedding night.
They held a haunting glow about them. Their movements so sure, so smooth, feet not touching the ground. Aiden watched her. Her hair fell in whisps behind her as she glided about the garden. She was just as she was. Beautiful and graceful.
Aiden felt the regret as he watched them. His heart had been a wasteland. Lifeless. Icy and frozen over. But now it burned. It burned fierce and powerful. The fire beneath him grew. It spilled over the coals and fell on to the carpet below. The flames could not be controlled. They pulsed and persevered. The fire engulfed Aiden’s study, the room in which he had shut himself away.
Soon the manor was ablaze. Aiden watched for the last time as she danced with his brother amidst the destruction. His portrait fell from the wall and dissolved into ash.
No longer would his heart be cold. No longer could he be struck by the icicles of his own foolishness. His house was ablaze. Falling to the ground. There would be no more dancing for anyone.
Charlotte Tunks
Charlotte Tunks is a York based writer, studying a Masters in Creative Writing and Publishing. She writes short stories inspired by folklore, ghost tales, and long winter nights. A Moment in Time was inspired by the ghost-like sculpture of two dancers in the gardens of the Treasurer’s House in York.