As I, an ardent admirer of Edith’s vibrant spirit and storytelling prowess, find myself captivated by her tales woven from threads of life experiences, I can’t help but be drawn into the intrigue that surrounds her final moments. The dimly lit room, filled with the scent of exotic spices and the familiar hum of her beloved mummies, seems a fitting stage for such a dramatic finale – or so it appears to the eyes of a writer who has danced with death and resurrection in countless stories.
In the room where she lay ill, a gentle haze seemed to hang, as if the drapes had only partially been pulled back, allowing narrow beams of sunlight to creep in.
She lay there, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling.
To an outside observer, such as her husband possibly checking on her from their tidy garden, Edith may have appeared deceased. However, upon closer inspection, he would discern signs of life – a lit cigarette in its holder, for instance, with a trail of blue-grey smoke rising like a magical spirit above it.
Edith’s face brightened; she found that image appealing. As she lounged on the plush bed adorned with intricately embroidered pillows and blankets, a riot of reds, purples, and royal hues – the colors of love, conflict, and retribution – she felt as if she stepped into an old-world fairy tale or one of her own tales, perhaps.
Waiting for what?
How would Death come?
Edith’s drawn face clouded. The memory of his loss still pierced her like a hat pin, even after all these years. Yes, perhaps it would be him she would see. Standing at the foot of the bed, arms open, smiling.
Mummies! This was more like it. But it was not the lure of the exotic that caught Edith’s imagination and made her eyes sparkle like boot buttons. It was the whiff of familiarity. Of the long, clean, white galleries of the Bloomsbury Museum. The glitter of gold. The neatly printed explanatory notes written in English, not boring old French. The kindly guides peering at her over their half-moon spectacles, explaining this dynasty and that Pharaoh in the calm, measured tones of home. Yes. A visit to some mummies! That would do very nicely.
As Edith and her sister followed their French guide, a figure in a worn-out blue jacket and pants resembling old sail cloth, they noticed an unpleasant smell. This odor, the guide had clarified, was due to the mummies not being embalmed like the Egyptians but preserved by the unique soil of that region instead.
The door to the vault had been skreaked open by then, revealing a small, cramped room and tiny blue lamp, burning and sputtering and sending a curl of smoke upwards, just like Edith’s cigarette.
But the vault was not like the Bloomsbury Museum. It was very much not.
Edith took a sharp breath; there was something ominous at the foot of the bed, lurking in the darkness. However, upon closer inspection, it turned out to be nothing more than her worn dressing gown hanging from a makeshift screen made of papier-mâché. This old piece of silk fabric, patched and mended countless times, was a reminder of one of her most exciting travels.
She moved her head on the pillow to change the ominous appearance of the clothing, but the unsettling feeling remained. It seemed as though someone was hiding in the corner, a shadowy figure looming with a lumpen, hunched shape. Its eyes, as dark as its vague outlines, appeared to be watching her.
“I’m not afraid of you,” she said aloud.
Edith’s Ghosts artwork by Red Dress
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2024-12-12 15:46