Living Inside A Novel: Whutering Heights

 

I would have never imagined that crocheting would be so exhausting; my fingers got tangled just like my muscles. At a certain point I froze—or rather, Nelly and I froze, given that I was a silent, sentient spirit inside her body. I heard her mumbling, blaming her rheumatism.

We were petting Cathy's cat when we heard a sound similar to a knock on the door. We thought it was yet another trick of the wind. After the second and third knock, we understood that there was someone behind the door. The oak door was decorated with smiling cherubs, and above it hung a bell with a cord but no knocker.

In the midst of a thick fog, we saw the form of a powerful man who had to bend down to enter the house. His large face was red, as were his hands, and his shoes were soaked with iced water.

For a moment, we didn't say a word; then we invited him in. The cat ran away from his favorite armchair, while the man shook like a bush in a violent wind.

Mr. Lockwood drank a cup of hot coffee, took off his shoes, and wrapped his feet in a towel by the fire.

Meanwhile, we went to the guest room to make the bed.

The first thing we did was open the window to air out the room. We drew back the heavy blue curtains that shielded us from the light, though not from the constant wailing of the wind.

After five minutes, we closed the window and shutters, then lit a lavender-scented candle. The wind tried to kill  the flame, yet it kept rekindling. The glossy cover of Catherine's diaries reflected the light as we approached the shelf to dust it. A postcard accidentally fell to the floor after having positioned the post card in the middle of the diary, Nelly began to cry because she recognized Catherine's elegant, sinuous handwriting. Suddenly, an unseen force shattered the left windowpane, sending shards of glass embedding into the precious Persian carpet. We screamed at the top of our lungs.

In the meantime, Mr. Lockwood entered the room and went directly toward the window. As he reached to close the shutters, his little finger was touched by an icy hand. We heard a heavy, sobbing breath filled the room. The feeble voice was telling Mr. Lockwood to let her back inside, being tired of waiting twenty years. Mr. Lockwood snatched his hand back, and everything dissolved into silence.