Trigger Warning: This psychological thriller may be distressing for individuals with schizoid disorders, paranoia, or auditory hallucinations. It may also trigger those with OCD personality disorders or parenting traumas. If you are sensitive to these themes, it is advisable to refrain from reading this short fiction. There is a wealth of literature available to suit diverse tastes and elevate your adrenaline without causing distress.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
French turquoise. A ghastly color. Her face wrinkled and twisted sour.
The worn out French turquoise wallpaper made her nauseous. It was like she was digesting all those sick flowers from the wall inside her stomach for years and was about to put it all out at any moment on the floor.
Would those disgusting flowers still be on the wall after that?
“Shut up, Margaret. Your sickening voice. Never anything worth listening to,” the old lady said out loud, feeling even more nauseous. “Questions. Questions. Questions. Never any answers.”
Will you end before the wallpaper? Will you outlast it? Will you stand holding all your pieces of flesh together when the fibers of wallpaper have decayed and peeled? Will time be more gentle to you than that?
“Shut up, Margaret!”
The woman needs to recompose.
Recompose what, Robert?
Herself. The fucking corner of the wallpaper on the wall. She needs to recompose that. Together with all the voices in her head. It’s sickening, watching this.
I’m going to visit. I’m coming over in a little bit.
“Are you talking to me? Or to Robert?” the old lady asked the voice. There were always more than one. She was bleeding and scratching at the wallpaper, fast, without even noticing the blood.
Margaret screamed, and the voices were silent; for a moment more silent than death. Then she was once again nailing it. Nailing it.
The fucking corner of that wallpaper really triggers her OCD. Ha. Ha. Ha.
Nailing it. Nailing the wallpaper and the wall and the blood that was mixing with the old turquoise and she couldn’t stop.
Janet Danvers. The old lady remembered her real name. Always dressed in pastel colors, black or white, anything vibrant was unlike her. Her house had a few green, red, and blue tones, however. The Victorian themed home had an old painting outside, on a small balcony surrounded by a handrail that led to dark stained stairs. The wooden door was framed by arabesques. The roof was of two shapes; on the left, a cupula with a concave roof that was Janet’s bedroom; on the right, a tower, or turret, as Janet used to call it, with long, thin half-rounded windows. Inside, an oak floor. A living room with black velvet couches over a dark green Persian mat, a firewall in front of them, surrounded by two corner tables, a shelf over the firewall with some decorative items, all encompassed by French turquoise wallpaper with a nuance to the gray, covered by white roses. On the opposite side of the fireplace, there were wooden stairs near the door.
The door. Ha. Won’t you open it?
“There’s blood on the wall. That’s sick. That doesn’t seem like you,” the old woman said aloud, to herself, realizing that talking in third person just made her situation more claustrophobic. The house made no sound other than that of creaking old bones, and occasionally a muffled buzz from a bee burrowing into the laundry room door frame.
Janet moved to that house after she married a workaholic politician. Retired from a long career as a psychiatrist, she was convinced no kind of professional help could silence the voices in her head. She believed she could help her patients, and had worked an insane amount of hours every week. Besides her daughter Gwenevere, she also had a son. Finley. It was hard for him to understand their relationship; he believed it only looked like she loved him. It also looked like he would never be as good as Gwenevere at anything. In most things, he felt he was obviously better; he felt like their mother always found a way to ignore him or praise Gwenevere to diminish his acts. Strangers used to see her success, publications, work, and volunteer work. People close to her used to feel confused with so much ambiguity, except for Gwenevere, the chosen one. At least while she accepted her mom molding her own life. A false step in the wrong direction would cause her to see her mother’s fury. Finley was the youngest, then Gwenevere, and the oldest was Oliver. Oliver was the forgotten one. No compliments or criticism, no fights or praises. He was invited to family gatherings, but anything he did, good or bad, would be intentionally ignored by his mother.
She continued, “Bleeding on a wallpaper flower. Just tell people you just had a crisis. You can just go unpunished. Maybe even with people feeling sorry for you. Or you can just pretend you have never bled on the wall. Nail it. Nail it. Two times. You can’t do it in odd numbers. You need to make it in even numbers, so nothing bad will happen. You will be happy.”
The doorbell rang. It was the third time. The old lady thought that when it rang for the fourth time she would be able to answer the door. But not right now, with an odd number.
Go answer the door. You will die if you don’t.
“No, I might die if I answer the door now. I hate odd numbers.” Her voice rose, “Why don’t people care about odd numbers? Disasters happen because people don’t care about odd numbers.”
The door bell rang.
“Margaret? Is it you? How is it possible?” the old lady said, opening the door.
In all her fancy tradition, clothes with solid colors, in pastel tones, she went to get the groceries without anyone noticing.
Noticing what, Lilac?
I don’t know. There is something wrong with her.
Something what?
Better not to want to know. She looks so fragile.
Don’t enter this trap. She is as fragile as a snake. The dirty blood on that wallpaper never tricked me. Not once since I showed up in here. Will you get out? Margaret found her way out. Will you, too? Will you knock on her door as well, Robert?
I don’t know, but if we do it, we need to ring the bell four times. We want her to open the door. Three if we want her to stay locked in her home.
Lilac and Robert laughed.
Janet was back with the groceries. As soon as she closed the door behind her, someone knocked on the door twice. She turned around and opened it.
It was Margaret. She got out? The old lady had a feeling Lilac got out, as well, but she heard Lilac stirring loud, once again, after two days of silence. Maybe she will get out next.
“Where’s Otto?” Margaret, also an old lady, with really well tied hair, said from the other side of the door.
Lilac’s black voluptuous dress looked like it was handmade three hundred years ago. She was grinning, and her grin made a fingernails on chalkboard sound.
“How did you…”
“How did I what? Come out from your head? Did you really think you would create us—and imprison us—inside your head and we would stay there under your sick control forever and ever? Ha. Ha. Ha. Where is Otto?”
Margaret started to scream and knock her small heels strongly on the wood floor. The sickening noise made her even more ill, forcing an urge to answer.
“Where is Otto?” Margaret shouted loudly.
“You know he was taken by social services.”
“I know, huh? Did I really know that? Maybe I know more than that.”
“I made this up,” Robert shouted like a cannon shot from inside the old lady’s head. “I’m the one I’m the one!”
“I bet Robert is saying something. I just can’t hear him anymore. Are you there, Robert? He made up this story, old lady,” Margaret said. She was hundreds of years older than the old lady. Or had been while in her head. Now she appeared to be the same age.
“I don’t want to hear your voice. It doesn’t exist. It doesn’t exist. It doesn’t exist. It doesn’t exist,” said the old lady four times. Saying it three times would have caused bad luck.
“Oh you will hear me. Do you remember that afternoon when Otto was at his best, being a troubled kid, and jumped over you and knocked your head with a flower pot? You went unconscious to the hospital. The social worker came and took him back to the orphanage. Your house had been his fifth foster-care house. You never had access to him again. Do you really think that’s what happened?”
“I made this up. I made this up. I made this up,” Robert’s voice said inside the old lady’s head, making her crazy; he said it three times. Her OCD had been worse than ever since Otto was gone.
Margaret continued, “If the voice made up this story, it was actually you making up this story, old lady. The voices are nothing more than you. Your self. It’s just you hiding your evil personality with distractions. Did you ever think that every life you created inside of your head, every person you used in real life to fill out a slot left by another person, would be free? You can’t create fantasy walls around people and control them. Did you know you fucking don’t own us?”
She’s nailing it. Nailing the wallpaper.
Nail nail nail it. Keep doing it. Blood.
“Can I stop already?”
No, you can’t. Hahaha. It’s so easy to be inside the head of someone with so many personality disorders.
Blood. More blood.
Where’s Otto? The old lady thought without being sure if the voices could hear that or not.
“Oh, poor Otto. Flower pot is the answer, when you are ready for the truth. There are some things that are better not to dig through,” said Antonio, yet another voice that had awoken to see what all the noise was about.
Gray wall with pallid white spots and a few bubbles that reflected a little blueish at night. The old lady had no idea how the flowers on the wallpaper had completely vanished. Did she scrape it all away with her nails and bloody fingers? From the window, she could see that outside it was humid, and the earth smell inside the Victorian-style living room confirmed that. A mix of dust and old wood. At least she was not sensing the smell of dead flowers every time she looked at the wall. She looked outside. Nothing to be seen. Just dew over the grass and dim lights over the road.
Time to sleep. Gwenevere is coming over tomorrow, she thought, turning off the living room lights. She then turned the stair lights on and climbed the stairs with her black leather shoes with small, squared heels.
“Mom, are you awake?” Gwenevere asked, almost singing while closing the door and locking it up with her own keys.
“This isn’t London, Gwen. You don’t need to lock the door,” the old lady said, coming down the stairs.
“No, but maybe a neighbor can enter when you pretend you’re not at home?”
“Nobody enters without knocking on the door first, and waiting for me to open it. Not even the voices.”
“Oh, are they that bad these days?”
“They’ve been abhorrently loud. I finally had a good sleep last night, and I’m always in the light with you, Gwen. They are not even close now.”
“Not even Antonio?”
“I wish he was louder than the others. He’s so nice all the time. But, you know, Lilac and Margaret always shut him up quickly.”
“I see you took the wallpaper down. Any new ideas for the house?”
“I’m not sure yet. Just tired of that, that pattern.”
“The French turquoise was looking kind of old, indeed. Is that blood?”
“Blood? Oh. Hum. Probably. I did everything by hand.”
“Are you ready?”
“Yes, let me get my purse. Can’t wait to hear those children calling me mad behind my back.”
“You always have fun with those little monsters.”
“I’m glad I still have energy for camping.”
At the campsite, the old lady made it an entire week without being tormented by the voices. It was strangely, blissfully calm inside her head. Margaret and Lilac were completely silent for the first time in years. Maybe they both really made their way out? Otto, she missed him so much. They took him from her. He was her kid.
His shit mother didn’t take care of him well, she thought.
Antonio was quick in stating his point of view, after a whole week silent. He was the most pondered and honest and calm of them all. Like a narrator, he used to talk about the old lady always, though never talked directly to her.
That’s not how Otto felt at all. For him, the old lady was the shit mother. The old lady was just imposing her motherhood, projecting all her loneliness, after her blood son stopped inviting her to travel to poor countries where she could stay at fancy British hotels and give some little things here and there to the “ex-colonials”, as she used to say, and feel she was such a good soul. How blessed she felt by helping people who needed it. The old lady enjoyed helping people. But not for the altruistic feeling. Nothing made the voices louder than somebody refusing her help, refusing to let her give something here and there. And then sucking their souls like an emotional vampire who needs endless attention. Otto was the perfect fit, to fill out the space left by her son who got married “to that bitch.” The bitch had something the old lady never had and never would. This, somehow, bothered her to death. It was something about her not needing the old lady. She was from a poor background and could make things happen by herself. The old lady didn’t feel the power of being a good lady near her. And she couldn’t stand that. Otto, on the other hand, was the perfect fit for this place. A troubled foster kid who hated the old lady so much. He didn’t talk to her. Regardless, she kept showing the world and even convinced herself that she was a really good person. She had unconditional love. She would love that kid no matter what he did. She would feed him and take care of him. Bathe him. Cook for him. Put him in the car and drive him. He would learn to garden with her; she only needed to ask him to come with her and they would start to do it together. Soon, Otto’s identity would be her own identity. They would be one soul. She would live through him. Not that Otto was really a troubled kid. Otto had to learn how to defend himself when he was little. Once you learn that, you never let life knock you out again. Nobody listens to a kid. There are rules for them that no grown up has. They are made by people you can’t trust. When that man entered the orphanage, Otto really liked him. Who could know his wife was so crazy? She looked really smart. She looked so intelligent. He looked so nice. She looked so full of love. Nobody could tell she was ready to suck his energy and take over his life and talk about him with her friends to show how good she was. He hated her so much. But Otto was just a memory now. She just wanted to talk to him one last time. To tell him she loved him. He tried to kill her. And she didn’t run him away. That shows her love. The social worker took him away from her. She never saw him again.
Flower pot. That’s the answer. The flowers. Antonio, the flowers.
I know, Robert.
“Antonio, why don’t you talk to me? Everyone else talks to me. You talk so much about me. But you never answer.”
At the campsite, the activities were ramping up, and the skills the old lady liked to teach the kids were in the garden. She was so proud of having built the entire garden with the kids—only herself and the kids!—over the years.
The rows of dark earth and scents of sprouting vegetables, the special feeling of it all intensified after Otto had been taken. He had helped so much, the tilling and planting and weeding. She couldn’t help reliving the memories while teaching the other kids and felt his presence.
Flower pot… Most of the things the voices said never made any sense.
“Or maybe you just don’t want them to make sense,” said Robert.
He was back, looked like. And the old lady tried to focus on the well watered tomato plants brushing against her hands.
“This is for you.” A small child was at her side, and gave the old lady a rose. It was massive, and looked just like the flowers on the wallpaper.
“Thank you, my dear.”
“That lady gave it to me,” said the little girl, pointing at the other side of the garden, to Margaret, who was walking around and collecting flowers.
“Can you see her?” The old lady squinted at the little child.
“Yes, I can see very well, even at good distances. It’s Elle who wears glasses, not me,” and then, she yelled, “Elle. Can you see that lady far away?”
“Yes, Emily. I can see her. Why?”
“Just to know if you can see well.”
“OK,” Emily said.
The old lady heard, coming from behind her, “Lily of the Valley” and turned back, triggered, unintentionally replying to Gwen with a hiccup.
“The symbol of love, motherhood, purity… and Eve’s tears when she left the garden.”
“You don’t remember, do you?” Gwen asked.
“Remember what?”
“When you planted it?”
“Oh no. We plant so many flowers. Hard to remember them all. So many years that we’ve been working here, and many of them don’t even grow.”
“The May Bells,” said Robert, inside the old lady’s head.
“Holding my breath works for me when I have hiccups,” Emily said.
The old lady smiled and said thanks for the advice.
Inside the brick building, Janet climbed the stairs. She stopped on the first floor, the one of her room. And continued all the way up, deciding to sneak around into the administration office before going to sleep.
“Kristen’s desktop. Let’s just delete her database for a Monday surprise. I just need to make sure to tell Richard that Kristen has not been sleeping enough lately and has been forgetting things,” the old lady whispered to herself.
She wasn’t even sure why she did this to Kristen. The voices didn’t ask her to. Richard, the head admin, didn’t ask her to. There was just some kind of spiteful instinct to sabotage everything Kristen was working on. She hated working with Kristen. This was a feeling that came from her own inner voice, and so it couldn’t be ignored.
Mission done, she went down the stairs to her room.
From a one-bed simple room, the old lady got her phone.
No sign, she thought.
She scrolled through her contacts, gripped the back of the phone and typed a number.
“Walker,” a tired social worker answered the phone.
“Good evening, Ms. Walker. This is Janet Danvers. Sorry for calling out of the blue. I just would like to know if the present I left there two weeks ago for Otto’s birthday was given to him.”
“Mrs. Danvers,” the woman took a deep breath on the other side of the line before continuing, “I told you we can’t give out information about any children. I can’t search in the records for Otto. Even if I knew anything about him, which is not the case, I wouldn’t be able to give you any information. We also can’t deliver presents to children, since it would generate a situation that might be confusing for them. Donations of new toys are welcome, however, and are placed in the recreation room for all the kids. We are really thankful for yours. Be assured that the children are really happy about it. Good night,” Walker hung up the phone before listening to a reply.
The old lady slept.
She opened the door and knew that the melancholic French turquoise color was scraped from the walls, together with the sickening flowers. But the decaying headache was still there. Stamped together with the feeling of solitude.
Margaret screamed from the couch. The old lady immediately felt her diaphragm contracting when she turned around and looked at Margaret and she felt a strong pain in her chest from the hiccups that came back.
Margaret uncrossed her legs, stood up, walked around angry, and said with a rude tone, “The flower pot—I told you that was the answer! We all did.”
Margaret crossed the living room, picked up a flower pot that was in the middle of many decorative items on a shelf over the fireplace, and she waved it.
“Can you feel this smell? You probably can’t because the flowers are dry now. Let me just say that it’s downright gag inducing. Do you know which flowers these are?”
“Please go away.”
“Answer me.”
“You’re not real. You’re not real. You’re not real. You’re not real.”
“Emily and Elle agreed I’m real.”
“Go away,” the old lady yelled.
“If I go away, you will receive another visit. Lilac made her way out. Did you think you could control us? Create us to be characters in your sick story, to substitute your childhood traumas? Did you think we would stay here serving these roles you prepared for us? Did you think Otto would stay serving the role of being your child? Or that Gwen would keep on serving the role you prepared for her? Why do you think she asked you about Lily of the Valley? Do you remember when you planted that?”
“Go away!”
Somebody knocked on the door, and Margaret yelled, “Come in.”
“Am I late to the party?” asked the middle-aged woman in a purple midi dress.
“Not at all, Lilac,” Margaret said.
“Can you remember what happened with Otto now?” Lilac said.
The old lady started to see flashes of Otto throwing the flower pot down over her head, and she recalled being unable to see while vomiting.
“Your version doesn’t make sense. You understand that now.” Robert’s voice was a spike of dissonance inside the old lady’s head. “How can you see yourself in a coma. You created this image. That’s not real.”
“The flowers on the wall made you nauseous for a reason,” said Lilac.
“Eating flowers is disgusting, really. Makes you nauseous. Otto vomited so much that night that you made him eat half of this pot of Lily of the Valley. So toxic, just like you.”
“No. No. No. That’s not what happened. He threw the flower pot on my head. I had a concussion. The social fucks took him away from me.”
“Oh really? What flower pot was it, if this is the only one in the house? And it’s intact,” Lilac said.
The old woman felt chills all over her body. She couldn’t say any more. She couldn’t even cry. She started to shake.
Steps approaching, louder outside.
“Come in Robert!” yelled Lilac.
“Antonio should arrive at any moment,” Robert said.
“We’re making progress here,” Margaret said.
“Lily of the Valley. You planted it over Otto’s body. Gwen helped you bury him after that crisis. You made him eat Lily of the Valley from the flower pot. We tried to stop you. You made us watch. You didn’t listen to us,” Margaret continued.
“That’s not true. The social arses would come for him. I would be arrested by now.”
“What social arses? You grabbed that kid and took him home. You stole him.”
“That’s not true.”
“That is true,” said Antonio, who came in without the old woman even seeing.
Robert completed it, “If that is not true, the only alternative I can think of is that Otto never existed at all and you made him up, made up your crisis, made up his death, and even fabricated a story to cover his death in your mind.”
“We will never know. We were inside her head all the time and won’t ever know.”
“Now she knows the truth. All the truth we know, at least. Can we proceed with the plan?” Lilac said and gave a little jump of excitement.
“Who volunteers?” Robert said.
“Me, of course. Needs to be me.” Margaret said.
The old lady couldn’t stop shaking. She was so nervous. She was disassociating. She couldn’t feel her body anymore. Everything looked so distant. Her mind floated away from her body, and she felt a sharp pop when they disconnected. Then, she couldn’t see herself anymore.
“How does it look?” Margaret said, and then continued, “How does it feel? You like being a voice inside somebody’s head? Now I’m free. We all are free. Lilac, Robert and Antonio. Now you are the voice. Just a pesky voice in my head. Let’s visit the garden. I want to see the Lily of the Valley. And maybe on the way back we can try to find a new French turquoise wallpaper.”
[Image Credit : Photo by Pawel Czerwinski on Unsplash]
by 
Carola Schmidt
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