What the Dickens...?

It was a bitter night. Wind penetrated the house, making it gasp and groan, windows rattling in fear of shattering.

She sat meditatively in the red wingback chair, the fire's blaze warming and scorching. She was exhausted and grateful for the chance to stop. She could not fully relax though, the storm pulling at her consciousness, as the logs spit. She picked up her knitting.

Lights flickered overhead.

Not a powercut! she thought. They were merely teasing.

She started her row, relaxing into the rhythm, lulled.

Her meditative pastime was broken by two clearly delivered knocks. There was no mistaking them. They were resolute; precise.

She started. Who could this be? She was not expecting anyone. It was late, hostile. Only the brave or the lost would be abroad this night. Tentatively, she put down her knitting and went to the door. Open it? Or ignore it? She thought of scenarios: someone needing help? She should let them in. But what if they wanted to harm her? She was vulnerable and alone.

She looked through her peephole. She turned on the light to the porch but it must have blown. She could see a figure: nothing more. The wind was obliterating all sound except the pronounced double knock. The figure's hand raised itself again and the door reverberated as his hand connected.

What strangeness was this?

"Who is it?" she called, chilled. If they answered, their words were soft or those easily whisked away by the wind.

Knock. Knock.

"Who are you?" she whispered. If she expected an answer, none came.

Was it the wind that urged Open the door! Because that's what she found herself doing.

The lock snapped. The rattling chain echoed into the night. The door creaked as she pulled it towards her and the wind rushed in excitedly.

"Hello?" she asked tentatively.

The figure remained in the dark but spoke:

"Mistress Deeming?"

Mistress? Where are we? Victorian Britain? she thought, scathingly.

It was wise that she did not utter these words out loud as before her, looking mightily pissed off was Charles Dickens.

"May I come in?" he asked, politely but sharply. "I have a matter I would like to discuss."

***

366 words

This is a sister piece to what I wrote yesterday as I mused on how Dickens would feel about my interpretation of his character. A visitation from a ghost seemed apt somehow.

Yesterday's piece: