The Anklet’s Turn

May 6, 2013

by Horacio

The summer had been unusually hot, but this evening a cold front had swept through, bringing a chill that made the old farmhouse feel even more isolated. I was hunched over my desk, a stack of midwifery textbooks open before me, the lamp casting a dim pool of light in the darkening room. The wind outside moaned through the cornfields, and the occasional creak of the house settling was the only other sound. I had chosen this place for its solitude, but tonight it felt less like peace and more like pressure.

I had just turned a page when I heard it: a delicate, rhythmic tinkling, like tiny bells or silver threads. It came from the direction of the kitchen, near the back door. I froze. I lived alone on a dirt road that ended in a creek; no one would be out for a walk at this hour, especially with the storm clouds gathering. The sound was soft, almost hesitant, but unmistakable. I listened, my heart beginning to thud, but it stopped as quickly as it had started. I shook my head, telling myself it was just the wind rattling an old tin or the chain of a loose shutter.

I tried to return to my reading, but my concentration was shattered. The sound came again, closer this time, as if moving from the kitchen into the hallway. It was a sound I associated with my grandmother, who had worn silver anklets in her youth and had told me stories of spirits that wore bells to lure the living. But she had been dead for years. I forced a laugh, but it came out dry. I stood up, my legs stiff from sitting too long, and decided to check the doors and windows, just to be sure I had locked everything.

I walked through the house, flipping on lights as I went, the yellow bulbs doing little to dispel the growing unease. The hallway was empty, the kitchen dark. I reached the back door, my hand on the cool metal of the lock, and that’s when the sound came from directly behind me, no more than a foot away. I spun around, but there was nothing. The noise was so close it almost seemed to pass through me, a shiver racing up my spine. I ran back to the living room and grabbed my phone, ready to call a neighbor, but the screen showed no service. The storm had knocked out the tower.

Panic began to claw at my chest. I wanted to get in my car and drive away, but the keys were on the kitchen counter—just past the spot where I had heard the sound. I steeled myself, took a deep breath, and walked back into the kitchen, my eyes scanning every shadow. The keys were there, next to a bowl of fruit. I reached for them, and as my fingers closed around the metal, the anklet sound rang out again, not behind me, but from the pantry. The door was slightly ajar, and I had never opened it. I saw a flicker of movement in the gap—a glimpse of a sari hem, a flash of silver.

I didn’t wait. I bolted for the door, shoved it open, and ran across the field toward the main road. The storm had broken, rain lashing my face, but I didn’t care. I ran until my lungs burned, and only when I reached the asphalt did I dare to look back. The farmhouse was a dark silhouette against the lightning-torn sky. And in the window, illuminated by a sudden flash, I saw the figure of a woman, her head tilted, her eyes fixed on me. She raised a hand, and the tinkling of her anklets reached me even over the thunder.

I spent the night at a neighbor’s house, and the next morning, I returned to gather my belongings. The house was exactly as I had left it, except for a pair of silver anklets lying on the kitchen table, polished and gleaming. I never found out who they belonged to, but as I packed, I heard from the yard outside the same sound—soft, playful, and growing louder. I moved away that week and never looked back. But sometimes, on quiet nights, I would hear that tinkling again, faint and close, as if she had followed me, waiting for me to turn around and acknowledge her presence. And I knew, in my gut, that she would never stop until I did.

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