The Apron with the Red Stain

I must have been about six when my parents took my brother and me to the ‘Stuffed Friends Fiesta’ at Thornfield Manor. I remember feeling a surge of pride when Mum let me carry my blue rabbit, the one Aunt Flora had given me on the very day I was born. That rabbit never left her dresser drawer at home, but for this outing, I was allowed to hold it.

The picnic was a blur of grass stains and lemonade, but I remember the manor itself. It was a sprawling, ivy-choked Victorian estate, and inside, the halls were lined with mannequins dressed in moth-eaten finery. They stood in frozen poses, their glass eyes reflecting the dim, dusty light that filtered through tall windows.

At some point, we wandered up a creaking staircase into a room lined with dark, carved wood. The air was thick with the smell of old varnish and something else, something faintly acrid. I was trailing my fingers along the panels when I noticed a figure that didn’t match the others. She was a stout, elderly woman, her face etched with deep wrinkles, and she wore a dingy white cap over gray hair. But it was her apron that caught my eye. It was stained with huge, dark red blotches, like someone had wiped their palms on it repeatedly.

She seemed to be studying one of the mannequins, but then her head turned slowly, and her eyes met mine. They were pale, almost colorless, and they held a sorrow that made my chest tighten. She shuffled closer, her worn shoes making soft scuffs on the wooden floor, and crouched down to my level.

‘Little one,’ she said, her voice a dry rasp, ‘do you know about the babe that was burned on the hearth?’

I shook my head, clutching my rabbit tighter.

‘And do you know about the passage hidden behind this very paneling?’ she continued, gesturing with a gnarled hand toward the wall.

I stared at the wood, seeing nothing but carved leaves and berries.

‘They sealed it up, you know,’ she whispered, leaning in. ‘They sealed it up after the fire. But on certain nights, when the wind blows from the east, you can hear the crying.’ Her hands, wrinkled and trembling, reached out and brushed the panel. ‘I’m the one who tends to it. I’m the one who wipes the soot from the bricks. But the red never comes off. It never comes off.’

My parents were calling me from the hallway, their voices clipped with impatience. I turned to go, but I looked back at the woman. She was still crouched there, but her head was tilted, and her pale eyes were fixed on my blue rabbit.

‘That’s a pretty thing,’ she said. ‘Does it know the story of the little one? The one who used to play in this room?’

I shook my head again, my mouth dry.

‘You should tell it,’ she said. ‘Tell it about the baby, and the fire, and the passage. Tell it so it never forgets. Because some things, little one, are meant to be remembered.’

I ran back to my parents, and we left the manor that afternoon. I didn’t tell them about the woman. I thought perhaps I had imagined her, but I couldn’t shake the image of that stained apron, the rusty brown-red smears.

Years later, I searched for information about Thornfield Manor. It had burned down in the 1940s, they said, a tragic accident. A child had perished. And in the wall of the upstairs room, they had found a hidden passage, blocked by charred bricks.

I never told another soul about the woman in the apron. But now, every time I catch the scent of woodsmoke, or see a stain that won’t wash out, I remember her. And I wonder if, on the anniversary of the fire, she still crouches by that wall, asking strangers if they know about the baby. And I wonder if the red on her apron is still, somehow, warm.