The Jam-Smeared Knife

I took the housekeeping job at the Farrow House in the autumn of 2019, not long after my divorce. The place was a sprawling Victorian that had been converted into a bed-and-breakfast, nestled at the edge of some woods that seemed to swallow the light even at noon. The owner, Mrs. Pendle, was a spry old woman who wore her gray hair in a tight bun and had a way of looking at you as if she knew secrets you didn’t. On my second day, she gave me the tour, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as she recounted the house’s history. It had been built in 1892 by a wealthy timber baron named Elias Croft, who had it constructed for his beloved wife, Margaret. Margaret was found dead in the garden, an apparent suicide by poisoning, though some whispered that Elias had done it in a fit of jealousy. The house had been in his family until the 1970s, and then it became an inn. Mrs. Pendle told me the typical things I’d have to tell guests, but she added one warning: ‘Room Seven, next to the kitchen, is locked from both sides. I’m sure you’ve noticed. We keep it that way because the guests kept wandering into the kitchen, and once, a guest found a knife with jam on it in there, but it was weeks after anyone had been in the room. We never figured out who put it there. Just keep the door locked.’

I was unsettled but chalking it up to eccentric old lady talk. On my third day, I was assigned to clean Room Seven, which had been unoccupied since the spring. I unlocked the door with the old brass key that Mrs. Pendle had given me, and stepped inside. The room was musty, with heavy drapes and a four-poster bed. I started dusting the armoire when something caught my eye on the bedside table: a butter knife with a smear of what looked like fresh strawberry jelly on the blade. The jelly was glistening, as if just spread. A chill went up my spine. I remember checking the locks on the door leading to the kitchen, which were indeed locked from both sides. I quickly swept the knife into my dustpan and disposed of it in the kitchen trash, then tried to forget about it.

A couple of weeks later, I was cleaning what we called the ‘Doll Room’ on the third floor. It was a small parlor that housed a single antique porcelain doll in a glass case. According to Mrs. Pendle, the doll had belonged to Margaret, and sometimes, it was said, the doll’s dress would change color or position on its own. I was dusting the case, my back to the room, when I heard a soft whisper behind me, like a dry, rustling sound. I spun around, but the room was empty. The doll sat motionless. I shrugged it off, but as I turned back, I noticed a small smear of red on the glass front, as if someone had pressed a finger against it. I wiped it with my cloth, but the stain remained, a faint pinkish smear. I felt a cold draft despite the sealed windows.

Over the following days, small things began to happen. I’d find objects moved from their place. A teacup from the kitchen would appear on a table in the hallway. Once, I smelled freshly baked bread coming from the larder, but when I looked, nothing was there. I started to ask the other housekeeper, a woman named Ruth, if she’d noticed anything, but she just gave me a knowing look. ‘It’s the ghost of Margaret,’ she said. ‘She’s restless. They say she loved to cook, and she was especially fond of making jam. She’d spread it on fresh bread and give it to the workers who built the house. Maybe she’s trying to be friendly.’

That night, I lay in my small room in the attic, unable to sleep. I kept thinking about that knife, the jelly so fresh. I decided to check the kitchen, and as I descended the stairs with a flashlight, I heard a faint humming from below. It was an old lullaby, sweet and melancholic. I reached the kitchen and saw a figure standing by the counter, a woman in a long, old-fashioned dress, her back to me. She was spreading jam on a slab of bread with a butter knife. My heart pounded. I spoke, but my voice was barely a whisper: ‘Margaret?’ The figure paused, then slowly turned. Her face was pale, but her eyes were dark, hollow. She smiled, and the knife in her hand reflected the moonlight. She lifted it, offering me the slice of bread, and in a voice like rustling leaves, she said, ‘Would you like some?’ I backed away, but my feet felt rooted. She took a step forward, and the room grew cold. I finally managed to stumble back, sprinting up the stairs, and I didn’t stop until I was locked in my room.

I quit the next morning, but I couldn’t shake off the image. I did some research later, and found an old newspaper article: ‘Croft’s Wife Dies in Tragic Accident.’ It said Margaret had been found with a jar of homemade jam beside her, a butter knife near her hand. The official cause of death was poisoning, but the article hinted at foul play. They say Elias had accused her of infidelity. I don’t know what happened to the doll room, but sometimes, late at night, I swear I smell strawberry jelly, and I see that pale face in my dreams, offering me a slice of bread with a knife that glints like a promise of something darker.