Clarity

I’ll admit it now, I was never very good with money. I always found ways of making it, but I always found losing it equally easy. It was investments that cost me more often than not. Surefire, safe, guaranteed returns. I just couldn’t get enough of them. It’s not to say that they always came back to bite me, but they did often enough and, in the case of the most recent blip in my fortunes, I found myself living in a very modest apartment complex with more debts than furniture to comfort me. It was the resting place of any number of people who had woeful tales of misfortune, most of whom I had little time for or interest in. This is where Mrs Price differed. This lovely old lady was full of kindness, joy and generosity; she did not need to live in our sordid little grief hole but chose to.

Very soon after I moved in I received a knock on the door and there she was: Mrs Price stood there with a dish of hot shepherd’s pie and vegetables. From that point we were firm friends. Once a week I would join her in her immaculate little apartment for a home-cooked meal and a chat and, in all honesty, those couple of hours were the best of my week — the only time I didn’t dwell on my woes or, more significantly, think about my next drink.

Mrs Price was an enigma. I’m not sure in all the time I visited her that she told me anything truly personal. I don’t even remember her first name. I think she introduced herself as Mrs Price and that stuck. She never really mentioned her late husband much either. I had asked once how she ended up living there and she said that after he passed she chose to live in a complex set up just like this — one floor, long corridors and rooms on either side. On that occasion the answer seemed sufficient, so I never pursued it. It wasn’t until some time after that that she told me a little more.

Mrs Price had what she called a ‘clarity’ and said she could see between realms. She described her ability like walking down the darkened corridors of an apartment complex like our own, filled with locked doors. What her power allowed her to do was to sneak a peek through the keyhole of each door and witness the spirit that lay within. Living in the apartment complex put her at ease and in a way made her feel closer to her husband. I chose not to ask too much about her clarity and she only occasionally referred to it. The most memorable occasion was when a fellow resident, Mr Cummings, passed away. She told me she had seen him and, unusually, he had noticed her looking. This was something she felt uneasy about and she told me that it was the only time she did not like her ability.

Sadly, my drinking began to overtake me and our weekly meetings stretched to fortnightly and then monthly. She always listened, never judged, and always had a fresh home-cooked meal ready for me. The problem was, sometimes I couldn’t bring myself beyond the broken old sofa in the centre of my tiny apartment. Even though it was only one stride to the door.

One day — I say day as I don’t recall if it was morning or evening — I woke from my drunken sleep to the sensation that I was not alone. I scanned my eyes around the room to see no one there, but the feeling persisted and it was coming from my door. There was something not right about it. I needed to investigate what was wrong. I clambered up and walked to the door. As I got closer I noticed that the keyhole flickered. The light had changed on the other side. Someone had been looking through. Quickly, I knelt by the door and looked through. An eye looked back at me. We both stepped back, but it was me that looked back through first. Standing there on the other side of the doorway, bathed in light, was a sorrowful-looking Mrs Price. Her demeanour unnerved me and I stood, ready to open the door to check on my friend.

I reached out to use the handle to open the door and realised to my horror that there was no handle. In fact, there wasn’t really a door — just a keyhole with my clear-seeing neighbour looking in.