Two figures are on screen.
The first is an older man, thick-set in a linen jacket and chinos, prominent chin beneath a sardonically angled mouth and thick grey hair combed horizontal across his scalp. He sits in a cavernous armchair on the left of the camera shot.
The other, facing him, is a woman, at least thirty years his junior, dressed casually, but not inexpensively, in a green pant-suit. She sits in a less generously proportioned armchair on the opposite side of the screen.
Behind them, creating a frame within a frame, is a huge single pane window looking out on a lawn and, in the distance, a wood. The grass is interrupted in several places by trees which seem to have escaped their siblings in the copse.
Judging by the sunlight and the hue of the foliage, it is spring—perhaps late April or early May. The stillness and inactivity encompassed by the window dominates, creating both context and distraction for the activities of the two inside.
They are talking. We know this from the movement of their lips, the gestures of their hands, the tilt and nod of their heads. We can only speculate on what is being said. Given his position as a well-respected therapist charging high-end fees, Dr. Paul Johnstone’s notes and records have been found wanting.
There is a short, jarring crackle, then a light pfff pfff sound on the video, reminiscent of a needle jumping on a vinyl record player. We have no recorded sound on the film. The crackle repeats at intervals throughout. On an otherwise silent soundtrack, the source of this interference remains a mystery.
So far as we can tell, none of Johnstone’s clients knew their sessions were filmed. The camera was discovered in a nook behind the bookshelf on the opposite wall. All the recordings were auto-uploaded to a cloud only Johnstone had access to. Analysis of his desktop PC suggests he re-watched a selection of the recordings at the end of his working day. The videos he chose to review were, exclusively, of his sessions with female clients.
This video, filename X-B13-97, is the only one which does not have discernible audio, and is the final recording he ever made.
The woman conversing with Johnstone is Erika Chainey, a successful conveyancing lawyer who, at the time of this video, had been seeing the therapist for six months. Her mother and ex-boyfriend both tell us Chainey suffered from depression throughout her life and faced a particularly trying time following a recent family bereavement. She’d engaged Johnstone’s services on the recommendation of a work colleague.
The discussion seems to be going well, or at least, uneventfully. Chainey does most of the talking, as we might expect. Johnstone asks a question or poses a challenge, and in response Chainey speaks for a minute or so, maintaining eye contact with the doctor, occasionally gesturing with upturned palms or dabbing the air with a forefinger.
Neither pay any attention to the lawn and the trees behind them. Neither can see what we can see.
There is another crackle followed by that strange popping sound, which now seems closer to your inner ear adjusting to a new altitude.
If you look closely at the shadow of the wood, you can see a tiny movement next to the trunk and roots of a willow tree, on the upper left of the camera shot. See it?
There it is, and once again. To the naked eye, it might be the flutter of a leaf disturbed by the breeze or the quivering of a forest critter. Inspect more thoroughly and you will see it is a foot. A human foot. Here and here you can see the faint outline of the legs to which they’re connected. You may assume these lines are too thin to be limbs, but you would be wrong.
Wait and watch. She comes forward into the light.
For now, the woman is just a thumbnail in the corner of the camera shot. Had I not drawn your attention to her, you’d still be concentrating on the interaction between Johnstone and Chainey, who continue their conversation without realising she is there.
But as you do notice her, see how the spring sunshine plays across her form. There is a juddering, flickering effect. All things being equal, you should have a clear view of her body and face, and yet, you do not.
Her advance is slow but steady, and with each step it becomes clearer we are witnessing something other than a mere person walking across grass towards a window.
The woman appears as a grainy, low-quality celluloid image, interrupting the pin-sharp digital video which surrounds it. There are no rough edges. We are not left suspecting trickery or CGI manipulation. It just . . . is.
Crackle pfff pfff.
Closer and closer she comes and as her form grows on screen we glean more details. The woman is wearing a nightdress in the Victorian or Edwardian style, but the garment, which might originally have been the nightwear of a wealthier, more well-to-do woman, is in a poor state of repair. The hem has disintegrated to a crop of flailing rags and the white cotton is covered in stains and discolouration. Her skeletal legs and arms and the alarming paleness of her skin suggest severe malnutrition. The nightdress, like her skin, hangs on the woman. Jutting bones make themselves known from beneath, unencumbered by flesh and muscle.
Witnessing a figure so obviously strange and wrong and terrible may prompt you to look away. Resist this instinct. Embrace your curiosity.
Now that she is almost at the window, you see her face more clearly. It is difficult to tell if she is old or young. Trauma or starvation or both have stripped away the identifiers of age.
The woman moves in the stop-start manner of a badly controlled puppet. Her skin bares the awful pallor of the expired. The only evidence of animation in her eyes, sunken far into their sockets, are two beady circles of yellow within black pupils. Is it such a stretch to think she may be some terrible echo from the other side? A malign revenant?
When she arrives at the window, the woman stops and smiles. There is mischief in her grin, the dangerous kind.
She looks to Johnstone, then to Chainey, then back to the doctor. Still grinning ear to ear, she approaches the glass, near to where he sits.
At this moment, we are certain both therapist and client will turn and see her. And yet, they continue their conversation, unperturbed.
The woman stands next to Johnstone, staring directly at him. Naturally, we’ve spent most of our time assessing our perception of her, but what is it she now sees? A later middle-aged man in a jacket with the baring of wealth and professional success? Or something else, something deeper, less respectable? We will never know, but given what happens next, the act of wondering serves us well.
The woman reaches out, pauses, then taps an elongated fingernail against the glass. There is a tiny, almost imperceptible flinch from the doctor, but if he hears a tap tap tap, he does a good job of hiding it.
Chainey continues to talk and the doctor nods along.
The woman outside now cups her hands around her mouth, like a child playing a game of ‘pass it on’. She presses her hands and lips against the window, near to Johnston’s left ear. Note there is no misting of the glass, no condensation from the heat of her breath. Instead, we have a clear view of her lips moving and a grey tongue forming words. She appears to be telling Dr Johnstone a secret.
Crackle pfff pfff.
There can be no doubt Johnstone is aware of this communication. As soon as the woman starts to speak, he sits bolt upright, hands clasping hard on the arms of the chair. His mouth drops open.
For her part, Chainey keeps talking, hands rocking from side to side in a seesaw motion. It is only when the writing pad and pen resting on the therapist’s lap, slide off and onto the floor, that she stops, mid-flow.
Without us noticing, the woman outside has moved nearer to Chainey. The speed of her transfer from one side of the window to the other is surprising and disturbing. If you rewatch the previous three seconds and concentrate on her, instead of Chainey and Johnstone, you’ll see her rapid insectile scuttle across the width of the screen – like a scorpion enlivened by the hunt.
Now, she whispers to Chainey through the glass.
In response, the lawyer licks her bottom lip, and frowns. She seems suddenly much younger than before, no longer the adult delving into her psyche, but a schoolgirl considering a tricky equation. She stands, turns and walks over to the bookcase on the right of the screen. Brow still furrowed, Chainey stops at the shelves and leans her head against a set of books. For the remaining 1 minute 23 seconds of the video, she does not move again.
Johnstone makes no attempt to question or impede his client. As we return our gaze to him, the expression of shock remains. He stands and walks off in the opposite direction to Chainey, to the left of the screen, out of shot. We cannot see him anymore, but we know this is where his desk and filing cabinets are located.
For the next thirty seconds, nothing happens. The woman remains at the window. Chainey stays leaning her head on the bookcase. And Johnstone does not return to the camera shot.
We look down to the left-hand corner of the screen.
A pool of claret blooms on the carpet. It spreads like the opening petals of a red rose. We know what this substance must be and we are certain of its source. Just above the pool, twitching and then falling still, you can see the doctor’s thumb and forefinger. Out of view we must assume he lies, prone, on the ground.
In the window, the woman is gone. Our instincts insist she must be there, but no. Grass and trees fill the space where she stood only seconds ago.
Breathe in now. Prepare.
Crackle pfff pfff.
And here she is. Somehow inside Johnstone’s office, entering from the right, where there is no door.
Closer to the camera. Closer still. Staring at us.
The woman knows we’ve been watching. She brings her face all the way up to the camera lens, an unmistakeable masque of death.
She smiles and presents a fingernail.
Tap, tap, tap.
A silent video. And yet somehow, we hear the sound.
Tap, tap, tap it comes again.
She cups her hands around her mouth. The viewfinder is filled with lips and tongue.
And she whispers to us.
Can you hear? Can you hear?
