Frosty fingers

The night draws in early now around the Hall and icy fingers hold its walls through the night. Emily likes the frost with its sparkles, painting an opaque layer over the ugly and abandoned but it reminds me of death. Its pale white sheen filling in the cracks of the living, like an old face in death suddenly appearing smooth, having lost the anguish of life.

After a rather entertaining Halloween, I decided to return to the burnt rock with the black dog, Beelzebub. We all had to stay away from downstairs anyway because the ghost hunters arrived. Just such funny creatures with their cameras and sound equipment. Our frolics over Mischief Eve brought them in for a few days. We were restrained to icy blasts of air and the occasional thump of furniture. Very dull really when all you want to do is give them a real treat but rules are rules…

A council woman turned up too, looking into the situation with Baby. She and Charles spent at least an hour together and he took her on a tour of the historic Hall. She gushed with pleasure when he told her of the priest hole and showed her the ancient chimney, the tunnel leading up to the church and ovens. As she left she told him she was going to look into a few things and be back to see him soon. She might be able to help him. Charles looked bemused but pleased. Brigitte watched everything with stern eyes. I don’t think she was too happy with the council woman.

So I disappeared with the black beast. Obviously we don’t banter much so the journey was quiet but fast. I actually quite enjoy travel now. Been a few places and seen a few things. I do mean just a few though.

We arrived at dawn to watch a strange scene of two grown men dragging a young lad into an abandoned building. The dog got a bit excited about it all and then we sped off to find her owner.

The island looked beautiful, bathed in orange as the sun rose, especially after the sugar coated colourless world I had just left. And we were there, on the mountain side, at the home of the girl called Loulou. The dog demon started to get very agitated and somehow merged himself into my, I mean, the sleeping teenager. I didn’t like that much and when she suddenly tossed and fell off the bed, I liked it even less. I feel strangely protective over her.

High adventure

Well, I barely know how to explain what happened next. Lou’s best friend Nelson had disappeared and she seemed sadly devastated. Over the next two days it was a roller coaster of excitement and suspense. I’m no story teller so cannot relive the experience for you in words but I can say that Loulou is an amazing girl; so feisty and brave. She helped solve a mystery and catch some criminals without really blinking an eye. She did have some help though; Beelzebub the dog. Yes, the dog. Oh and there was a man in a pink van, a beastly cake maker and a turtle called Pugsley, drugged children, strawberry cake and the dog vomited. I know it sounds a little odd but it was the best time I’ve had in ages!
I really didn’t want to come back to the chills of the Hall but the Captain came to get me. Something bad had happened and they needed me to help. I had only been away a couple of days…

Who’s got Baby?

Baby, the cute cuddly, vicious, killing creature had somehow disappeared. There had been heavy snowfall one night and in the morning she was gone. The Captain had been up in Grimsby at a soldiers reunion and Emily had gone into Hull to watch rehearsals for the Christmas pantomime (Oh no she didn’t, oh yes she did) and spent the night in the costume wardrobe rolling about in the gowns and the glory. The only one in upstairs was the Norse and no one dare ask him anything.
Maria arrived and swiftly took control. She had a way with the Norseman (her Icelandic blood I guess) and he appeared out of his hide hole. He said he saw nothing but felt the Tiger was still there, somewhere. He had heard voices outside in the night but he didn’t care who they were so he didn’t look. Amazingly he offered his help. We were too stunned to speak. Things must be bad.

Downstairs are a mess. Old William trundles slowly about looking ashen, while Charles sits with his head in his hands. The loss of the tiger has hit both emotionally and financially. The world has come crashing down. Brigitte, on the other hand, remains cool and calculated. She strokes Charles back murmuring gently; “Don’t worry; you’ll just have to sell the Hall…”

Mischief

Halloween has passed with much festivity and mirth. It was a good year this year; the Captain was on form and the youngsters had practised their tricks to perfection. My son’s girlfriend thought it was a good idea to have a party at the Hall so we had many warm bloods to play with. What joy! I’ve always relished a good prank or two.
The upstairs bathroom was our choice for mischief. The bathroom furniture dates back to the swinging sixties, all teal coloured with a modern edge. At least it was. The room has a huge mirror over the sink which is going black around the edges. The silver is corroding giving it a misty glow and your reflection is smudged and faint. Perfect. The downstairs bathroom is presently out of order so all the guests stomped up to admire themselves in it.

Once upon a time in a bathroom…

Mysteriously the upstairs lights dimmed for the evening; (possibly due to the Norseman) making the creaky walk up the stairs followed by a slight jog along the darkened Captains corridor rather a scary affair for the living. The Captain loves making warm blood cool so he stands glaring at them in the middle of the walkway so they have to pass through him to get to the bathroom. It is quite a treat watching everyone shiver in that spot and the Captain glows with joy. This year, as we had guests, even the ghost in the hole, joined in with the festivities. I think he was the one playing with the electricity, flickering the lights and popping a few light bulbs downstairs in the big lounge.

Well, when they got into our retro suite, Emily and I took over. By standing in the bath behind them we could appear, mouths open in silent screams. Strangely some didn’t even see us, so we tried more extreme methods. I would create steam on the mirror and Emily, good with her hands, would start to draw in the mist. The effect was always the same, no matter what she drew (from death skull to pig); slight paralysis, sweat and an immediate and fast vacation of the room, followed often by some serious crying down the corridor of shivers. Only one young woman, slightly worse for wear with wine, was quite fascinated by the magical drawing on the mirror. I think she would have stayed with us all night except that there was a small queue building outside the door. She looks sad to have to return to the living. At one point a couple started to get sexual in there, so we started water running from every tap and jiggled the old window frames until they squealed in pain and that soon stopped them. Even Brigitte went home early, complaining of a headache. We kept shutting the door in her face as she went to leave. She almost ran down the drive after Charles saved her by forcing the portal brutally back, making Oliver disappear into the ground.

I remember bathing my children in that bath, giggling and playing with the bubbles, sliding up and down on the enamel. It was also my winding down space; a volcanically hot tub and a room filled with perfumed steam. No housework, no husband, no mess, no children, unless Sophia wanted to talk. She would jump up on the side, next to the sink, swinging her legs and babble endlessly on about her school friends and their boyfriends. It a shame I never really appreciated that closeness and intimacy. Being a housewife can drive you crazy you know. You can be more obsessed with a carpet than your own kith and kin. I would love just to hold her now; to take her in my arms and just hold her. To have her chat on excitedly about her life; her eyes looking for my approval and asking for my advice; that would be bliss but I can wait.

Shag pile

My old bedroom, all chocolate brown shag pile carpet and equally dark velvety walls has been transformed into a workshop of indescribable horror. Mismatched shelves stand in crocked lines, sagging under the weight of god knows what. My boudoir of peace looks more like a shed. The grassy wool of the carpet now has bald patches and the wallpaper looks greased rather than velveteen smooth. Where my big king-size bed rested there now lurks a huge table, encrusted with metal grips and solutions that appear to burn through surfaces. Only the small chandelier remains, hanging over it all like a dusty reminder of a glamorous past. The perfumes and the swish of my dresses, powder and hairspray and the glint of jewels all smothered by the present into whispers of me.

At first I did cry at the sight of my murderous house. I still bear scars from the pathetic state it would reduce me too. Now, I just wait for my children and watch. Certainly puts your life in perspective up here. All that you do, all your passion and pain, your triumphs and terrors, mix in with the dust in time.
So get out there and bloody enjoy yourself while you can. Oh and don’t come to the hall for a party near Halloween. You may not leave…

Downstairs

Hello downstairs, my name is Maria. I spent the best part of my life looking after the Hall; scrubbing, cleaning, polishing and decorating. I come back now to see my son, always a loner and a gentle soul, sensitive to the pain of the world we have created. I also keep an eye on the house and it upsets me to see the ceilings bulge and the brickwork crack. And winter is coming again.

A tour

The hall has a wall. I think it’s been there at least a hundred years. Handmade bricks; coloured crimson, gold, copper, amber and umber have protected the ancient mansion well. On its top, gleaming multicoloured glass sparkles, ready to rip and tear an intruder’s thieving skin. The stone lions sit patiently on the brick columns, looking out to the Red Lion pub opposite, staring out at drunken, singing revellers on their way home.
Inside the rooms span the decades. The yellow kitchen is linoleum and Formica from the late sixties, the vintage units still doing their jobs. The tap merrily dribbles water all day as it’s done for nearly fifty years. Once, this kitchen safe guarded the family crockery, gleaming porcelain and silver spoons. It’s really just a place to dump muddy shoes now and other debris stained by the outside world.

Another step takes you into the main kitchen, circa 1985, with its beiges and browns. Cupboards now open to reveal golf balls, batteries and string as opposed to the normal pantry requirements. It does make me see red…It took so much sweat and tears to keep the place in order and now you would be stretched to find a fresh baked bun. The tiles are losing their sheen and the grout has turned a shade of black. Even old Arga has a fine skim of grease, protecting the gleam underneath.
The amount of nagging echoes I hear, as I roam these rooms is deafening.

The old copper door handle has been eternally loose and rattles as you enter the middle earth of the Hall. Darker and more sombre we step back to Victorian England, with florals and pelmets and tassels galore. Dark carved furniture on animal paws crouch as you walk through the hallway and into the lounge. A table, big enough for a dinner party of ten, sits struggling with the mound of paperwork heaved upon it. The chairs sit around it looking bored and deflated. Above, on a winch sits an elderly light fixture, presently the home a family of busy spiders. The times we had around this table; Christmas, Easter, Weddings, Births and even the occasional death was celebrated here. I’m not long departed so still feel very close to this house. If I had a body I would scratch.

This house, which proved the death of me…

And now on, into the lounge, which I converted when I moved in. Running with cockroaches it was. Disgusting bugs of an indestructible kind. This is the oldest part of the house, dating back to the 17th century. It feels different. The beamed ceiling, with its meat hooks, is twice as high as any other room in the house. The walls are feet thick and you can feel the centuries there.

I left the old ovens in the wall and the big old fireplace in the centre (the one Oliver fell into and died). It warms an otherwise freezing room in the depths of winter, despite the numerous cast iron radiators that clank their way through the cold season. The room feels stately and in my lifetime was used to entertain guests and accommodate family events. Christmas morning was spent here, with the fire roaring and wrapping paper and mince pies flowing freely. I loved Christmas and every year planned for perfection. Presents were all bought by November, Christmas cake started and shopping lists made. A season to be merry. It never really turned out that way and Bill and I usually ended up roaring at each other. My nostalgia for the season drove me a little too far near the edge, I see that now but hey,hoe.
Sophia’s baby grand piano sits neglected in this room, used as a cup shelf by my old lover William. This is base camp for him now and I can barely look at it. The copper fire grate and its coal bucket were polished every fortnight by our lifelong cleaner, Mary, usually assisted by a very grumpy Sophia. The place was dusted and vacuumed till it shone; it was the pride of the house. The tall Georgian windows and doors with their thick uneven glass were cleaned with vinegar and newspaper, inside and out. I have to say I never liked sitting in it though. It was as if I could feel them there, the people upstairs…

Through the beautiful glass doors you fall into the Retreat; a seventies conservatory extension, triangular in shape with big metal patio doors. I spent my last months in this room as it has a good panoramic view of the garden and I could watch nature at work. The windows look foggy now so the garden looks like it’s shrouded in a perpetual mist. The flat roof has always leaked and since my passing , everything has been covered with tarpaulin with buckets collecting the drips.
Odd how the mind works. I remember my family on their last visit, buzzing around trying to make me smile and find some peace but I wouldn’t have it. The disease not only had my body but my mind as well. Thinking beyond the struggle seemed impossible. And the Hall, it needed looking after and I couldn’t do it. So I barked orders from my sick sofa and fought with my feelings of uselessness and approaching death. My family could do little but sit with me as I stared out to the garden, head filled with fear and loathing.

I beat the cancer but the Hall wouldn’t let me rest. There was so much to catch up on, so much to do. And I couldn’t do it; I was weak from my fight but angry, so angry. I wanted to get on, the house was shouting for attention.
My only lung collapsed and my heart stopped.

Never did get to repaint the windows, redecorate the lounge, replace the stair carpet and patch up the roof. Never got round to planting a vegetable garden and clearing the shed. Never nagged William enough to fix the tap in the yellow kitchen.

I stand by him today, shouting as loud as I can in his ear. I think he can hear me, like a nagging conscience and I rather like that…

And then we go upstairs.

Hello down there.
It’s Emily speaking from upstairs. Oliver has disappeared again. Back to the girl on the hot island I think. He’s in love! I’m sure of it because he’s never been like this before; dreamy, confused and always babbling on about what she was doing last time he saw her. It’s very silly of course, falling for an earth walker. The Captain has had his fancies but never become smitten like Oliver. I do wonder what she looks like and how she has captured the heart of a very old teenager. Maria, Charles and Sophia’s Mum, finds it funny, positively glowing when I told her my thoughts.
She’s here because she’s keeping an eye on her son. Another boy in love. Maria says Brigitte is not what she seems but in my experience is anyone? Earth walkers in the main, are chameleons; they change to fit the situation seamlessly. I have watched a few struggling with this ability though, Charles being one of them. It’s not that he’s shy he just finds people difficult to be around and can often disappear off at social gatherings, preferring his own company to the restless nattering of the crowd. Old William however, thrives surrounded by family and friends, entertaining them with his tales of the past and the occasional ancient joke, accompanied by a few large goblets of red wine. It’s wonderful to watch when he is in full swing, old eyes sparkling and spitting to get his words out in excitement.
Anyhow, Maria thinks Brigitte is going to dump him. At first she was overjoyed he had found himself an intelligent, clean and good looking mate but as time has passed ,Brigitte’s aloofness and cold humour has made her watch the relationship closer. Charles is head over heels for the pretty woman and will do anything for her as she marches in and out of the Hall. I bet if she asked him to paint all the white roses in the garden red he would (slightly begrudgingly) do it. I think the expression a closed book applies to Brigitte and there is nothing we can really do to help.

Big Baby

I am in love with Baby, who does look like an overgrown ginger cat and loves her tummy being scratched. I use twigs to itch her as my hands aren’t strong enough. She is horribly beautiful. When a storm comes and she sits in the rain, yowling to the night, sometimes sharpening her nails on the stump of the old chestnut tree, she is truly magnificent.
Old William visits her now in his robot wheelchair and sits in the cage, the tigers head on his knee. He stares out at nothing, his memories providing the view as he strokes the big cats’ ears. I think Baby likes Old William the best. He is so gentle, his movements slow and deliberate and he murmurs to her, occasionally laughing and tugging her pelt. With Charles she is boisterous and flirtatious, hugging him and swatting his legs in play.
With Brigitte, she is more guarded, watchful, making sure she sees every move the woman makes. Ultimately very obedient but she just doesn’t shine when she’s around the vet. Could be a girl thing I suppose. Baby is the first tiger I have ever seen, so I don’t know how they normally behave. Do you?
A few days ago a couple of men came from a zoo to see Baby. Apparently she is a golden tabby tiger, a very rare creature with a very cute name. It just makes her more adorable to me. The zoo man, Morris, broke out into a sweat when he saw her and fumbled for his phone, taking pictures and sounding very excited. I’m not sure Charles is though; he would much rather keep our cuddly cat. Even Brigitte looked sad or possibly a little disappointed, I’m not sure. It’s a bit hard to tell with her, as you know. Rare usually means money though, so I think I will be saying goodbye to her soon. She is a killer after all and I do mean Baby, not Brigitte. No matter what Maria thinks…

And now for the good news…

The great news is Old William with his robot chair. At last he has dragged himself out of bed and can get about the house; reasonably fast but slightly inaccurately. This obviously does have its downsides. In the toilet there is a special seat which takes him ages to struggle with and accidents can happen and do. He also leaves a trail of newspapers and coffee cups everywhere he’s been and you can almost trace his movements during the day by the remnants discarded on numerous plates balanced in obscure places around the Hall. Julie found a plate with an old lamb bone and some very dry pickle behind a curtain in the bathroom yesterday, followed by a bowl caked with muesli and banana in the shoe cupboard.
“What can you do?”she said to the mirror she was cleaning.
My thoughts exactly…

Hello down there.
It’s me; I’m back from a short trip to a dusty hot island. Apologies for the last blog entry. That was the dark spirit that hides in the priest hole. I have no idea how he managed to do it but I am fascinated by his story. He has never spoken to any of us, despite Emily and me trying (as you probably realise from his ranting). A very old soul in pain. There is little we can do to help. And as for the danger approaching, all I can do is watch. Miserable bugger though isn’t he? Mindyou,if I had helped to kill off most of my family and brutally traumatise my only friend, I suppose wouldn’t be in the best of moods. Plus he committed suicide.

We have only had a handful of suicides come through here; normally hanging, occasionally blood loss and a few that have taken to the nearest pond. Some have asked; “Is this heaven?” a few; “Is this hell?” and others are a little befuddled. Their painful human existence is over but their stay here is extended. It’s their fault. We call it thinking time. They get centuries of it. Punishment for a life unlived.

Lizard power

You may wonder who made these rules. As I have said before, they are not written but told like fables around our huge community. When someone moves on they never return to tell the story. I like to believe we get another go, another chance at life but Emily thinks we are gleaning knowledge to take elsewhere, to be put to good use. A higher intelligence has to be involved somewhere, I suppose. One youngster that passed by a while back, talked on and on about Aliens, Star people and life on other planets. Some upstairs believe we are ruled by a band of giant lizards. When the Captain heard this he laughed for days but I think they may have something. Not the lizards necessarily but I have seen unexplained things in the sky and always put this down to my lack of modern technological knowledge, rather than ships from other worlds. We will know one day…

Bricks and stones

I went travelling, as you know, leaving the Hall to bask in late summer sunshine. Its bricks were handmade in the seventeenth century and enjoy the heat on their red hide. The garden reveals its true beauty and windows have been crowbarred open to allow the sweet scent of the season to perfume the Hall’s guts.

I followed the big dog to the rocky island near the other side of the world. I’m getting better at moving through space and time; I no longer feel so sick or dizzy and I can hold myself together better. So I am ready to explore this planet a little more.

Life there is different to Anlaby; the traffic quieter, the views bigger and the population more content with what they have. The landscape is bare; black rocks and stones with bubbles of green growth and trees that only grow out of the tops of their trunks. Oh, and I mustn’t forget the huge cockroaches, what creatures they are. The upstairs people there communicate differently too; they are noisier and sing and shout more. Their language is guttural and quite difficult to understand. I rather like them.

I also rather like the girl, the dog’s mistress. Her name is Loulou (I have mentioned her before) and something about her interests me. She is, I believe, what we used to call a tomboy but the learned traditions of girlhood hang around her. In order to blend in with her sex, makeup is bought and painted, mirrors gazed into and fashion observed. I do get the feeling that this doesn’t sit well with her; these rituals are a struggle. She is happier running on the mountains and throwing herself into the sea. And I sense she feels me when I watch her. She stares unknowingly, directly at me, for minutes at a time. The dog is attempting to contact her but so far, to no avail. It is a dog after all and the girl is young.

I’ll go back to see her and her eccentric family soon. For some reason it makes me feel lighter and maybe, happier when I am around her, not the sort of emotions I am used to. I told Emily this and she laughed and said I have fallen in love. Gadzooks, me in love with an earth walker? How damned ridiculous…

He

He’s gone. With luck he won’t return, smug little devil. Always pestering, whispering to me; trying to break my silence. She will leave me alone now, that little bird. She wouldn’t dare come near on her own, carrying her pencils and scraps. Stupid little thing tries to draw me but all she can ever see are shadows. I’m good at hiding.

I’ve hidden for too many years to count, here in the Hall in the hole they made for the priest. No one comes here. People live above and below me. Over the years I have learnt this English language. I, like the others, watch and learn. I am secluded and quiet and want no company. I do not speak.

I killed them, my family. I have hidden from them ever since because I know they will be looking for me. I killed them. This is my confession.

Rheum rhabarbarum

I lived here in the first house. The village then was named Umlouebi. It was a longhouse then. Wood and stone. Many of us lived here, making a settlement in a new land. We travelled far over the water from our true home. Norsemen. Strong and brave. I was young, just a baby when we arrived.

I was of middle years when I did it. Not old enough to be a father or young enough to suckle like a child. I held no anger or spite. It was an accident.

I met a boy like myself out in the woods. He was teaching me his local language and I was teaching him mine. We hunted and caught rabbits, swam in the ponds and played battles .We avoided our jobs together and chased small children through the fields. My friend.

One day he was collecting a plant for his mother; rhubarb, with its grand green leaves and red stalks. I took some too, a surprise for my family. Great bunches of it. My grandmother chopped it up and boiled it, serving the evil brew that night while most sat around the fires. I was out with the animals and on my return found the whole house groaning .Some survived but my elderly grandparents, my mother (who was round with a new baby) and my small sister died. Others too fell afoul of the poisonous brew. The village was already weakened by a heat under the skin that made them sweat in the cold. The rhubarb finished them. My father beat me till he couldn’t see through his sadness and then left the house, swearing to never return.

So by morning they were all gone. My whole family, gone. I was helping to build the pyre to burn their cold bodies and immediately understood what I should do to appease any gods watching and cure my sad, guilt-ridden heart.

Out there, in the garden of the present Hall, is where we lit the fire to send their bodies upwards and onwards to the next life. Out there, once the flames had taken hold and the heat was scorching on the skin, I jumped in.

The Hive

Now I know he meant no harm, having seen the living eat it in pies. Now I know. Time cannot be retrieved, lives cannot be re-lived. Guilt must be carried. Silence observed.

I went to visit the boy in the woods days after my death. I went to his home. I hated him for his treachery and believed he should suffer as I had.

. A small wooden shack with children running in and out like bees in a hive. Such a scene of happiness. There was a fire burning gently inside the hut around which the older family members huddled. It didn’t take much, even in my new bloodless state, to send out a few big sparks, landing on clothes and blankets. I watched through the smoke as the family screamed. We were even then, the boy and I.

One chance

I have one chance at redemption; I must save rather than destroy. I have had ceaseless years but feel unable to meet them yet; my family, my friend.

I can feel something dangerous coming to the Hall. The idiot boy and his pretty playmate have no idea. They prattle and gossip but are blind to the truth. The Captain sees it but he is consumed by his own needs. They may need me downstairs soon. I think it’s time.

I will not write again.

Thunder

Good day my friends on the soggy earth. Summer rain and storms battle in the air and the Hall watches on. The storms continue inside with the return of the prodigal Sophia, outraged at the mess around the house and the tragic vision of her frail father, Old William. Grey and thin, William sits looking like he is ready and willing to give up on the world. Windows have been wrenched open to let in the balmy breezes and the fridge; before containing milk and a small open can of spam, has been stocked with fresh vegetables, meats and cheese. Delicious smells emanate from the kitchen as do the angry voices of the siblings. I have noticed siblingship can be a difficult affair, each born the opposite of the other, unable to see through each other’s eyes. Sophia seems choked by guilt; living at a great distance, unable to offer the everyday assistance  her father needs and Charles by his own self-pity; feeling stuck with the ailing William, desperate to leave the Hall but still unable to pack his bags. Different lives make different people.

Tonight, with the storm raging around them, they fight. Emily and I love to move things around the house, just a foot or two, enough to confuse and frustrate. Today we moved Charles’ glasses under his desk. He now believes Sophia, in her cleaning binge has misplaced them and many of the hidden anxieties have flowed forth. A storm blew outside and inside.

They love each other really…

Tumble

Emily and I must confess to a major crime. This dawn, we both knew we had to help someone; she was in danger of upsetting her fate and it was our job to stop it. It was our fault it was going to happen, really and as the sun rose, Emily and I both had the very same thought… SOPHIA.

She was upset that morning. Hating seeing her father looking as if he was knocking on the door to Heaven and arguing constantly with her brother (over what we had done) she decided to take the dogs out for a windblown walk in her favourite fields, a ten minute car drive away. Sighing as she walked out of the dripping Hall, she jumped into her Dad’s car, complete with furry beasts and sped off at quite a speed.

Emily and I sat in the back; Emily’s mouth open in a silent scream at the velocity. Great fun speeding along the glistening roads, the dogs panting misting up the back windows. Then the walk through the muddy fields; the wind whipping through clothes and hair, the rain softly dampening the skin. I’m sure Sophia was crying but it was hard to tell. And then home…fast.

We approached a tight bend; the car only just clinging to the road, the spray flying and it happened…The back wheel burst sending us towards a wall of undulating greenness. This wasn’t good for Sophia and we knew instantly what we had to do. When the car hit the wood it flew, as did Sophia, seat beltless, knocking her head on the ceiling. We help protect her body as the car spun around her and thumped to the ground on its roof, shattering the windows and crunching shut all the doors forever. Sophia had blacked out during the spin and woke to find herself sitting on the roof, looking at the wood through the smashed windscreen. The car had flipped in the air and crashed onto its back, sliding slowly down the road until it lost momentum and wobbled to a halt. The dogs were fine, having flown for the first time and they scampered to her, licking and barking. We felt quite pleased with ourselves, knowing Sophia’s skull would have been well and truly cracked without our help. She had no idea we were there, the only clue being that the silver rings on her fingers had twisted. This bemused her almost as much as the fact she had no injuries at all. The locals who came running were amazed too, expecting blood and bones.

“Job well done!” laughed Emily as we returned to the Hall, now surrounded by black clouds and screaking ravens. I don’t think Sophia was happy though…

Howl

That big cat doesn’t like the thunder. It sits in the middle of its enclosure, howling. Last night Charles had to bring her in as the neighbours had had about enough. When lightening lit the land there she was, muscular and mad, calling to the gods of the storm. Quite an impressive and beautiful sight but possibly a little fearsome for the old couple on the other side of the wall.

The mice cluster together, going out in small groups to peer through the cracks to check on the weather. They scurry and fidget, cowering when the bright light illuminates their hiding places.

Sophia, calm and composed after her accident, watches from her window as the dark bilious clouds roll over the Hall. Unlike the animals, she is smiling; enjoying the power of the beast that is Nature. I think the enormity of earth’s power can strip away human pain, fear or anger. If earth walkers allow themselves to be absorbed in it, if they could look outward and beyond themselves, they would witness a lot more miracles than they realise.

The patient

Greetings warm bloods,
Gossamer rain falls around the Hall, gently wetting and feeding the green, while the crows shower and croak. The leaf filled gutters are starting to leak and drip and the paint on the window sills stretches out, tearing away from the old wood in attempt to greet the approaching summer.

Inside Old William lies in his temporary bedroom, plaster covering half of his body and gloom filling his mind. He rests on the ground floor, unable to climb the stairs and reach his room. Around him are piles of books, newspapers, notepads and several sets of pens. Remote control devices of different shapes and sizes slide about, falling into blanket folds and onto the floor. In one corner collect his clothes; some clean, some used and jostling for space with a woven bin exploding with used tissues and more newspapers. The mice are happy as William is finding eating almost impossible with only one useable arm and all his droppings are gratefully received, when the lights go out. Pill cartons lie atop of the jumble, with indecipherable names and difficult packaging; small clusters of lost pharmaceuticals decorate the floor. All animals are banned from the room for fear blood pressure tablets will be scoffed and animal lives lost.

Old William has lost the machines that fit into his ears, so the screen screams with scientists whose space-time continuum theories are broadcast day and night. He has created a panic button system, patiently helped by Charles, which sounds like the horn of a car. Two hoots for general attention and one long, nerve jarring hoot for emergencies. His panic button is rigged to speakers around the house, so, if he is in need, everyone there knows it, in surround sound. Dean, still traumatised by his feeling of guilt at not preventing Old Williams’ fall, runs into the house with great speed at the merest hint of a hoot. This, though marginally helpful, is driving both the saintly cleaner and Charles completely over the edge. Dean has normally been working in the flower beds or baby’s pen when he hears the alarm and so distributes reasonably foul smelling manure through the Hall on his rescue mission.

The carer

Charlie is finding life difficult. He now spends as much time as possible outside with the big cat, playing and talking to it, as if it were a friend. He’s always been a bit of a loner but his workload and the new patient mean he is confined to the Hall almost full time. When the hooting starts up on the outside speakers, he sometimes pulls his jacket over his ears and stares off into the distance, unable to find the energy (or the will) to go in. The lad needs a break.

Not that Madame Smarty pants has been round to help. Oh no…She disappeared off somewhere for a week and on her return popped her nose round the door, said she had a cold and didn’t want to infect anyone and promptly left. Charming…

Julie, the cleaner, is a saint in an apron (but hopefully she won’t die like one). The look on her face on encountering the nest that old William has somehow created over the last few days was quite priceless. Usually a bit of a natterer, she stood speechless at the entrance, unable to take a step further in to the darkened old lounge; now complete with a bed, our patient and a squad of fat looking mice.
Curtains were ripped apart, the windows that could open, were heaved open and air freshener sprayed liberally for ten, ten second bursts. The room was ship shape in two hours after much tutting and rebuking and several cups of tea.

Women pop round with cakes and biscuits, much to Charles’s delight. The kitchen side board is covered with assorted silver coated objects of differing shapes and sizes and this is their main source of fresh food at the moment. Cooking has been reduced to strange dark oblong packages that are thrown in the oven and come out steaming and ready to eat. Amazing.

I think Julia is pleased to have old William contained in one room. His mess is watchable and possibly controllable. She runs round the ancient house with an old noisy Hoover from the sixties that would give any young boy muscles to be proud of. Having bleached, swept and reset traps, she looked content on leaving, ever hoping that the Hall would stay even slightly clean for her return the following week.

The horns are honking and Charles is slowly making his way downstairs to his father. Dean on the other hand has just tripped over the sausage dog, hit his nose and continued to hurtle towards the Hall, blood oozing down his face shouting; “I’m coming, I’m coming!”

Till next time…

Greetings…
Old William took a bit of a spill this morning. Reaching for a screwdriver on the top shelf, he was up a ladder which decided to slide. No-one up stairs had anything to do with it; we were as shocked as Dean who screamed as he turned to see old William flying towards the floor.

Accidents will happen…

An ambulance arrived and everyone watched the ancient inventor being carried into the van. Charles stood by, shaking his head and wringing his hands, tearing off after the ambulance in his car (with the Captain sitting on his roof). Emily was sobbing but Brigitte wasn’t. Hard woman she is; rarely smiles or shows emotion on that perfect face. Emily told me she is trying to avoid wrinkles by limiting her facial expressions. This world has become a very vain place in space.

Aviator or spy…

Amy popped by a few days ago (the aviator born in Hull); come to visit old haunts and see the breathing family members. The city of Hull is preparing a festival in her honour next year and she was curious to see how things are progressing. Now that, in my humble male opinion, was a woman. She flew all over the world, crashed numerous times (the aeroplane wings often being mended with sticky tape and strips of clothing) and kept adventuring until she left the ground to fly upstairs. It’s believed by you earth walkers that she died after crashing into the sea, just before the end of World War Two .I know different. Life had got very dangerous for her, so it was best she disappeared. In truth, she was moved to South America, where she continued flying to the end and set up her own company of women pilots, The Johnson flyers. Keep that quiet though, as it will spoil the history books…

She is disheartened by women in the west, who she feels have come so close to equality and stopped. She was laughing over their need to turn themselves into objects, becoming statues. She commented that women’s clothes and shoes stop them from moving naturally and the only time they look graceful now, is when they are still. Amy and Emily say it’s the screens that make them want to look that way. On screen, women are perfect creatures, no bruises, blemishes or calloused hands from hard work; living dolls with impossible bodies and faces. True women are banished to dark documentaries, best hidden and not glorified. Reality doesn’t sell things was Emily’s comment.

Upstairs, all of this doesn’t matter. There is nothing to sell or buy here and manipulation is usually just for fun, unless you are fuelled by pre-death trauma. We are what we are and can be nothing more.

Stopped still…

“The lads alright!” the captain told us on his return.”Few broken bones and shock but he’ll be back,” he pronounced. He returned moments ago in a wheel chair, looking pallid and tired. A bed was dragged downstairs to a place by the fire side and Charles helped lift him in it.
That’s the inventor holdup for a while. Poor William, he will hate being still. He’s lived here from being a lad of nine and rarely have I seen him inactive. Up until a few years ago, he was swimming or cycling every morning, then on to the workshop for the rest of the day. The sigh he expelled on lying in the bed was of acceptance but I don’t know how long that will last. Depends on what pills and potions they give him to heal and lift his spirits. Charles will keep a close eye on all that, proffering his own brand of medication.
At least the beast has stopped howling. The cat started its deafening song as the ambulance arrived and has only just paused with the return of Old William. The villagers were at the gates, shouting for someone to shut the noise up but only we were home at the Hall and we like it when the tiger shouts.

Rest well earth walkers, for who knows what tomorrow may bring.

Hmmm, well… good day to you downstairs. I am the Captain. Young Oliver asked me to pen some lines to you and so I shall.

To quote a true bard; Are you light of brain down there? You invent objects that; do your work, take you to places faster and smoother and make your life easier. And what do you do with the time these amazing inventions give you? Create, invent and celebrate life? No, you sit on your stuffed behinds and watch screens that tell you lies, sell you lifestyles and give you false dreams. Are your heads filled with wood?

The world is filled with good and bad but I have seen them, the real leaders, hidden in their castles, hiding behind Presidents and Parliaments. They manipulate you and drive you. They set the rules. The common man must strive to be not a fool. The dog eat dog policy, turning neighbours into enemies, the territorial fighting, the reign of materialism and vanity could be brought to an end my brothers. By you…

By you, in front of your televisions and phone screens, eating plastic packaged food and glugging cheap alcoholic beverages. Where is the society born out of hard graft and respect? Somewhere North of Japan I thinketh. When he was young William, Old William caught double pneumonia and his Father nursed him through it; sat by his bed and fed him broth and the like. After his recovery, William would arise from his slumbers at six to clean, scrape and prepare his father’s car every day until his father died. Mutual respect. (His Dad did wallop him from time to time too; keep him on the straight and narrow. This may have had a bearing on the situation.)Treat each other with equality and fraternity. I believe you have been told this over and over but your cloth ears cannot hear it.

Perfection

Hell is empty and all the devils are here, again to quote our bard. (Apart for the one that lives in the small room, near where the staircase used to be in the Hall. Dark nasty piece of mess that one.) They are everywhere and nowhere, taking your hard earned money and keeping you poor. They create a desire that is compulsive, glamourous and problem free. To be rich is to be happy. To be perfect is to be happy. They even give you an image of this perfection to lead you on; to make you dream their dream. Somnambulists awake. Bear arms together. Reject their realities and create your own, the time of the enlightened working man cometh.
Or not…Up to you. There was a time on earth when such words spurred me on and put fire in my loins but no longer. Even as I write I feel my lust dissolve into a kind of apathy. I travel; I watch and occasionally create havoc when the boredom of this existence fills me. I am a fool, a half-wit .My earthly existence was filled with misdirected passion and pain and now I suspend my sentence here by idiotic acts of destruction, meaning to drag you from your apathy or to create a new balance. Women with their obscure ways and sharp tongues force me to alter their fates and bring their haggard lives to abrupt ends. Even after hundreds of years up here I cannot control myself; I may never leave this land of limbo.

Battle

The Hall is preparing for the summer. Ancient wood is starting to shrink and warp and damp patches dissolve into powder. The cat, a damned fine beast, grows more powerful by the day. On its hind legs it holds Charles with its paws, face to face. Could have done with one of those when I was alive; seen those King’s men run in horror at its magnificence. Having witnessed countless bloody wars, rebellions and uprisings I realise now that this is population control and wealth management in action. Your lives mean little to those in control; you are a means to an end, usually yours.

Well, my brothers and sisters, fare thee well. Use passion wisely and care for your neighbour. Judgement day is coming for you all.
Eat, drink and be merry for tomorrow you may die, trust me I know…

Good morrow fine earthwalkers, fare thee well? The sunshine hours of human warmth and happiness are over here and the Hall has returned to its brooding and grumpy self. The lads are back in their workshops and Sophia has disappeared to her black island, followed by demon dog. The Hall is always quiet when she leaves and though Charles has a tendency to hide in his workshop from her fussing and enthusiasms, he does enjoy the spirit of her company in the end. At least I think so…
In the quiet, Emily and I return to our favourite spaces; places that make us feel almost alive. I send you some pictures so I don’t have to write in detail as that I mostly find boring, sorry. Definitely not a Dickens!

Animal graveyard

The first shot is of our Emily on the tree stump in the garden. I’m quite proud of it actually, as I think you can almost see her. She likes it there, as all the old family pets were buried in the dark earth around there and they gather and waffle and snuffle around her as she coos to them. It doesn’t appeal to me; I don’t much like animals but Emily almost swoons when we visit Baby, the tiger. She lies alongside it and whispers; “You’re so beautiful,” into the cats ear and it purrs louder.

The busy Bedroom

The tiny window looks out onto the garden from the smallest bedroom in the Hall. Its ledge is thick enough for a child to sit on comfortably and a single bed is huddled next to the mini view. There’s not much room for anything else. This is where Sophia sleeps (or tries to) when she stays. We like it because it was part of the spiral staircase in the old days, leading to the upper floor. They converted it into a sleeping space when Old William was young. We can sit on the bed and watch visitors and the like, wandering up and down, chatting and arguing, shouting and laughing. It’s like watching one of your films except there is no end and no heroes, just passing characters from different times, in the middle of their death sentence. Sophia always complains to her father that the room is too busy; she feels like there are people coming and going all through the night, like trying to sleep in a bus station. Most unfortunately, she gets very little sympathy over this and one time, exhausted, she dragged her mattress into a big cupboard in order to get good night’s sleep.

The strange circular light hangs above her bed. It has moved from bedroom to bedroom, following Sophia. In her youth she started by throwing her socks over it, followed by her bras in her teenage years.I don’t think she even likes it…We do as we lie on the bed, enjoying the view.

The Angel of the stairs

She lights the top of the stairs every night and Emily loves to go and sit with her, staring at the golden flame she holds. I hear her talking to the bronze figurine, telling her stories and tales from upstairs. She still misses her mother, Rose.

Old William’s Haunt

This is my favourite place because nothing here has order, unless you are Old William. Its sits next door to the inventor’s modern workshop, with his computers and tools. He just keeps all that is broken but useful in here. Old William fixes everything. A kettle breaks and he mends it from parts recovered from another old kettle. The world around him is designed to be throw away and buried but in the Hall nothing is wasted.

Every time I am in this room something new appears, emerging sometimes after years of being buried. Occasionally a small part of it will appear and then things are moved and in the resettling, more is uncovered. Emily and I have bets on what the object is. Last week it was a tasselled chandelier that we thought at first was an old hat. Only Old William knows exactly where and at what level objects are stored in this room. Rarely does he have to search for more than a minute before tracking down what he needs. I can spend all day with him here, with his muttering and tweeking, his digging through the piles, his small explosions and big gassy leaks, his shouts of joy and defeat. I am surprised the Hall has survived Old William. Great thick cables snake all around the room, and hundreds of plugs buzz gently with activity. The ceiling started to crack at least twenty years ago and still it smiles broadly down on the old inventor at work. Sometimes, much to Emily’s despair, he makes the Angel light flicker and she comes steaming into the workshop stamping her soundless feet in front of him. Of course it does no good. The old man refuses to acknowledge us but not through fear. His mind is far too rational to let him believe in ghosts.

Things can get lost and forgotten here occasionally. I send you a picture of a prime example. I don’t think you need any explanation…

It’s me again; Oliver. How are you all down there? I have just returned from a brief trip to a strange blackened island where I think I may have solved a bit of a mystery. You remember the dark whizzing shape that has been bothering us upstairs with its appearances? Maria told us it was a dog but no one could get near it and Emily and I wanted to know why it was at the Hall. We have regular visitors upstairs for; funerals, birthdays, births and weddings and a casual passing acquaintance is also normal but this dark dog shape has no connection with anyone here, living or dead.

Last week, when the magician was here and with the help of the Captain, we followed the beast and ended up somewhere near Africa, I believe. I hate travelling, always makes my head feel a mess when we arrive, like as if I caught a nasty cold during the journey. It can take time for me to get my bearings back, especially when we end up in the strangest land I have ever seen; no trees or flowers, just black hard rock and spikey fat plants. Very odd. Anyhow, the Magician tracked the dog to a house on the side of a mountain containing a small but loud family. After checking the rooms and finding no clues, the Captain and our friendly fire starter decided to go exploring, leaving me to solve the mystery. It didn’t take long…

The girl in the picture

In one of the bedrooms there were pictures of a girl (I believe her name is Loulou) growing up in the sunshine and then one of a rather large sleek black canine that looked like a greyhound. Standing next to the dog and Loulou, was a grinning Sophia. That must be it. Sophia comes over all the time to see her Dad so the dog may have followed her out of curiosity, or maybe it was her deceased pet, keeping a watchful eye. So, mystery solved! Well, almost…

As I had to wait for the lads to return I had a wander around the house, taking a look at its inhabitants. A young lad, named Isaac or Billy, (I’m not too sure which) was home scaring a plump woolly dog called Gladys. His father was screaming at him and an elderly gentleman was polishing what looked like a gun. I liked this family. The girl Loulou, is quite a young beauty or she will be. Interesting people…

Happy New Year William! (The uninvited guest)

On our return we found upstairs brimming with folk, all come over to watch Old William’s celebrations. His parents and three deceased brothers, the odd wife and a couple of older ancestors shot about, checking the state of the Hall, tutting and moaning about its cracks and gaps. They can be a miserable lot, with no consideration for the problems of the warm bloods.

Downstairs family and friends gathered to celebrate time on Earth, including someone I believe that didn’t receive an invite. Mr Sharp Suit and silver tongue (the property buyer) whom I now understand is called Jack; Jack Baker. A relative of the hag I wonder? He could be; he’s slimy enough and I know he’s up to no good here. Did you know that Frederick Baker; the insane beast that killed small innocent Fanny Adams in 1867 was a distant relative of the She-devil? Her bloodline is rotten to the core. Emily and I watch this Jack when he is at the Hall. We hate to see him touching things, picking up antiquities and whispering to Brigitte. Yes, it’s true, we saw them once whispering together at the gate. When we got near, Brigitte stormed off up the drive and left Jack standing there like a slobbering idiot. The man is a such a fool.

Back to better things…Cakes, candles, champagne and food; huge amounts of food coming and going from the kitchen. Even Sophia is here looking happy and excited for her father .She had words with us last night, warning us all to be on our best behaviour for her Dad’s celebrations. We can’t help but smile as there isn’t anything she could do to us but we respect her wishes, so heartfelt. Charles has to play host and be eminently sociable. Not an easy thing for him. All the guests admire his new pet predator and young Baby plays up to them; rubbing herself against the mesh of her prison and purring like the cat she is.
The Hall is happy filled with earth walkers; it hums nicely along, ceasing its creaking and groaning, preferring to let the living congregate in its belly.

Happy birthday to you.

Happy birthday to you.

Happy birthday dear William.

Happy birthday to you.