Separate beds

He did have a good day yesterday though. Baby, as the infant predator has been named, continues to cause chaos at the Hall. Young Dean was in the tiger compound and the cub reached out with its gargantuan paw and ripped off his trouser leg. Dean, holding a bucket of extremely strong smelling cub faeces, screamed and threw the sewerage all over Brigitte, who was coming to check on Baby. Her immaculate hair hung awkwardly in brown dreadlocks, her spotless quilted jacket had artistic splattering and even her gold earrings dripped with poo. Not a happy lady! The Captain danced a jig upstairs, overjoyed at the sight (I have only once witnessed him have genuine compassion for a woman; Old Williams wife, Maria who was an elegant, spirited woman. I think he fell in love…).>

Brigitte is here every other day, spending a lot of time with the cub; checking its nails, brushing its soft fur and just generally ignoring it whilst using her phone. A little odd really, as she is huddled up out there in the cold but perhaps she likes her privacy. Emily thinks she has a secret but we can’t get close enough to see her phone because that demon black dog keeps getting in the way. Always whizzing about at high speed, it knocks us for six when it flies through us. Nightmare! We still don’t know its name. We have a plan though…

Martial Peace and War

And a question; Adults in love. They sleep in the same bed usually don’t they? It’s just; they sleep apart, Charles and Brigitte. Now, I’ve seen the older folks taking separate rooms after many years of marital peace and war but young lovers? Charles is an atheist and Brigitte a religious mystery. She certainly doesn’t get up early for church on a Sunday; she waits for breakfast in bed, in her bed. He snores but without the operatic resonance of his father’s snorts that echo through the Hall as I type. So dare I ask, what’s her problem?

So, farewell sweet readers and remember; things don’t just go bump in the night…

Henry didn’t give up and constantly sent Martha small tokens of his desire (shoelaces, dried flowers and occasionally salted fish). In 1660 he returned to the Hall with his proposal of marriage in hand and battle plans in his head. The royalists were approaching Hull and plans needed to be made.

That night, after a hearty meal and a decent amount of beer, he fell on his knees and proposed to Martha with his fellow soldiers, made stupid with drink, jeering around him. Bad idea… Mrs Baker swooped in like a vulture on a dying soul and clutching Martha to her, she announced that her daughter was betrothed to a local farmer; very wealthy (with a gut to match) and 20 years older than the delicate beauty. Martha was to be married the very next day. She then shuffled her off outside and bundled her into a cart which was to take her on to her fiancé.

Henry tried to pull her out but was stopped by the farmer’s men who were chaperoning Martha to her rather sad fate. He ran in front of the horses, only to be half trampled and left by the road side as the cart rattled off into the future. He never saw her again. Some of his men carried him inside where he downed enough beer to water down the anger and pain that ravaged his body. He stumbled onto a bed of straw and watched the shadows play all over the walls as his candle flickered. When he awoke he was dead, slightly toasted around the edges but most definitely dead. A house fire had almost destroyed the Hall, taking Henry and the mice in the walls with it. My mother and I had watched the blaze, feeling only its warmth in the cold night, never knowing he was burning to death behind the dark silhouette of the Hall.

Rippled Rugs

When I joined him upstairs a short time later, all he could do was to pace the corridor that held the door to Martha’s room, as if she might appear and make the world a wonderful place again. Hating womankind, he rippled rugs that caused housemaids to fall downstairs, breaking their necks. Henry nudged the cook who found herself flinging boiling water on anyone around her. He did that for a while, about a hundred years if I remember rightly and then he gave up. Travelling became his passion combined with the search for his family which lead him all over the continents.

 Around the late nineteenth century, he returned from a spell in a country called America with a poem in his head. He had witnessed the assassination of one of his heroes; Abraham Lincoln, another man of the people. The poem started with the line; O Captain, my captain (the name of poet, Walt Whitman comes to mind) and he repeated this day and night until, without realising, we were all calling him, the Captain.

Such is his story so far…

Midnight

Evening all.
It’s midnight in the dark and cold Hall and the earth walkers are snoring gently under their blankets, apart from old William whose snores sound like the pained grunting of a sheep giving birth.

And you’re frightened of us?< We barely make a noise and are almost completely invisible, so just what is there to be scared of? The witching hour of midnight, when we all come out to scare the living daylights out of you; just where did that idea come from? We are here all the time, watching. We don’t sleep, as there is no need too. And consider, the worst time to try and get your attention would be when you are dead to the world, asleep. Add it up! Night is a calmer, quieter time so you may see a flicker of us or hear a passing whisper, when in the day, all would go unnoticed. I have to state though, (after watching many a paranormal programme in the company of young Charles) that in photographs, we do NOT appear as orbs or mist (check your camera lens for dusk specks and finger smudges, light rays etc...It’s not us!). I have seen the rare shot of someone from upstairs, caught fuzzily present in the frame but our forms vibrate so differently to yours, the earth’s light cannot give us a static shape. So don’t bother. Take a look at my selfie... You can see us but then again, you can’t. Besides all of that, we don’t want to scare you. Well, most of us don’t.

O Captain! My Captain!

As I am enjoying my writing now (nothing bad has happened to me up here, no punishment, as yet, for my rule breaking) and I am in the mood to tell you the Captain’s story. It’s a difficult tale but an interesting one. He was born by the name of Henry Johnson in 1615 in Ganton. In 1650, after working on a farm he joined the Parliamentary army (with Oliver Cromwell) and rose up the ranks to commander for his leadership and good judgement. The crucible of combat was his life blood. He was a man of the people, his men were his family.

He met her in 1658 on a visit to the Legards (then the owners of the house). She appeared at the table with a tray of steaming pigeon pie and his heart was lost. Martha Baker was her name. Oh, yes, Baker… daughter of the guttersnipe housekeeper. He barely touched his pie. Next day he slipped her a badly written note asking her to meet him in the garden at midnight (so romantic but this is his telling of it). Night fell and his heart beat faster on hearing footsteps in the darkness. He lifted his lamp to catch sight of Martha’s beautiful face approaching, only to find the grisly visage of Mrs Baker scowling back at him. She informed him that her daughter was meant for a better class of man than him, a mere farmers boy and disappeared back off into the darkness of the hall.