The Voice (short story)

-3-

1977

    Cliamain MacQuilken, a 25 year old free lance photographer, left the local Inn by foot; a long walk would do him good. The bright sky promised a beautiful day with the night frost that covered the houses and fields in a hazy fairytale white, melting as soon as the sun would gain in strength.

   In Australia where he was born and where he lived, he had never seen frosty fields. He once planned to travel all the way to Snowy Mountains also called 'The Snowies'; he never made it to New South Wales but he would after this photo shoot. First he travelled to South Wales Great Britain, much further from home!

    As soon as he left the village behind, he stood still and with his hands deep down his pockets, the collar of his coat pulled up till his ears, he breathed deep. The cold penetrated his lungs and it was a pretty feeling. The path he followed meandered over a steep hill and down to the Vale of Garhowy.

The view was breath taking and he took his time to let it sink in before he got his camera from his rucksack for the first photo's for the 'New South Wales Magazine'.
   The green hills and fields, the trees with the soft tender Spring leaves; he sensed the promise of Spring as he had never sensed it before. In the far distance he saw the chimneys of his goal and he knew he would not arrive there in the first hour.

   He walked down the path and laughed about the rabbits that hastily sought shelter in the hedgerows to hide for the unknown man. The sheep in the fields blew little clouds like he did with every breath and step. He was glad he was used to climbing hills so his calves were not going to hurt tomorrow.

    One hour after he left the Inn he arrived at the rusty gate that lost most of its glory, hanging in its half broken hinges. Green ivy curled between dead grass and brown ferns up into the iron fences.

Despite the sad look of decay, the professional photographer Cliamain (Clem for his family and friends) also saw the beauty of it and took photo's from different angles.

   He tried to push the gates further open but failed. First he laid his rucksack at the other side, next he pushed himself through the gap. Suddenly the gate gave way and opened as if it welcomed a long forgotten friend. The manoeuvre stretched the ivy and towed the ferns and the grass to the corners behind the majestic stone pillars with on top the large acorns covered in green moss.

    The stretched Ivy revealed vaguely the initials 'CJ', Clem knew it were the initials of the family name of former occupants who left the Hall long ago. Therefore he knew what to expect: a derelict house that craved for restoration, if still possible after all those years.

   When he saw the house at the other end of the lawn, he was surprised by the state of it. Of course there were one or two tiles missing from the roof but it wasn't as bad as he expected. For a moment he wished he had the money to restore it, it was magnificent. He did not understand why the family left it and did not believe the many rumours he heard in the Pub last night. But if some of the rumours were true – the family was in financial trouble and had many debts – it was plausible that they never returned and that the house never came up for sale. Somewhere there must still be a descendant to claim the ownership. But who and where?

    Clem thought of it as an intriguing puzzle some one had to solve, but it was not going to be him; he did not have time enough before he returned to Australia. He felt sorry; for himself, the house and the current owner or heir.

   His evening in the local Pub was a surprise. Soon after he ordered his first beer, an old farmer who kept looking at him since he walked through the door, sat down on the stool next to him and to the inconvenience of Clem, kept glaring at him. Clem smiled, hoping it would bring a smile on the farmers face too. But the farmer looked behind him and shouted, winking with his hand: “Elgar, come here!” And Elgar climbed the stool at the other side of Clem. “Take a good look at the bachgen, a very good look and tell me what you think!” Elgar's little watery eyes between at least as many wrinkles as with the first farmer, looked and looked and said: “La.... Nag oes a similarity” and both farmers nodded and nodded while they drank their beer. The 'bachgen' felt uncomfortable with two people discussing him as if was an object instead of a human being.
   After he offered them another Pint, the farmers became more talkative and although Clem did not know all the Welsh words, he soon understood he looked like someone who lived here before. In fact he looked like the Lord of The Hall who's family suddenly left the house in the dark of the night. No one knew where they went to or what became of them.

Soon all the men in the Pub talked about it and he was advised to visit the abandoned Hall before he left for home.

   And here he stood near the steps of The Hall looking at the front door still firmly closed as he noticed pushing it. He walked a few yards back and observed the once so beautiful house and tried to imagine people living here; walking, talking, maybe children playing and laughing. The garden, now completely overgrown, must have been beautiful, like the long driveway. The large windows, now dark and unwelcoming, must have looked inviting with soft light illuminating the facade.

    Clem could not hold his curiosity and walked round The Hall till he found a large door at the back. He pushed the handle and to his surprise he did not need much power to open the door.

He entered a corridor where in the old days hung coats. Boots and shoes stood in the old racks that were now grey with dust and cobwebs. The corridor lead to a large empty kitchen, once the busy heart of the house and full of smells of food and cakes. He imagined an overheated cook with read cheeks, running from one oven to the other and shouting instructions at the young maids.

But there were no other smells than that of dust. And there were no sounds at all, it was the wrong season for the flutter of flies and butterflies.

   From the kitchen he entered a long hallway and arrived at the grand staircase in the middle of a beautiful hall with carved ceilings, now covered in thousands of grey nets, woven by many generations of spiders. Flakes of painted hanging from the ceilings and caught by the cobwebs.

    His shoes left vague prints in the dust, paint and chalk on the tiled floor.

He spent an hour inspecting the ground floor which was empty; there was no furniture. He wondered where it went because the story was the owners left in the dark of the night. He would ask the farmers during his next visit to the Pub. They were old enough to remember.

   While he walked around he was surprised by the strange feeling that although he had never been here before, it somehow felt familiar. A voice not to be heard, called him upstairs. He wanted to obey the voice, it felt as an adventure and he was curious where it would end.

Photo: kelly_jean_urbex_photograpy (Instagram)

    He walked the stairs and explored the large bedrooms and old bathrooms without hearing the voice. Until he reached the door to the attic. He opened the door, climbed the stairs, walked through the corridor with the doors to the servant rooms. The people who lived here must have had many people working for them, he counted the doors. Some rooms must haven been occupied by two people. He realized there was a large gap between the owners who lived in luxury and the servants who slept in cold and dark rooms.

   Suddenly he arrived at a large attic that covered the whole house.

And here he heard the voice again, telling him to go to the large trunk that stood solely in the middle of the attic. He did not obey immediately but first looked around, observing the dirty windows with the diffuse light and hundreds of dead insects on the sills. He had the strange feeling someone was watching him and turned around, though there was nobody.

    He walked to the trunk and the feeling being watched got stronger and stronger. He opened the lid which screeched as if it did not want to reveal it's content.

Clem looked inside but did not see anything. He put his hand in the trunk and followed the paper lining and lo and behold, in one corner lay an envelope. He took it out and looked at it but could only see a vague handwriting.

He walked to a nearby window, removed the cobwebs and used his handkerchief to clean enough window to let the light in. Again he looked at the envelope; he held his breath when he saw what was written on it. His heart bounced and he felt a cold shiver going down his spine.

    Still the envelope unopened I his hand, he turned to the window and stared at the trees in the distance. His brains refused to think, his eyes did not see the trees. He stood there, not knowing what to do let alone what to think. All his emotions came to a halt until he finally noticed the girl standing in the middle of the drive way. She looked at the window where he stood and for minutes they stared in each others eyes as if there wasn't a reasonable distance in between. Was it she that caused the feeling being watched? It could not have been her voice.

Clem turned round at the same moment the girl walked to the house......

Word of thanks: the photo of @kelly_jean_urbex _photograpy inspired me to write this story and I was given permission to use the photo as an illustration for which I am very grateful. Thank you Kelly!

Link: please visit the beautiful Instagram account of Kelly Jean her impressive website Kelly Jean Photography and Facebook Account

Note: this is the 3^rd story of 5 that are connected. The Story is pure fiction! A figment of my imagination!

Helen