The Chair's Secret

   Old, tired and worn out, that is what I am.
My legs are not straight any more and my colour is fading. I don't know how old you are but if you are close to my age and also a male, your legs are probably not beautiful either!

   Legs are strange things, don't you think so? At the start mine were very elegant, even for me not being female. But at the time I was born, men were far more elegant than today with white silk stockings decorated with ribbons; and velvet trousers and jackets. And expensive white wigs and lots of jewellery to show their wealth and status. Their shoes... very elegant with silver, sometimes even golden buckles. Of course I never wore shoes or stockings. My legs were always bare, only covered in white paint with a golden glow in the groins.
I was dressed in brocade with gold thread. Can you believe how beautiful this was? Particularly when the sun shone on it or with candlelight. The flickering flames brought the gold to live. If... only if I was on my own and not used.
Yes, people used me. I hope you are not thinking that this is the same as being abused.
   Maybe I have to explain that I am not a human being, I am a chair. These days an elegant chair as I am might not be too useful and only to show off but back then my fellow chairs were the same.

   Being a chair is quite eventful. There are so many different.... uhm .. bottoms that made use of me. Not everyone in the very old days was tiny or slim. At least not in my castle. The older they got the bigger their bottoms. I dreaded the huge matrons trying to wriggle them selves between my arms. They pretended to be slim but they were not, still they wanted to sit on me. Can you imagine how that felt? First of all you see her coming, her perfume floating miles ahead of her (perfume was used to hide the not so fresh body odour, another challenge for a chair...). You have good hopes that she decides I am too small but no. She stops in front of you, turns around and oh my.... Do I have to go into detail?

   It was not all misery. I (still) live in a grand castle and I am told there are or were, many more of me in many rooms. And all served numerous bottoms of generations of owners and guests. Fortunately once in so many years we were reupholstered and our seats refreshed with new horse hair and singles to carry another generation.
But then came the day that changed our lives......

   I already heard rumours going round about the great financial losses of my owner.
I need to say I wasn't too surprised; so much money was spent on gambling, drinking, parties and mistresses. The rows with his bookkeeper and wife got worse and worse. I never understood anything about his business but from the furious conversations in my presence, I knew that the money that was going out was a lot more then that what came in.
   His wife was often in tears; she did not get any credit any more at her suppliers and thought she already spent her life in poverty. Which I doubted, but I could not say anything of course.
But my owner did not listen and said he was going to earn all the money back, people owed him large sums. He did not mention however, that these people were also almost bankrupt due to their gambling addiction telling their wives the same story!
   I witnessed my owner from being a wealthy man with mistresses, a wife and children, becoming a desperate poor castle owner; his life at risk due to his debts.

   One evening, during one of the numerous meetings with his bookkeeper (a very loyal man who worked for the company and family much longer than he remembered), someone knocked at the door. Not a polite or gentle knock! It was more banging, driven by a huge anger....
The butler tried to stop the visitor but by the sound of his scared voice, the visitor made his way to our room. The door flung open and there he stood; the man who lend a huge amount of money to my owner and who wanted every penny back. Right now and here. And he was furious!!
Debts do strange things to people. Either they become cool blooded monsters to get their money back or they become crying desperate pathetic little men, not being able to pay back.
   Of course you want to know who the latter was.... it was the bookkeeper of all people. And it was not even his fault!
While the other two man challenged each other's anger and power, the bookkeeper crawled backwards to a corner, one hand in front of his face, the other pushed forward with wide spread fingers as to protect himself.
When he passed me, I noticed a terrible smell and saw that he wet himself in fear. I felt so very sorry for the man but also understood his fear, I too saw the two pistols in the hands of the other men and knew it was only a matter of time before we were going to hear the first shot.

 Again the door flung open and the butler catapulted himself into the room, the brave man.
It made the other two turn to the door and then, completely unexpected, one of the guns went of. It was such a chaos that I still don't know who's gun, but I still remember who got killed....
 I promised myself and everyone, never to mention a name or gender, never! But I can tell you that it was not the butler, not the bookkeeper (who fainted when he heard the shot) and not the two other men.

 The smell of blood competed with that of gunpowder and seemed extra strong in the one minute of complete silence in which everyone tried to come round with what happened. Then there was shouting and desperate whispering about what to do next. The butler was summoned to close and lock the door and he obeyed like he had done for 40 years.
 All three men now discussed what to do with the body of that very unfortunate intruder who (and this was accidentally very fortunate) would not be missed being one of the most unpleasant creatures walking on two legs in this part of the world.

   While the discussion went on, I looked at the bookkeeper and noticed his very strange pale complexion. I wanted to attract the attention of the other three men but nobody paid any attention to me and I sighed a very deep and desperate sigh, feeling old and useless.
   The men came to an agreement; my owner walked to the door in the corner of the room, more a cupboard door then a real door because it was made just above the panelling. I knew this door led to a very small room with a secret passage to deep inside the castle and only the owner of the castle knew about it's existence.
But this was a different situation and owing the other man so much money, he showed him where they could hide the body and where it most likely, wouldn't be found for a long time, if ever.

   The next hour the men were busy moving the body, pushing it through the little door and believe me, this wasn't an easy thing to do! The deceased was not very petite!
Finally they disappeared into the small room and it did not take long before all the sounds of huffing and puffing, faded away.
   By the time they returned I worked out myself that the bookkeeper was not 'amongst us' any more and most likely died because of a heart attack. Or just pure fear. Whatever the cause was, he was dead too.
You might think that this was a real shock to my owner but I underestimated his empathy. He watched the poor dead man for a while, then sighed in relief and fell backwards on top of me. And this is when my legs cracked but he did not notice it. He leaned forwards, thinking of what he was going to do next.
   At least I have to give him credit for wanting a descent funeral for the poor man who left a wife, children and grandchildren.
Before they carried him out of the room, my owner lifted me and put me in front of the little door he carefully sealed, mentioning me of not being of any use to anyone any more.
   I watched them walking away, carrying the bookkeeper who's dangling head and arms moved in the rhythm of the footsteps of the others; the butler holding his feet.

   Within a few months time, the family left the castle. Many of their belongings were sold to pay off the debts but some uninteresting items were left to keep me company.
   The last I heard was the lock of the door; I was on my own and remained this for ages until a few years back when a group of young people entered the long abandoned castle, calling themselves 'urban explorers'.

   They managed to open the door and entered the room, surprised to find the odd things but disappointed that it was not hiding any secrets.
And why moving an old chair with crooked legs when it was not in the way of the door to another room? They passed me on their tour through the rest of the castle, leaving me with that terrible secret I never learned to live with.

Photo: @marshallubx (Instagram)

   A secret like a monstrous lump, growing and growing in my memory and body. When it is going to burst? I don't know. Maybe you will find me one day, asking yourself why I look if I exploded.
   But even then you will not know it was that secret that finally came out. You will not stand still to listen to the name of the dead person, whispered by the horse hair sticking out of the large hole in my seat.....

Word of thanks: the photo of @marshallubx (Instagram)) 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 Marshall!

Links: please visit the beautiful Instagram account of @marshallubx

Note: the story is pure fiction! A figment of my imagination!

Helen

Château Noisy (or Miranda), her personal feelings

   “Am I bragging when I mention being one of the most famous castle ruins in Europe? With it's print on socks? OK, let me narrow it down to the most famous in Urbexland.

    And now you wonder where Urbexland is and if it truly exists. Well, not as a real country with borders and a government, president or king. Yet it is the land of Urban Explorers, people who explore abandoned properties. Thus a land with people and also laws! The main law of the Urbexer is: 'Take nothing but pictures, leave nothing but footprints' and they stick to it very seriously. Most Urban Explorers were always very welcome; they saw my sheer beauty and took the most wonderful photo's to preserve it for the time I was gone.

    My relationship with these young people who dared to visit me although the many stories about my permanent ghosts, was always very good. I admired their equipment which varied from very flat telephones that are also camera's to the more advanced camera's that look so different than the very first ones I saw when I was build. Still on tripods but not the large wooden ones. And the modern photographers do not hide under large black cloths, holding up their magnesium boards to produce a flash light.

    Some of the Urbexers still wear black cloth to cover the lower part of their faces against dust. Some with the print of a skull but you will understand that this does not scare me a bit being a host to ghosts (a nice title!!).

    They don't use Magnesium any more but small lamps on top of their camera spreading an enormous amount of light. Though often they don't use a light at all and when I look over their shoulder I see myself at the back of their camera's in grids with information about light and dark, depth and much more. I don't understand this language but know the results are glorious photo's.

    Indeed I started to love these people who obeyed their own laws seeing the beauty in my decaying body that once was so glorious!

    I am not going to tell you when I was build, by whom, how long it took, who my owner was and my destinations over the past centuries. Or, and this is so very sad, that I do not exist any more. You can read all this and about my demolition on the internet where you will also find numerous beautiful photo's of me.

   Actually I am here to tell you about the ghosts that moved in during the build and that never left me. If you ever visited me without obeying the Urbex law, you will have met at least one of my ghosts. You have not??? Do I hear that correctly? And you think you can fool me? I remember you being so very scared that you ran for your life. I know very well you don't want to talk about it, afraid people will know you had a destructive mind concerning my beauty and past. Or people might not believe you at all. Do you remember the stairs that started collapsing? You still think this was a coincidence?? Ha!!

    Back to my ghosts of whom some already lived with the family that created me. This is hopefully not a surprise; every castle, manor or even small house has it's secrets and they had to come from somewhere. Of course, over time there were added a few more after people passed away and let me tell you that this was not always the owner of the castle or some one who lived here.....

    Ghost are also normal beings who need shelter. The ones who live in the woods are not real ghosts but made up creatures to let people believe in fairy tales. We don't interact, let alone marry someone from outside. That is if we believed in fairy tales but we don't. Nice to read them to your children for bed time but there it stops. Oh I agree that you don't read our stories to your children. Strange when I come to think of it because at Halloween, when you also dress like my inhabitants, your children are the little spitting images of my ghosts, or even worse, vampires.....

    Now you, as a one of my former visitors - either welcome or not – ask yourself how many ghosts there were (or are, they are still with me), will I surprise you by telling it were quite a few and of all ages? And that they were always around, following you where ever you went? Did you never had the feeling of someone walking next to you when you carefully walked up the crumbling stairs?

    Did you never shake your head to get rid of that white shadow which was in your way when you looked at the once so beautiful blue or red ceilings with the white arches? And was it you who mentioned that the flakes of the peeling blue ceiling caused the effect of stars?
    Or maybe you remember the strange noise in your film camera while editing at home; a noise you were not aware of when filming.

    Do you remember looking through the round window and all of a sudden feeling a bit dizzy while you had never been afraid of heights before? And when you stepped back, feeling like you escaped from something terrible?

   And you, yes you who sat in the elegant red chair at the landing on top of the stairs. Please admit you thought the chair moved.... because it did!!

    Don't tell me you did not hear the sound of running water when you stood in front of the double bath. Oh yes, now I mention it, you also saw one of the white curtains moving.... A curtain on it's own looks like the image of a ghost the way you picture us. You giggled!! A nervous high giggle, not at all you......

    And when you crossed the rotten wooden floor but never fell through it? This was because we admired your braveness and protected you.

    Remember taking a picture of my coat of arms? You swore you heard the Griffins blowing through their nostrils but someone said it was the wind... who do you believe now?

    Like I said, my ghosts are with many. Some are bound to only one part of me. Which should not be a problem as I was a large castle but if you know something about ghosts and their desire to float through walls and doors (did you ever question why they never go through ceilings or floors??), you understand they don't want to be locked up. Others go where ever they want to go and this is more often than not, causing conflicts with their 'bound' colleagues. In real life they all had different characters which did not change after their death. And not all characters got along which caused occasionally major conflicts. But ghosts can not hit or injure each other, let alone kill (this is one of the advantages of being a ghost!). So, when in a bad mood, they take out on others, mainly my visitors. And did I stop them?

    In the beginning of this story I talked about the Urban Explorers that became my friends. Unfortunately there were also others who called themselves explorers but who's only gaol was destroying my beauty without any form of respect for my history and last but not least, for my owners who would have loved to restore me to my former glory but could not because of the high costs and endless rules and regulations. And to be honest, I loathed the disrespect for my owners much more than that for me.

    Of course it hurts when some idiots smash your staircases, walls and ornaments with sledgehammers. And why? Some unfounded hatred against.... yes, against what? Driven by jealousy? Being the big boy afraid others think you are a softy when you enjoy architecture? I can think of many reasons – that much I have learned from the destroying visitors – but none of these reasons I understand.

Photo: @darrennisbett (Instagram)

    It was with these people that I kept silence when my conflicting ghosts talked about revenge. Revenge not always on short term, some might not have noticed (yet) what the result of the ghosts backlash is but somehow and some day, they will. Particularly after the fire earlier this year. I knew then that I was far beyond saving and I cried for my owners; I am an important part of their history! I cried for the respectful Urbexers who loved me. I cried for my ghosts who went out of control.

And as I mentioned before, I am demolished but we are still here. Looking for new homes....

Note from the author: I never had the pleasure to meet Noisy and to visit her though I listened to people who did and who took beautiful photo's. I listened to the photo's and therefore to Noisy who at one evening, talked to me and asked me to put her personal feelings on paper; which is a privilege. And so I did. This is the way of Noisy to thank the respectful explorers. The amount of Instagram posts with R.I.P. shows the love for Noisy and she will be remembered for very long.

But her story is also a warning for respectless vandals. She emphasised 'warning'....

Word of thanks: Darren Nisbett (@darrennisbett on Instgram) gave me permission to use his photo of Noisy for which I am very grateful. Thank you Darren!
Please visit his Instagram account and website 'Darren Nisbett Fine Art Photography'

I have not only chosen this photo because Darren is a gifted photographer but also because it does show ánd the grandeur ánd the downfall; the pool in front of her, her tears.

Helen

The Other Door (short story)

    The bond with her great-great-great-grandfather Walwyn Randal Norvin Kenrick (well chosen first names) was very strong.
Most likely because they shared a strong will and stubborn and brave character, something that had been missing for generations of offspring; not my words but those of Walwyn. Yet I agree with him, I served many generations of this family whose history goes back to the Vikings.

   This great-great-great-granddaughter was the first female descendant of the old Walwyn and I expected him to be disappointed it was a girl who inherited his warrior genes. But he wasn't, he was over the moon when he saw her soft blond hair with the red glow. He almost howled like the wolf in his coat of arms. He ran through the castle, kissed every female (who still wonder where the light touch came from) he passed and returned to the nursery where he looked in great admiration to mother and child. He loved the mother from the moment she set foot in the castle. Unfortunately he could not pet himself on the shoulder for arranging this marriage – it was outside his restrictions – but someone somewhere must have arranged it from above. One day he was going to thank this Angel.

   And now this useless, lazy, ignorant great-great-grandson and his wife produced a female copy of him. And lo and behold, one of the names of the child was the female version of his own Randal: she was named Edrea Randall Bedelia.

Little Edrea and old Walwyn developed a bond from the very first moment; even before she saw him, the little child was aware of his existence. Her mother knew there was something in the nursery where her daughter reacted to but it did not feel bad and with her Welsh roots, she knew there was more between heaven and earth.

   The father who was mentally not fit to cope with the character of his wife, let alone that of his daughter, spent more and more time elsewhere; hunting, gambling and drinking with his friends. His wife who tried everything to keep her husband at home and who learned to hate his lifestyle, gave all her love to her daughter and it was no surprise to everyone in the castle that there were no other babies.

   It was a very strange household: the mother with her beautiful child and enough staff to serve 10 times more people. Life centred in a few rooms, all others were closed until the guests for the annual hunting games arrived; the one and only time his lordship was at home.

    When Edrea (who was a curious and studios girl) grew up, she explored the castle.
A few rooms were closed and in others the furniture was covered in white sheets against the dust. Her interest in the previous use of the rooms was touching, it was as if the history made her blood boil. Holding her favourite doll tightly in her arms, she told it she was going to bring the castle back to its original glory but that her father had to die first as Mummy once cried that he was spending all the money and if there came no end to it, they would be poor as a church mouse in no time. Not that Edrea ever saw a church mouse but with Mummy being so very sad, it must be extremely poor.

   The little girl did not know what she was thinking and wishing, yet her wish was fulfilled when she was 10 years old and riding her pony during the hunting event. For the first time her father showed some interest in his daughter who looked so self assured in her riding outfit. Everybody who looked at her saw what a beautiful woman she was going to be. Father and daughter guided their horses in a slightly different direction than most of the hunters. No one could tell why they did it, who's idea it was because after the accident Edrea did not say a word about what happened.
   She came back alone, a straight back and no emotions when she told one of the footman to get some help while she was going to see her mother to tell her “father was thrown of his horse and not breathing any more”.

   Edrea nor her mother cried a tear about the loss. They never spoke about it either, at least not in front of other people. The mother took over the finances and after a year of sleepless nights, paying creditors and talking to all staff members she managed to save the castle from it's downfall. We all admired her for her effort and our loyalty to her was stronger than ever.

    It was around this time that I decided it was the right moment to arrange a meeting between Walwyn and Edrea. Yes, you are right, they knew each other already but they never met in his world.

    At one day Edrea found the door of one of the rooms that was always closed, open. You might think it was odd that she never asked why it was closed, to whom it belonged or what was in it. She only tried the doorknob once and never again in the following 6 years. But today she walked into the room as if she knew it was open and waiting for her. In a sense it was, I arranged it.

    She looked round and walked to the large chest that stood open. She closed the lid and sat down on it; her feet crossed and her hands folded. Very much at ease she absorbed the atmosphere in the room where the family stored old belongings that were not used any more. She looked at her pram and smiled raising her hand if she wanted to touch it but she was to far away.

   “Hello grandfather Walwyn”, she spoke. “I am glad it is time to meet you. Will you guide me?” Walwyn smiled, opened his arms and looked at me for approval. I nodded, it was indeed the right moment.

    The two people with so many generations in between but so alike, walked hand in hand in my direction. I opened Edrea's eyes and the door and bowed when they passed me. I carefully shot the door and waited for their return.

   The old man dressed in a purple velvet jacket, a white blouse with lace collar and sleeves, trousers just over his knees, white stockings and shiny black shoes with silver buckles, his long grey hair held together with a beautiful purple ribbon, watched the young girl that looked like a little princes in her white dress with also a purple ribbon at the back. He was so proud of her and made a promise that the man who would hurt her was going to have a miserable and timely death; he did not hesitate a year ago and he would not hesitate doing it again. Particularly with this precious descendent at his side; they proved to be a good team.......


   I stand here in reflection, my heart full of melancholy.

When I think of Edrea I have to admit I fell in love with her. She was not only beautiful but also kind and generous. The people who were honest to her, knew they found a very loyal friend. She was never tired of looking after them in any way she could think of. They were always welcome in the castle and there was always food and a bed available to those who made a long journey to see her.

Photo: @marshallubx (Instagram)

  
   She did keep her promise to restore the castle to it's former glory. I can not tell you how she did it but somehow it happened, probably with the help of Walwyn who knew the castle so well and who revealed all it's secrets to her.
   Walwyn kept his promise to protect Edrea who's marriage only lasted a few months before her husband died. There were no children.
  
   Edrea moved permanently to Walwyn's world a very long time ago. And to you it might look if the caste is abandoned but you can be very mistaken. Maybe you are related to the two people I loved most in my life, who knows. I hope so!

   Try.... stand in front of me and tell me if you too see in me the light behind the other door to the other world.....

Word of thanks: the photo of @marshallubx (Instagram)) 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 Marshall!

Links: please visit the beautiful Instagram account of @marshallubx

Note: the story is pure fiction! A figment of my imagination!

Helen

The Sitter (short story)

Winter. The flames of the fire in the large hearth worked magical shadows on the furs in front of it and on the rich Goblin's that covered the old walls of my room in the castle. Their vibrant colours came to life but I did not notice it that evening. I looked at the portrait of the man in front of me, my paint brush in my hand. The only thing I had to do was signing but I felt reluctant to do so, as if I felt the sitter with the mysterious eyes, not wearing his cuirass today, would disappear to never return.

All of a sudden the man spoke.....
   "My ancestors were Vikings. No farmers or warriors but of high birth. They owned land, forests and large houses, ship yards and boats. Their harbours lay in the shelter of the large Fjords.
Like many generations before them, they sailed to Éire but not before the 12th century. They arrived here in1145 which is almost at the end of the Viking period as you will know."

Here he paused, he did not look at me. His mind was elsewhere, the sound of his deep voice, brown like his hair and  warm peat on a Summer's day, slowly faded in silence. Just as I thought he was not going to speak further, he said:
   "Unnulf, son of Gilss and Unnulf's son Grimolf, were amongst the Vikings that sailed the river Camlin to Longphort in the county Anghaile where they joined an existing settlement. But the hostility they met, even amongst their own people, was not what they expected. They tried to build their own settlement but were not successful; after 10 years they sailed home again. Grimolf how ever had fallen in love with the beautiful Aodhamair who did honour to the meaning of her name: 'fire'. As well her character as her red hair: she stood up against her parents to follow Grimolf to the North where they settled at the estate of Grimolf's ancestors near Oseberg.
It could not have been easy for Aodhamair, she missed the green rolling hills of Éire but learned to love the dark Northern forests and their inhabitants like Giants, Troll's, the Small People that lived underground, the laughing Witches, the screaming Human Birds that all of a sudden appear to scare you with their loud unpleasant raw voices. She loved to tell fairy tales to her children and later in life, her grand children. The Éire's are wonderful storytellers and her blood passed this skill on to further generations.
My mother Freydis, a descendant of Aodhamair, told me in good tradition all the old stories and fairy tales. But not only the Norwegian, also the Celtic. About Unicorns and Elves.
I remember the evenings during long and cold Winters where I rested my head in her lap in front of a roaring fire. Her beautiful voice almost sang the tales; I hardly dared to breath. Her hand laid on top of my head. I was wanted and loved."

The man paused again, his eyes  with the colour of melting glaciers, softened and shone like he had to hold back his tears. This touched my heart which had already opened to him during the long sittings that lay behind us. Then he suddenly looked me straight in my eyes:
   "I felt torn between both fantasy worlds. Or were they real? I could not tell but I longed to return to the roots of Aodhamair. Ten years ago I left my mother and father and sailed to an Éire that was still fighting Cromwell. An Éire that fought to keep it's own identity. As they did during the occupation of my Viking ancestors.

My high birth opened doors and it did not take long before I settled. I listened to and read about the fierce history of Éire, about fairy tales but soon found out, although my Irish blood from centuries ago, I am still a Viking. I miss the Fjords, the forests, the long dark winters."

He rose from his chair, his eyes fixed on me: "Your eyes as green as the rolling hills, your hair like flames."
I only noticed I was still holding my paint brush when he took it from my hand. He pulled the strings of my linen hat to free my hair. He unbuttoned my apron, lifted me in his arms and walked to the hearth.
"Will you follow me? As my Aodhamair?"
My fingers like the wings of the elves, touched his face. And when he finally kissed me I could hear the sound of the waterfall of the glacier, it made my body tremble. His hair mingled with mine, our bodies melted together, reuniting Viking with Celtic......

Autumn. The wind hauls  through the broken windows of the ruined castle covered in bushes and tall trees with flaming red leaves. The crows took over long ago and their harsh voices echo against the crumbling walls. What is left of the tower fights bravely against time, contrasting with the sky that colours like melting ice.


Word of thanks: the portrait of the man is from the collection of Roy and Nadine Precious and inspired me to write this story. Thank you Nadine and Roy for allowing me to use the photo!

Links: the Instagram accounts of Roy and Nadine.
Please visit their website where you will find many other portraits and beautiful antiques.

Note: the story is pure fiction! A figment of my imagination!

Helen