The Cry of Mary

"I would not go in there on my own, Lass!"

His voice frightened me to death, where on earth did he come from!
Yes, it was a dim evening, dark clouds drifted by, the wind gained in strength but still the visibility was good. And I know for sure that he was not there when I arrived. Neither did I smell the tobacco smoke from his antique clay pipe.
Antique pipe??? The sailor looked if he was from a completely different century....
The look on my face amused him: "Don't be afraid of me, I will not hurt you. But...." and he took his pipe out of  his mouth and pointed the stem at the old derelict building I wanted to explore: ".... be aware of the ghosts in there."

I wanted to ask why but not a sound came from my mouth. Instead I obeyed the silent order in his beautiful grey eyes and walked to the old bench to sit down next to him. How could he be so old and still so young? Like a a strong healthy man in his thirties. If this whole moment wasn't so extremely surreal, I would admit I felt attracted to him.
I sat down and for a short while we looked each other in the eyes. There was a swift recognition and for a second I saw a very strong emotion in his face. Then he smiled again, looked away from me and talked; his deep and warm voice resonated in my chest:

    "The wind howled and the people of the village of Thrusk knew this was not going to be a usual night. They were used to storms and learned as children how to recognize the signs. You had to, being a fishing community so close to the ocean. Too many lives were lost at sea, too many widows worked twice as hard to support their families.

But not only adults never returned from their journeys, also children from the age of 12. An age you were supposed to work and help the fish and money getting in. You left school and life educated you.
John was one of these boys.  But John wanted more from life.
He loved the sea, he loved the trade of many generations before him, he never wanted to anything else than being a fisherman.
But he wanted to learn to write and read properly. Not just what he learned at school.
The headmaster recognized his intelligence but his parents said he could not be missed at the boat. There were too many mouths to be fed, every hand, even at the age of 12, was needed.

This night the sound of the arriving storm, straight from the ocean, outvoted the sound of the high waves battering the coast and that of the window shutters, rattling a tune of fear and danger.

The wind blew down the chimney, the flames of the open fire danced fanatically round the kettle with the stew. The delicious smell reached John's nose but not his stomach.
He survived a severe storm, one of the very lucky few that night. He knew about the fear, the struggle, the will to survive.
A stirring feeling in his stomach told him somewhere out there people were in danger. He was extremely restless and when the church bells rang later that night, he could not even remember what he ate. He rushed outside in his rain coat, hat and wellies and joined the other villages on their way to the beach.

The following day the bright sun revealed the debris of what was once a beautiful small boat. The only survivor, a young woman, was taken to the doctor. She was heavily traumatised and only mentioned one name 'William'. They assumed it had to be her husband who was never going to be found. The woman, they called her Mary, stayed in the village, never spoke, never smiled.
But she helped families, cleaned houses, looked after the small children and cooked meals.
Also for John and during the months following the shipwrecking, John developed feelings for her he never experienced before".

The sailor paused, his hand rested on mine and I folded my fingers around his. He tightened his grip as if my hand was an anchor. An anchor for his emotions. He raised my hand and held it against his wet cheek, it was only then that I noticed my own tears.

     "Although Mary did not speak, John noticed that she was aware of his feelings for her. He knew he could not rush her, he needed to be patient, to show her to trust him. He wanted to protect her, shelter her, to reach her heart which he realised, still belonged to William. His love for her got stronger and stronger.
One night, when he could not sleep, he heard her footsteps, the sound stopped in front of his bedroom door. He imagined hearing her breath, he listened, not sure if he wanted her to go away or to open the door to let her in. But she did not walk away. John got out of bed and opened the door.
The look of her slim body, her long hair and her dark brown eyes, made his heart stop beating for a second. He took her in his arms and carried her to his bed.

He woke up by the sound of the thunderstorm. The lightning illuminated the bedroom, the wind blew the rain through the open window, the curtains waved. He reached out for Mary, knowing she would be frightened but she was not there. He called her name but she did not answer.
He went out of bed and went to her room but it was empty. He looked downstairs but could not find her.
Like the night of the storm where she was found at the beach, he put on his rain suit and went outside to look for her. Once in a while he stopped to shout her name. He went down to the beach and walked and walked, desperately calling 'Mary!!!' until the thunder storm calmed down and the rain stopped. The sun tried to warm him but he remained cold. Without Mary he would never feel warm again.

A few days later, someone knocked on his door. John knew instantly that the body of Mary was found. They had taken her to the mortuary and begged John not to go and see her. But no one could stop him. The crowd parted when he approached the mortuary and the villagers stood in silence when he closed the door behind him. But they stayed, to comfort him afterwards.

John was never the same again, he occasionally smiled but never laughed. He drank his weekly beer in the Pub but never joined the group of fisherman. His bright eyes turned hazy grey. Although still attractive to the unmarried women in the village, he never married.

John passed away at the age of 76 and was laid to rest beside Mary. Nobody realised it was the same date of the shipwrecking 35 years before; March 26, 1819.
That very same evening, a shivering cry was heard from the mortuary. The voice of a woman begging William for forgiveness because she betrayed him. The sound sent shivers down the spine of everyone who heard her. The grief ended with a whisper: "John....."

The mortuary was never used again. No one was near it on this particular date in the following years.

Photo:@yorkshire_womble (Instagram) @

Tourists or people passing by, laughed about the fear of the villagers. No one really believed the story. But no one was brave enough to stay for the truth."

His pipe fell in the sand, he was still holding my hand but loosened the grip, his other hand touched my face: "You returned, I have been waiting for you, Mary. Follow me." I did not ask him how he knew my name, I did not question the recognition earlier tonight. Instead I followed him and together we entered the mortuary. It's rusty hinges, etched by the salt of the ocean, obeyed without any resistance. The moist smell faded and a light glowed when the door closed behind us.

A police officer who passed by, noticed a soft light behind the broken windows of the mortuary and drove his car up the hill, got out of his car and checked the large wooden doors of the derelict building. They were firmly closed by two rusty locks.
He climbed on top of a few crates against the eastern wall to look through the broken windows but the soft light was gone. He used his torch to explore the interior but did not see anything alarming, just an empty building with a strong smell of decay.
Just as he wanted to step off the crates, he heard soft whispers and gentle laughs of happiness.
He wrote in his report it were definitely the voices of a man and a woman but there was no one in the premisses. Signed: constable Wilson. Date March 26, 2019.

 

Word of thanks: the photo of @yorkshire_womble (Instagram) inspired me to write this story and I was given permission to use it as an illustration for which I am very grateful. Thank you so much Ali, luv yah Lass X

Links: please visit the beautiful Instagram account of @yorkshire_womble

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

Helen

Mountfield House.... walls dó speak!!

   My name is Mountfield and I appreciate you to call me so. No first name, just Mountfield. Although I have a very posh background I prefer to be modest as I found out that beauty is corruptible; soon I might not be here any more.

   Of course I have been very proud of my looks! I was respected and loved, kept warm and comfortable with large fires in the hearths of all my rooms. My first owner had a great eye for detail without overdoing. My bay windows at each side of my majestic front door, my ceilings, staircase..... I can go on and on.
Still, I have not been a very happy home, people did not stay for long and the one who did in the end, suddenly disappeared......

   Real lives are lived within my many walls and how often do people say: “if walls could speak...”? But walls dó speak! If you ever visited me, you might have been too busy wondering about my current state instead of listening to me.
   I hope you don't mind me telling a bit more about myself and my occupants over the almost 200 years of my existence. Yes, I am that old, so old that I have forgotten in which year I was built. I remember it took some time before my first owners the Robinson's, moved in but I do remember the first new life within my walls when their first son baby John William was born. This was in January 1833, only two weeks before one of the wettest Winter months in history when the rain was gurgling through the gutters and flooding down the hills, flooding the muddy streets of Musbury. Horses walked slowly to avoid the mud spreading on the cloths of the poor servants that were sent out to buy food. The carriages of the delivery services were covered in mud and cleaned each day again after already a very long day for the men that drove them.

   When William was still a baby, Mrs. Robinson decided that she did not want to raise her child in this ancient but beautiful village and even before the Summer could change her mind, they put the house up for sale.
Another young family, the Cobham's bought it. The couple just married and hoped to raise a large family and I was with 13 rooms and definitely status, excellent for this. Thomas Cobham was addressed in all the letters to him as Esquire, a polite title appended to a man's name when no other title is used. Yes, you will learn some history from me!
   And again new life screamed his lungs out right after birth: their first son in March 1834 and their second in May 1835. It left Mrs. Cobham with a weaker constitution and she talked about renting out the house to move to more comfortable and warmer places. Thomas Cobham agreed but not before he and his wife accompanied the Duke of Somerset to the a large party on November the 7^th where all influential people were going to meet each other. You would call it 'networking' in this modern world.

   But it was not until November 19 – 1836 that I was advertised to rent out. I can assure you that the time between the party and the renting out, wasn't a happy one. The couple quarrelled. Thomas suddenly had more and more duties to fulfil outside his residence. I felt so sorry for his wife, but what could I do?

   The family left before a new tenant was found and I stood empty and cold on top of the ancient hill, overlooking the village of Musbury where the columns of smoke stood straight in the cold icy blue sky. People wrapped in their warmest cloths, walked by and only a very few stood still to look up to me and to feel sorry. The poor people in the village said it was a waste of money. The built of me had cost so much and had not been without danger; one builder fell of the roof and never received a compensation which left him and his family in great poverty. Another builder, nobody knew where he came from in the first place, disappeared completely. The story was that he left because he was not paid but rumours told something totally different......

   The Cobham's never returned and I was sold to a new owner in May 1837 who rented me out for a longer period, every time another tenant. No one stayed long enough and I felt cheated and lonely. I can assure you that at this early point in my life, I started to dislike people. Alas, maybe it was my dislike that chased them away again, who will tell after all those years...

   In 1851 I was sold to Mr. Mad Mrs. William Trelawney. Mrs. Trelawney gave birth to a son in 1855. Why is it that only sons are born between my walls? But they too sold the house to a very wealthy man called John Loveridge who also had a house in London where he stayed during the Winter. His elderly bones could not stand the cold in Musbury when the wind was hitting the house, chasing the snowflakes around the corner and making the journey down the hill dangerous, despite the servants cleaning the path.
   I have to admit that John (please forgive me for calling him by his first name) was someone I liked very much. During the months he left me alone, there were always people to warm me by keeping one or two fires burning. In return I gave John his much needed peaceful rest when he grew older.
Unfortunately, a few days after he arrived from London in March 1864, he died and I grieved for a long period. Nobody wanted the house or his furniture and everything was put up for sale in September that very same year.

   And again a young family moved in: Captain and Mrs. John Fryer Still and in November 1869 they got a son who unfortunately had a bad health I could not do anything about. After his premature death in January 1871, they rented out a part of the house to Mr. and Mrs. Walter Bourne. Their son was born May 1872. You might think that Mrs. Still would be jealous because her son died and now there was this healthy baby in their home. But this was not the case, she adored the baby and for the very first time there was true love in the house where both couples lived.
When Mrs. Still got badly injured due to an accident in September 1873, Mrs. Bourne helped her where ever she could during the recovery. Both women became very dear friends for the rest of their lives.

   Captain Still, who was a keen gardener like his lovely wife, was fully integrated in Musbury's society and was chosen board member of the local school in 1875. He took this very seriously; I witnessed many meetings where his wife was an excellent hostess.
   They managed to overcome the loss of their son and were socially very active in and around the village. Captain Bourne decided in august 1875 to look for an all round gardener and put an advertisement in the newspaper.

   My happiness with these two couples and all their joyful and busy life came to an end when the house was sold again. My new owner felt like an old friend, he was related to the previous Thomas Cobham and also called Thomas.
   And in 1879, for the very first time between my walls, a daughter was born on January 11, what a wonderful start of the new year! Born during one of the coldest Winters in history with temperatures far below zero.
Fortunately Thomas Cobham did not only inherit the name but also a fortune and managed to keep everyone warm and comfortable inside the house plus the poor people in the village. He and his wife helped where ever they could and were much loved.

   In 1885 they granted him to add the cricket field – locally called the 'Dipping-pan' - to his property but only when 10 acres were made free for local recreation and so it happened.
   But things do not always go according plan and financial problems caused the sale by auction of the complete livestock in March 1888. Used to selling livestock for a living turned out to be different than selling it all. To say goodbye to a part of your life and income was devastating. Everything changed and the house got up for sale again which I hated. Every time I had years of happiness, it came all to an end and I started to wonder if it was me who caused this. Was it the big secret I carried between my walls? The secret all other people managed to keep silent about until they passed away? Did they ever think about me as a witness who sooner or later was going to reveal what happened that dark and rainy night?
   For how much longer will I keep silent? The older I get and the more souls are moving in and out the house, the more difficult it is to find my own peace. My anger about the neglect of my feelings is building up and I am thinking of a plan to become well known in the end. Even after my final end, people will talk about me for years and years.....

  It was not until the end of the 19^th century that it was quiet in the house again. Like in the days of John Loveridge, again an elderly man lived between my walls: Major Lock. A man with an excellent military background and an honest heart that recognized true braveness. It was due to his efforts that a local villager received the Queen Victoria Medal. A party was planned but both military men were too humble to let that happen. They had done their duty and a party was out of place.
   Major Lock was much loved by everyone including me and his somewhat sudden death at the age of 70, just after he finished his breakfast on April 5 - 1909, was a shock to everyone.

   The years that followed were confusing and where my plan to become famous one day was put to a hold, it started to take shape again when all the furniture and outdoors effects were sold by auction. Again I was an empty shell, left alone with that gruesome secret.....

   I continue with my owners in 1921 when Mr. and Mrs. William McKinnel – true Conservatives – looked for 4 housemaids. Imagine, 4 housemaids in a household of 2 people! They lived a very social life and the house was very seldom empty. Meetings were held between my walls and I learned everything about the Conservative Party. Mr. McKinnel was chosen District Counsellor in February 1923 and had so much input that he managed to have the famous Sir (Arthur) Clive Morrison-Bell, 1^st Baronet, a British soldier and Conservative Party parliamentarian, to speak about Socialists Trenchant Criticisms. No, this was not a party! Let me explain: Criticism of socialism refers to any critique of socialist models of economic organization and their feasibility; as well as the political and social implications of adopting such a system. I told you before, I teach you some history!
   I liked Sir Arthur who was very intelligent though modest. His high forehead was the visible witness of his intelligence. The evening of his speaking he was 54 year of age. And although his red hair and light green eyes, he did not have the temper you expected. Either he learned to control it or was wise enough not to give in to it. I never found out.
   Not everyone in the village was happy with his presence and I have seen some dark figures wandering around my outer walls. I needed all my power to scare them off and I succeeded. Of course I knew about my power but got aware of the real strength that very night.
   William McKinnel died at the blessed age (for those day) of 81 on January the 5^th 1934. He was dearly missed by his wife, their marriage had always been very good. Mrs. McKinnel and I had a good relationship too. She looked well after me. She also looked after her staff but the financial world was very unstable.
   Her cook and housekeeper both left in 1939, the dark and uncertain year of the beginning of the second World War and Mrs. McKinnel had to look for a cook/housekeeper. She could not afford two separate women any more.

   Please forgive me for this next big step towards my end.
I do not want to talk about the war nor the people that lived in my house after Mrs. McKinnel passed away. I have only once again been a residence for one family; so many different people moved in and out, died between my walls or even lived in poverty. It did not do me good and the signs of wear and tear became visible. My colours and grandeur faded and it was not until 1981 that I was promoted to a Grade II listed building in good hopes this would make me survive in a time that most people could not afford my maintenance any more.

   The last owner I want to talk about lived here with her husband until his death in 1996. His death which was even for me emotional, but it changed the whole life of his wife. She felt extremely lonely and struggled maintaining me. I have seen many tears in my long life and much grief and sadness but here was grief beyond my understanding as a house. Her whole world changed, she lost touch with the safe and loving base her marriage was. And she looked for ways to fill the emptiness.....

   She converted the house into 4 apartments, she lived in one of them. Although she loved me, she lost control over my safety regulations and did not have the energy nor the will to change this to benefit her tenants and herself. She received a fine which she could not pay.

   She also began to hoard a lot of – in my believes unnecessary – belongings.
The couple already loved antiques and inherited many precious items from their ancestors but now she also bought a lot of items in the charity shops. Most of it without any value. But some were worth money she better should have used for me.
  The tenants left and my rooms, first to enjoy living, were filled with her hoarding activities. My astonishment grew by the week by seeing all those items being piled up. In a way I understood her, believe me I did. Seeing her sadness I understood her hoarding but also knew it was not going to be fulfilling and that one day it would turn against her.... and that day would come sooner or later.....

Photo: sean_explore (Instagram)

Back to you Urbexers, the people who walk through me to explore my rooms, to touch the items left by my last owner who all of a sudden disappeared.
I know you treat the house with respect although some of you laugh about it. But many of you though feel the sadness of it all. Wondering how it got so far.
You have all one emotion and many question in common: where did the owner go and how could she leave everything that shows her emotions, behind.
When did she leave and how? Was there another car than the ones in the garage and the garden? Did she take clothes she needed leaving the rest behind? Why are there still so many items that clearly belonged to her husband and her? Very personal belongings like photo's, the WW1 uniform, letters, documents?

Still, none of you ever asked me what happened. No one touched my walls to feel the energy and to interact with me. To talk to me. Maybe you are afraid to hear too many voices, of all those people that lived here? Or are you afraid of the truth? To discover the story of the builder that disappeared in the middle of the night but who in fact, is still here? Afraid to explain me to you if he was found accidentally and that is why the last owner disappeared? Why no one wants to buy me again?

I am beyond restoration; my decay goes fast and that is what I want. I want to die famous and it is only after my total demolition that you will hear the true story.

Yours faithfully,

Mountfield.
Note from the author: the dates, and names attached to the dates, are real and found in archives, any mistakes are not my responsibility.
However... the characters, their feelings and thoughts are pure fiction, a figment of my imagination. So are the personal feelings of the last owner who has not been heard off but still might be alive. Please keep this in mind when you read my story or visit Mountfield; pay her your respect. She deserves this.

A big thank you to my Instagram friend Sean who made a video of his exploration at Mountfield and who triggered my curiosity for it. I have been going through many files and websites and want to name the most important:

*1 www.genesreunited.co.uk births, deaths and newspaper articles
*2 www.revolvy.com information about Sir (Arthur) Clive Morrison-Bell
*3 http://www.pascalbonenfant.com weather in England from 1700 – 1849
*4 Sean Explores the video 'An Urbex Dream – Hoarders Mansion'

Please also visit both Instagram Accounts of Sean: Sean Explores and his Fan Page

Important: if you want to use any information from my story, please contact me on forehand or refer to me in your article. Thank you :-)

Helen

Love beyond Time, a Christmas story

   It is extremely cold and I ask myself why I gave in to my own hideous plan to explore the house in the middle of the forest.

   Of course I am dressed properly: a thick warm coat, warm boots with thermo-socks, gloves, a comfortable hood to keep my ears from freezing and even my photo bag is protected against the icy cold. Hopefully my camera isn't going to freeze. I know from experience that an empty abandoned villa is colder inside than the temperature outside indicates.

   I often thought about this phenomenon and the only answer I can think of, is that there is not only no heating but also the souls of the former inhabitants are gone. Even if there are warm memories, you can't feel it any more.

   This is my first visit to the house, I discovered it accidentally and are still surprised nobody ever mentioned it, nor have I ever seen photo's taken by fellow explorers. I am, to say the least, very curious.

  The first time I saw the house, the weather was more friendly, no snow. But I did not have the time to go inside after I discovered a door from the the stables to a hall. I hope the door from the hall to the house is unlocked, we'll see.

   At some places the snow is thick and comes above my boots but I continue my way to the villa. Meanwhile I admire the beautiful surroundings. Nothing is as quiet as a snowy forest absorbing every sound. Only occasionally you hear the quick flutter of a bird but most are gone to warmer areas. There is no wind to clear the heavy branches, sometimes you hear a soft cracking noise as if the weight of the snow is too much for the trees. But apart from that and my breathing causing little clouds, there is silence.

   Sooner then expected the house appears from between the trees, it's roof hardly visible under the weight of the snow. I do not dare to think what is going to happen when the temperatures rise, the roof must leak.
There are no footprints; I know I am on my own and for the first time since I started the expedition, I wonder if this is safe. Too late; I have to be careful and cross my fingers.
I walk to the back, enter the stables that once housed horses and carriages but now the old decaying hay and straw are the only witnesses of a more glorious time.
   The door to the hallway is still unlocked as is the door to the house. It makes a squeaking noise and in a reflex I stand still to listen. There are no other sounds, it is even too cold for the mice and rats.
I push the door further open and enter a large country style kitchen, covered in dust and cob webs but still fully equipped. Actually it looks like if the cook is going to return any moment, complaining the fires are not burning and dinner will not be ready in time. I imagine to smell the pies and cakes.
   Standing still makes me aware of this strange cold and I wrap my arms around my body. Before I am going to take photo's, I first want to explore the house. Everything will still be the same on my way back. And if the whole house is like the kitchen, I am ready for a few surprises, I can't wait.

   From the kitchen I enter a long, long hallway with many doors and I hesitate for a moment choosing one. I open the third at my right and enter a beautiful drawing room with high ceilings and large windows. The ingenious ornaments of the ceiling let go their paint although obviously reluctant to do so but the damp wins its nasty game. The grand curtains which must have cost a fortune, still wait to be closed to keep the cold out but there are no hands any more to do so. Cob webs hang down from the corners, catching flies although they too left the house.

   I walk slowly through the majestic room; the little clouds of my warm breath follow me as if they are reluctant to solve in the cold air.
The furniture is impressive and the dust can not hide the colours of the expensive upholstery and the once lovingly polished wood. The thick carpets muffle the sound of my footsteps. Despite all the glamour and beauty, the room does not look like it was used too often. At least not for cosy family gatherings.
   The enormous fireplace is black and in between the old ash from previous fires and the dirt let go by the large chimney now blocked by crow nests, there are still large logs. I feel tempted to lit them but know I will most likely set the house on fire.
In the panelling I notice a door that looks so small but is actually of a very normal size. I find it difficult to resist doors and walk towards it. The brass handle moves smoothly when I press it and the door swings open like it had been oiled yesterday. I enter a much smaller room and what I see takes my breath.

   Nothing here is dusty, I don't smell decay. On the contrary, I smell roses and a perfume that has not lost its strength. Strangely I am not frightened, it feels like coming home and although I do not understand this completely unexpected feeling, I give in to it and relax.

   The fireplace in this room is much smaller and the chimney looks very clean. I can't resist the feeling that I have been here before. Or that I belong here but decide not to think about this. The logs for the fire are stacked in a very large basket and in a reflex I put some in the hearth and light them with the matches on a small table next to a very comfortable sofa. I don't ask myself if I am doing the wrong thing or if someone outside will see the smoke coming from the chimney, there is something in this room that will protect me, I can feel this very clearly.

   It does not take long before the cold disappears, much sooner than expected it feels comfortable and warm. I take off my coat and hood and settle on the sofa, snuggled up between soft cushions that release the same scent of roses I smelled entering the room. I smile, a broad happy smile and think: “Why did it take me so long to come home?”

   I watch the flames dancing and spreading their welcoming heat and I feel my cheeks turning red. My whole body begins to glow; I take off my warm sweater; my blouse lighted by the flames. The atmosphere makes me sleepy and I doze off.

   When I open my eyes (I must have slept for only a few minutes because the fire is still burning as it did) I notice the little Christmas lights on top of the stone mantle. I am surprised but do not ask any questions. Instead I watch their soft glow in between the needles of the fresh branches of a pine-tree.

   The smell of pine is getting stronger and competes with that of the roses. I turn my head and see a beautiful very large Victorian style decorated Christmas tree which reflection in the large mirror above the mantle, had escaped my attention. Or wasn't it there before? I don't know. Everything in this room is not as I expected and I refuse to question my observations.

  
   Instead I give in to the wonderful feelings that overwhelm me. Feelings of being wanted, coming home, being loved beyond physical attraction. Never in my live have I felt so comfortable as today.

Photo: Helen Varras

   While sitting on the sofa, feeling the heat of the fire, I watch every detail of the room and everything in here is so familiar. I know the titles of all the books, I know the date of the whiskey in the crystal bottle. I know the feel of the soft materials of the cushions and curtains as if I had chosen them myself from a large variate of beautiful samples. I know how they feel against my cheek. I even know the name of the roses that spread their eternal smell and close my eyes again.

   Then I hear that beautiful voice I have been waiting for all my life; deep and warm, surrounding me, touching every nerve in my body, making me tremble. I feel the strong hands that hold me, their warmth reaches my skin through my clothes. I smell the masculine scent that matches so perfectly with that of my favourite roses.

   While I hide in the loving arms that surround me, I kiss the lips that tell me how much I am loved, that smile when they say: “What took you so long my love?”.

I smile too but do not answer, I do not need to; you read my feelings as you have always done over the past centuries. I am home, not only for Christmas but forever.

Helen

The Escape

   When they heard it on the news, they did not worry. It happened more than 100 miles from where they lived but the escape was countrywide news.

   They were not easily scared, otherwise they never had bought this house in the middle of nowhere. They fell in love with it as soon as they saw the photo in the window of the estate agency. It was not the romantic cottage they always had in mind. It was a mid sixties bungalow with at the time of the build fashionable glass cubes next to the black metal front door. The bungalow was plastered and painted white which meant maintenance surrounded by so many trees but not an obstacle for them. They wanted the house.

   They decorated it to their own taste and modern standards and felt very much at home. Both had a job in town and commuted; every day they looked forward going home.
   Within 6 years, they were blesses with two children; a boy John and a girl Susan. The children loved the big garden where they had so many toys to play with. Like their parents, they were always outdoors. They all adapted the country life and looked healthy and happy. So happy and careless that they never worried about the news of the escape two weeks ago.

   The most dreadful day of their lives started as usual. The mother was up early to cook breakfast, to wash, dress and feed the children. The father waited till the bathroom was empty and got ready for a new day at the office.
   Like all 5 days of the week, everyone was in a hurry by the time they had to drive to the village and to town. Leaving John at school and taking Susan to Kindergarten was the mother's job; she started an hour later at her office than the father.
   A lot of calling and 'hurry up's', running up and down the stairs for forgotten dolls, handbags and clothes. A normal tumultuous young household which all parents will recognize. Therefore non of the members of this happy family saw the man running through the woods and the garden, hiding behind every tree before he moved on. A man who wasn't from this neighbourhood and who did not want to be seen...

   Hiding in the closet under the slope attic, the parents did their very best to keep the children as quiet as possible. Fortunately they were tired after their playful day at school but soon, the parents knew from experience, they were hungry and asking for food. How on earth could they keep them quiet?
It would not take long before this so called Hide and Seek game was getting boring for them. But for now they leaned in the arms of their parents and tried hard to play the game the best they could.
   Above their heads, the parents looked each other in the eyes, just visible by the little light that shone through the small hole in the wall, and saw pure anxiety; they feared for the lives of their children and their own.
The father took the hand of his wife, very carefully not to alarm the man in the house. He noticed that her hand also shook and her fingers were cold as ice.

She squeezed his' softly to encourage him but both knew that courage was not their strongest emotion right now.

   It was amazing how their eyes got used to the little light and how well they could hear in the darkness. All their senses were sharpened. The stillness in the house was louder than their own heartbeat or the breathing of the children.
They knew he was there, the occasional shuffle they heard, told them he was still downstairs and they prayed he did not go upstairs but left the house instead.
   Suddenly there was a loud bang and all four of them were instantly very alert. John whispered: “Are they going to find us Mummy?” but Mummy pressed her fingers against his lips and said: “ssshhhh”. John obeyed.

   The silence after the loud bang was even worse than before; it told the parents he was indeed still in the house. And their car was parked in the driveway so they did not have the illusion the man thought there was nobody at home.
They wished they had gone outside instead of sneaking upstairs. But it was the fear of being seen by the man who stood there, staring at the house.
And for the very first time since they moved here, they wished they had locked the doors behind them.
   It took a while before they heard a soft shuffle and the recognisable noise of the door to the hall; they never came round to oil the hinges. Half way the noise stopped as if the man listened for a reaction somewhere from the house. Then the door was pushed open and footsteps moved to the kitchen.

   Holding their breath they hoped the man was going to leave the house through the kitchen door and they almost forgot to breath to listen his footsteps. But again there was only silence. A cold threatening silence that slowly walked down their spine and back to nest in their brains. To take over every other emotion and only leaving pure anxiety.
   They did not know that the fear tightened their muscles until Susan moved in her mothers arms, complaining that Mummy hurt her. And then that she was hungry and when the game ended. And who was the person in the house searching for them?
   The mother whispered it was someone with very good ears who loved games so they needed to be extremely quiet! John still thought it was exiting and smiled with his eyes wide open which. But in the spares light from the hole his eyes looked very big and scary. She only saw what could happen if the man found them in their hiding place. If he only left the house but he knew, she felt that so clearly, that there was a family and that he could smell their fear. She new by instinct that he was going to wait as long as needed. At the moment John said he needed to go to the loo they heard the sound of the tap; the man filled the water kettle. Never had they thought that this so familiar and homely sound was so extremely frightening!
   The parents looked at each other, knowing an escape was impossible; the man made himself at home. Where they were so very afraid, he sat there smiling with a cup of tea. Waiting.... as a lion for his prey........

Photo: @wpunkt_epunkt (Instagram)

   When you ever visit their house in the middle of no where, you will see that the once so white facade is now green and grimy. The driveway is overgrown with shrubs and the tracks of many police cars are buried under thick layers of brown leaves as if the trees wanted to cover the gruesome things that happened here years before.

   The black door is wide open and the wind and rain turned the hallway into a muddy place. There are no witnesses any more. No footsteps of the family that lived here, nor those of the serial killer. They and the car have never been seen again.

   Only the hasty left personal belongings like an open bag, a torn apart doll, shoes and a coat, might give a clue to what happened and why the house became unsellable. Why nobody wants to live amongst the horror of the past.

Word of thanks: the photo of @wpunkt_epunkt (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 Walburga!

Links: please visit the Instagram account of @wpunt_epunkt to view the beautiful photo's!

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

Helen

Floating Silence

   The little twigs crushed by his hasty feet, made a cracking noise that did not disturb the wildlife; the inhabitants of the forest were used to this man who lived here most of his life. His smell and posture were as familiar as the trees and large boulders. During the harsh winters there was always food near the red barn of which the white panelling glowed bright in the afternoon sun.

    The deer raised her head; it was unusual to see the man running. Her brown eyes watched him disappearing between the trees before she shook her head to chase the flies and continued eating.

    He did not slow down, he knew there was something wrong. His heartbeat went up, in pace with his breathing. His heart ached and not because of physical strain although it felt like wading through a swamp, facing a nightmare.

He heard stories about people who relived their lives in the last few seconds before they died; flashbacks. Of happy times is what he wanted, reliving the happy times. The face of the woman he loved with his whole heart, suddenly appeared in front of his eyes.

    A bruised face with hollow cheeks and eyes so tired that they remembered him of chased animals. She stood in a corner of his veranda when he woke up to watch the sun rise. She did not move but stood there, her eyes fixed at his face, her chin high, her arms down her side and her back straight. It shocked him and not because he did not expect any human being at his door. No, it shocked him because here was a woman that went through horrible times. Not an accident but brutal violence made her look the way she did.

   At the same time he felt a deep admiration for her courage because there was no fear in her eyes. Her whole body displayed courage and her eyes challenged him not to ask any questions.

   He invited her in and made sure he was not walking behind her and not blocking the doorway. He saw her looking at the breakfast table and in an impulse, licking her lips. His hand invited her to sit down but she remained where she was and stroke her hair. Although she did not say a word, he knew that her pride made her do this and he went to the stove to boil water so she could tidy herself up.

When it boiled, he left his house and walked to the shore of the lake to give her time and space.

    He lost track of time but returned from his deep thoughts about the mysterious woman when he heard footsteps. When he turned his head she stood next to him, dressed in one of his trousers and shirts held together with a string of rope. She carried two cups of hot coffee. He took both so she was able to sit down. She choose the boulder next to him but not close enough for physical contact. He returned one cup of coffee. She folded her hands with the broken nails round the cup and both listened to the sound of the lake, forest and wind.

Like he, she seemed at ease with nature and he wondered where she came from but knew he could not ask.

   In fact he never asked anything about her past after that day. She stayed and did not speak for two weeks. It was only when her bruisings healed that she spoke for the very fist time. Her voice was music to his ears. Not light and high as he expected with a young woman with blond hair and grey, almost transparent eyes that never failed to observe her surroundings, but deep and warm, a voice he could listen to for hours.

    She did not speak much, only when something needed the attention of both which was not often the case as she knew her way around the house perfectly well.

    The first nights of her stay, she slept in his bed and he on the couch. She slept for hours and hours but when she felt better again, she gave him back his bed and insisted to sleep on the couch.

   She was always up early, even before him and he knew she first walked to the lake to sit there taking in the peaceful silence that also healed her mental wounds.

She cooked his meals, washed his clothes, kept the house clean, milked the cow and fed the pigs and chickens while he worked in the forest and sold the timber like he already did for many years.

    He never thought he could live with someone else in his house; he was on his own since he left his parents when he was a young man and this was 20 years ago. He always felt at ease with no other company, he did not need people to entertain him. He was never bored; his hands were always busy.

   But this woman, he did not even know here name, was never in his way. She never disturbed him and never asked questions. She respected him for who he was and also never asked for a favour or for help.

   When he finally realized all this, it was too late for his heart that now not only belonged to him but also to her. It came as a shock that he was in love with her. It turned all his emotions upside down which made him feel slightly uncomfortable in her presence and he did not know how to handle this.

    She did not show any sings of other feelings than taking care of his household and looking after him.

Until the day he came home earlier than usually. He was very restless and wanted to be with her. He wanted to brake the silence regardless what the consequences were going to be. He could not go on like this. At the same time he was very afraid she was going to leave him when he told her about his feelings but it was a risk he had to take. It would brake his heart if she indeed left and his life would never be the same again, still....

   When he arrived home his feet guided him to the lake where she waded through the water, her long blond hair drifting on the surface. He stood still absorbing the view.

She must have felt his presence because she turned her head in his direction. He could only see her naked shoulders which took his breath. She did not move nor did she call him but her eyes showed an emotion he understood.

He did not hesitate, took his boots off and walked in her direction without caring about his clothes.

   When he stood in front of her, she raised her hand and unbuttoned his shirt and trousers. He did nothing to help her. He did not notice his clothes floating away with the hardly visible waves caused by her moves.

Then he lifted her in his arms until she folded her legs around his waist.

    All this crossed his mind when he ran even faster. Four years passed by, four years of love and intimacy. Years that were so very precious that he could not believe her when she said she knew she was going to die. Of course he noticed she lost weight but she never complained and when she finally mentioned it, it was too late. And now he was so afraid, so very afraid of coming home too late.

    He found her near the lake at their favourite spot. He noticed her smile but also saw how much energy this took of her. He kneeled behind her and held her in his arms. She leaned against his warm strong body, her lips touched the soft skin just under his ear and he felt more than he heard “I love you so much....”.

He continued where she stopped: “....beyond my life”.

  His cry of grief was answered by a crow and bounced against the trees, floated above the lake until it died at the shore at the other side.

He raised with her closely in his arms and walked to the lake. He did not stop but walked and walked until the last wave disappeared, leaving a perfectly smooth surface.

Photo: @pekamkinen (Instagram)

The visitor of this forgotten forest stood near the lake and watched the water reflecting the sky, wondering why someone abandoned the wooden cottage behind him. It was obvious it stood empty for a long time but it was left as if the owners could return any moment.

   Suddenly a cloud appeared above the water surface and stayed there. He did not know where it came from and could not take his eyes of it.

His heartbeat changed by the loud desperate scream of a crow and he watched the cloud coming down to be dissolved by the lake.

Word of thanks: the photo of @pekamkinen (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 Pekka!

Links: please visit the Instagram account of Pekka Mäkinen to view his beautiful black and white photo's!

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

Without a Trace

   “Dear Herbert, everything I own I leave to you. Since it is your responsibility now, it is up to you what you are going to do with it. Don't feel embarrassed when you go through the letters in the safe, actually I want you to read them. I want you to know what I wasn't able to talk about. Not even with you. God bless you, you have always been like a son to me.” And enclosed the key of the safe.

    The man who wrote me this letter and whom I called 'uncle', was dead. From the moment on he heard that he was not going to recover from what he thought was a cold, it only lasted two weeks before I had to say goodbye to him for ever.

He was not my uncle, people who did not know us mistook us often for father and son, but we were not related; he was a friend of the family and I knew him all my life.

    The relationship struggled when I was a teenager but this was also the case at home with my parents who passed away a few years ago and who I loved. The bond with uncle Martin grew stronger and stronger and his loss hurts me more than I expected. That he left me all his belongings, means more to me than I can and will explain. Yet it will be strange to go through it.

    Although we shared emotions, we were both also introvert and the private emotions were us. It is strange that he wanted me to read the letters.

   It was 8 PM and a very cold night when I closed the curtains to keep the dark world outside. I added logs to the fire, poured myself a whiskey and sat down in what had always been 'my chair' and which was never reupholstered; it felt like a good old friend that embraced me.

The large box with the letters stood on the floor next to me. All bound with a string and on top a list with numbers that corresponded with those at the envelopes; he catalogued them all with dates.

    I hesitated to open the first one, it felt uncomfortable. I did not know what their content was, if it were personal letters to him and from whom. There were no stamps, someone must have delivered them. Right then I did not even notice that the handwriting looked familiar.

Staring at the envelopes did not reveal much and after a deep breath I started reading.

    The early morning light peeped through the curtains. I kept the fire burning all night until the last log and the last letter dated May 1995.

Fifty years of letters, one every month, that makes 600 letters. Each envelope contained one sheet of paper, written both sides and I read it all during a night I was not even aware of the time. I was more than surprised when I finished the last that it was 8 AM in the morning. The content was so fascinating and yet so odd and questionable, that I forgot all about time, even where I was. Or to finish my first Whiskey and I stared at the little bit that was left in the glass.

I rested my head against the back of the chair, closed my eyes and thought about what I read and if I was able to understand it.

    This was all a month ago and it is today that I am ready to tell you something about it and still this is not going to be easy. First of all I need to mention that the letters my uncle left me, were not written by someone else; it were his own letters to himself. His address at the envelopes was in his own handwriting. How odd you will think and you are probably right until you understand that it was his way to write a diary. Still a strange way to do it; the average diary writer would start with “Dear Diary”. Not uncle Herbert, he started with “Dear Herbert” and ended with “For ever yours”. No, this is not funny, actually it is very tragic, as well the content as the writing to his own address. And I have to admit that after reading the letters I doubt very much if the story that started in 1944, is true.

    In 1944 uncle Herbert was stationed in France where he fell in love with (his words) a beautiful French girl named Marie. She answered his love and promised to move with him to his country but they were young and there was a war going on although it looked like Hitler was going to loose. But their love for each other grew stronger and stronger and when France got liberated, Herbert moved with his infantry to Holland. The night before he left was their first intimate night. It were very passionate hours; as if they knew they were never going to see each other again. In the very early hours of the day of departure, Herbert left Marie with the promise to come back to marry her. Tears were shed on both sides and than one long kiss before he disappeared in the fog that lay as a blanket at the fields and the ruined houses.

    In 1945 Herbert returned home and never talked about what happened during the war. He never mentioned the horrible fightings, the death of his comrades, the liberation of France and Holland and never mentioned Marie.

Of all the letters he wrote, he wrote one to Marie but never received a reply.

I know now he sent her his address and promised her to go to the station every day, hoping to see her arriving by train.

    He kept his promise and spent much time at the small local station famous for it's candy pink colour that somehow beautifully blended with the natural colours of the countryside. Unfortunately it closed in the early 70's and is now surrounded by woodland.

    The only time Martin wasn't there was when he was taken into hospital with a pneumonia 2 months after he arrived home from the war.

A busy time for my parents who worried about Herbert's health while my mother also gave birth to me; their one and only child. This was also the time Herbert started his strange diary in which he not only expressed his deep love for Marie (if she ever existed) but also his love for me as if I was his own child.

   Maybe it was the chaotic and dramatic period just after the war that a new life of a baby, although it was the son of his best friends, made him aware of the future and the love in his heart, not killed by the terrible things he saw. Or maybe indeed his love for Marie.

    I am now at the end of Martin's story that may not look spectacular to you but which revealed more about his character to me. Because he was introvert, I never got to know what his real feelings were. He trusted these feelings to paper and than passed them on to me. Please understand that I can not go deeper into this, I am introvert as well.

    Yet he left me with a few questions. For instance why did he stop writing after 50 years? Is this because it was an important mark after the war? These 50 years of freedom were celebrated in Europe with veterans visiting the countries they fought for everyone's freedom. Where so many gave their lives.

Photo: @gioboretti (Instagram)

    And why was there an empty envelope at the bottom of the large box? An envelope with a different handwriting and a large safety pin with a blue ribbon?

And the strange address with only the name of the village and “Martin at the pink train station”???

    One day I will read the letters again, maybe I will find the answers.

Word of thanks: the photo of @gioboretti (Instgram) 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 Gio!

Links: please visit the beautiful Instagram Account of Gio Boretti and listen to his beautiful guitar compositions at his YouTube account.

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

Helen