The Voice (short story)

-3-

1977

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Photo: kelly_jean_urbex_photograpy (Instagram)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Helen

The Letter (short story)

 'My Love,

My hands can not hold a pen any more. The red knuckles are swollen like marbles and my fingers grow in the wrong directions.
Do you remember when we were still children with elastic muscles that we crossed our fingers, one over the other? That is how my hands look now. I am glad you can't see this, it would have upset you.
The pink and ring finger are the worst but my fore finger is the best of all and allows me to type a letter to you. It is a slow process as you will understand but you have all the time of the world to read it.

I am in a strange mood. I thought I got used to my solitary existence but strangely enough I didn't. My thoughts often wander off to the old days when we still lived together. Married as in 'happily ever after'.
Have we been happy? Yes. We were childhood lovers, we knew each other so very well, our marriage couldn't go wrong. How wrong we were but let not dwell on this right now.
I still remember our wedding day with all the love and laughters, all the expectations for the future; our future.
We did not have a great income but you were determined to climb the social ladder and I was more than willing to hold that ladder, to support you where ever I could. I promised to do so and I kept my promise. You asked me to support you and that is what I did...... till death did us part.

Do you remember how we loved to curl up on the sofa? Or in bed? We became great lovers and memories of our intimacy still cause that special warm feeling. Or our arms wrapped around each other, talking about our dreams. Your dreams were more demanding than mine. You wanted a family, a job with status and an appropriate  income, a bigger house, being a member of The Lions and the Golf club. And, not to forget, a perfect and elegant, good looking wife to impress your colleagues and friends to be.
My wish list was a family home, children, a house and a garden, hugs and love, a dog. Could I ever dream that the only wish we had in common was children....
Maybe the house too but mine was cosy and big enough for our family. Yours was to impress, pompous and in my humble opinion, horrible.
You were generous and  promised me on forehand a house keeper, a nanny and a gardener. Well, I thought it was generous but I learned otherwise.

You ticked almost all the boxes on your wish list, almost. The children box was never ticked. At first you blamed yourself but soon you blamed me, not openly, I did not even notice it in the beginning. I did not recognize the early signs of mental abuse. I have to admit that you were very, very good at that. I am not going to repeat all the details, you know exactly what you have done to me. But what you did not know was that you forced me to play my own game. I had to to survive, to stay close to me. And when I finally, after so many years, saw through you, I became even better in playing mental games than you.

You never found out did you, that I became the best actress ever and that I only acted like the manipulated wife you created. Created in your mind my love, not in real!
You hated your sudden hair loss, you were so proud of the dark curly hair you inherited from your mother. You had never been ill before so you hated the so called influenza that caused stomach and belly pains and vomiting. Not long after you recovered but within half a year it started all over again. The doctor said you were stressed. The demanding job, the long hours, a holiday would do you good. And it did. A year after, the same thing happened again but you felt worse than ever. Strong as you were, you recovered again. But my love, you were not smart enough to know it wasn't a influenza! And it was not due to stress! Not at all, but I played my game so very well that no one was surprised when you finally died. They spoke beautiful words at your grave. Your business partner mentioned he had never seen a man before who was so dedicated to his work.

And I? I played the grieving widow. And I played it very, very well. I almost believed my own grief, I almost felt the pain for your loss. I played it so well that people never noticed the joy in my heart. The joy about my freedom and most of all the joy because I won the game you started!

Photo: Forgotten Heritage

Did you notice the Crow who watched your funeral? He and I became very good friends. He knows my moods and when my mood is as dark as his deep purple and black feathers, he talks to me. His hoarsely voice causes great fear with people who don't know him but not with me. He waits for me to finish the letter and to take it to your grave. This will also be my goodbye to my feathered friend. I have done what I wanted to do. I have enjoyed my victory long enough and it is time to go.
All that will be left is the two cups with the residue of what ended our lives. They lay next to the type writer and your portrait, guarded by the Crow who will be faithful to me until his own death.
Goodbye my love......'

Word of thanks: the photo of @forgottenheritage (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 Matt!

Link: the beautiful book Forgotten Heritage by Matthew Emmett

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

Helen

The Camera (short story)

There is almost complete silence but a good listener hears the sound of the flies who want to escape through the windows. Or the occasional flutter of the wings of a moth or butterfly who also craves for light and fresh air but soon will be caught by the sticky threads of the numerous cob webs that hang strategically in the corners of the filthy windows.
The windowsills and floors are covered in tiny dead bodies of insects that were never meant to live a long life but who died in a desolated decaying black and white world where dust prevents the light to penetrate the rooms.

It is a warm Summer day and the smell is that of dust and old chalk hanging down the wall like grey and forgotten lace. It is only occasionally that the chalk decides to let go because it is tired of holding on to walls that are filled with moist during rainy seasons and crumbling of thirst during days as today.
I do not mind warm days although the times that the wind whistles its way through the cracks in the half rotten roof, are more in line with my usual moods. It is that sound that is my language, the hauling and  the spooky effects are I.
Often visitors don't hear the difference but as soon as they see me, they know the difference. Needless to say I will never see them again. I don't mind, it cheers me up!

The whole house is mine but my bedroom is a place where I do not want to see anyone else and I am often successful in scaring my visitors before they discover my room.
It has always been my room, since I was born. It was a place I loved to be until I reached the age that my father noticed I was not his little girl any more but a beautiful (forgive me for saying such vain things about myself) young woman. At this point his attitude changed and he more or less locked me up in my room. My mother begged him not to do so but the begging stopped. Even worse, I was not allowed to leave my room any more and did not know my mother had died until I died too.
Don't be afraid that I will bore you with this story today.

Photo: Darren Nisbett Fine Art Photography

Since my death my room hasn't changed much; my bed is still there with my favourite pillow where you can see the print of my head. The pillow that contains most of the tears I shed in all those years. If I am tired of dwelling through the house, I rest on this bed but leave no prints any more.
I don't leave prints on the floors either but leave mental prints in the heads of my visitors.
You will ask why I do not lock the front door to keep visitors out, well I did but to no avail, the visitors keep coming, it is the state of the house and the decoration that attracts them. I don't know why, it is old, half rotten and dusty.
But they keep coming and although I scare them off, I am also very jealous of their freedom. They can walk out the broken door where I have to stay inside. My death did not change the situation, I am still a prisoner of this house which I hate so much.

It is that hate that makes me more and more hostile and the longer I stay here, the more I look for ways to escape. And I found one! It took me a long time to understand how and when but it is only today, when the man with the advanced photo camera arrived that I know how.
He does not see or hear me, he looks immune to my power and visibility. And he enters my room which no-one had ever done before since the day I died.
A very strange feeling comes over me, I see no need any more to haunt him. Instead I follow him and look through the lens of his camera which allows me a totally different view on my world. Imagine that I could enter the camera!!

I see what he sees: the diffuse light peeping through the filthy windows, lightening the old curtains, the bed but most of all my nightgown. And it is in this nightgown that I recognize myself. Hanging to be forgotten, to pulverize to dust.
I am impressed by the way he captures my room and realize he sees beyond the dust. It feels he looks into the past, it feels he steps into my world.  With the photo he pays respect to my past, something I  never encountered before. His respect makes me aware that I can finally leave this house. Although I do not know anything about the modern world, I am a ghost and move through doors and walls. So I move inside his camera, nestling myself in the photo of my bedroom, knowing this is going to be my new world.

The house is now allowed to decay further and further, people can now explore my room; I found a new one. I do not know what my new future looks like, I do not even know if I can leave this camera again but I know when I am in the right mood again, I may haunt my new friend. Or even you!!

Helen

 Word of thanks: the photo of @darrennisbett (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 Darren!

Link: the beautiful website Darren Nisbett Fine Art Photography

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