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

Case Closed (short story)

    He felt sick. He thought he knew what to expect, after all it was not his first case and not the first dead body he saw although he was one of the youngest detectives at the police station.

   He nodded to the constable who nervously looked in the other direction, avoiding looking at the victim. The poor guy who's dreams after this night shift were probably going to be haunted by images of this night.

The full moon shed a spooky light on the scene and reflected in the wide open eyes of the man that lay on his back, his mouth wide open in a horrifying grimace; a loud scream frozen in the last seconds of his life.

   The still visible part of the blade of the knife in his chest glanced in the moonlight and the fingers that were cramped around the handle were white and ghostly.

The white shirt was stained with large amounts of blood that found it's way to the cinders that paved the path to the coal mines, closed not long ago.

    “What a terrible place to die...” The voice of his chief who laid a comforting hand on his shoulder, spoke the words he just thought. “The team is on it's way John. Constable, can you please keep curious journalists and other riff-raff from the scene? No doubt they are already on their way. You are getting help from your colleagues.”

The constable nodded, glad he didn't have to stay here any longer, he realized it was going to be a long night. 

   John and his superior Roy both stared at the dead man and both had the feeling there was something very strange about this murder but without extra light than that of the moon and without touching the body before the doctor arrived, the knife was the only witness of how the man died.

Murder was not too common in this area in the 60's. 'Love and Peace' was the message and not 'Kill'. Idyllic thoughts in a world of wars, strikes, closing mines and poverty.

   The wind gained in strength and both men tried to hide in the warmth of their coats. A car stopped, it was the pathologist - not a man of many words - who used a torch to walk to the spot where the men gathered. He raised his hat in a greet, put his case down, pulled up his trousers and crouched down near the body. He observed it closely before touching it: “A very unusual knife... the handle suggests it is a knife with a very long blade. I would not be surprised if it went right through the chest to exit it at the back. Not a knife you find a the ordinary kitchen. I can tell you more after he is on my table. I do not want to roll the body over just now. Can you arrange it to be transported in this position?”

John and Roy nodded, it was the knife that gave both men the feeling there was something strange about it.

   Then the doctor stretched his arm and his fingers carefully closed the eyes of the diseased. It was then that John realized he more or less held his breath, he let it go with a feeling of relief. It helped him feeling better not to see the man's eyes any more. Although he was dead it was as if the tremendous fear for the killing was still visible in the eyes. Eyes that saw the murderer; the knife was driven into the chest with great force. John wondered if the man had been in shock, either by the brutal attack or the pain. Did he feel the pain immediately? Did he realize immediately what happened to him? Did he know his killer?

   The photographer arrived with his camera, a Hassleblad with all necessary options. He installed the flash and asked the pathologist if he wanted some special shots. He promised to take close shots from the knife and to come to the mortuary tomorrow afternoon. He took photo's from all possible angles; the light flashed dominantly in the dark. Soon he was ready, packed his camera and left again after promising to deliver the developed photo's around 10 AM at the station, the best he could do, and left together with the pathologist. John smiled at him; the photographer must have seen terrible things, worked ridiculous hours but never complained. He wondered if he had a family and if so, how they coped with his job. John was still single although he had very special feelings for a lovely girl he met at a party not long ago. They went out a few times but he never told her he was a detective; she thought he was a constabable.

   Despite the bustle at the scene, there were still no spectators or journalists which was only good. A murder in this community wasn't something they wanted in the news papers straight away. First they wanted to find out who the man was. Even Roy, who knew almost everybody around here, did not recognize the man.

    The car with the men form the mortuary arrived not long after and the body was carefully packed in a large black bag. The sound of the zip was loud in the silent night. The men placed the body on the stretcher and walked away with it, leaving John and Roy behind.

   They used their torches to examine the soil where the body had laid. The white sheet of paper, clearly visible in the light, moved in the wind. Both men stared at it before John grabbed it, afraid it would blow away.

They examined it carefully; the blood on it was mingled with the ink of the handwritten text. Hopefully the Lab could find out what was written.

    Then the light revealed a sharp cut in the middle of the paper. A cut obviously made by the knife.

The two detectives stared at the cut, then at each other. The wind felt suddenly very chilly when they realized the letter was pinned to the point of the knife after the victim was stabbed and before the body was placed in the position in which they found it. They understood immediately they had to look for a cold and unscrupulous killer...... This case was not going to be easy.

   The years passing by proved the first gut feeling of both detectives to be right; the killer was never found, nor the identity of the victim. The man wasn't a local and a photo in the newspapers – even nation wide – didn't bring a solution either. The man was not registered at Interpol and did not answer any description of missing persons.

    Also the origin of the strange knife that indeed had a long narrow and extremely sharp blade was never revealed. The conclusion with which the file of 'John Doe' was closed, was 'unknown male in his 40's, probably not British. Buried at the local cemetery June 1968, number 23'.

   But John had never forgotten the case. Every time he thought about it, he felt a little of the sickness during the night he saw the body. And he remembered his promise to himself to find out who it was and what happened.

   
   Due to the closing of the coal mines, people moved away from the small village and John's colleagues either retired or moved to other police stations in the nearby town. John stayed, not aware his drive to solve the case made him ill. He wasn't bad enough to be taken into a mental hospital and he wasn't dangerous. He still had access to the old police station where the files from a long time ago where left behind. A few people who felt sorry for Old John as he was called now, looked after him and made sure nothing happened.

Photo: @be.lost.in.time (Instagram)

    John not aware of this all any more, kept reading the old files over and over again.. The next day he had forgotten what he read and about who; the only thing that was pinned in his mind was to find the murderer of 'John Doe'.
   Until the day that one of the people that looked after John, an old lady, found the office empty. The chaos was enormous, files piled on top of each other, dust and cob webs everywhere. The smell of decay mingled with the fainting smell of John's favourite aftershave; a smell that nestled it self in the room after many decennia of police work. The old lady asked for help and looked everywhere for John but there was no trace of him. She reported it to the police who came, took her statement and sealed the office after moving all the files to a new place in the archive of the police station in town. But not before a note was added. A note that said 'Case Closed'.

Word of thanks: the photo of @be.lost.in.time (Instagram) inspired me to write this story and I was given permission to use the photo as an illustration for which I am I am very grateful. Thank you Morrígan!

Link: please visit the beautiful Instagram account of @be.lost.in.time

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

Helen