The Adventure Room

   He was a dreamer. And preferable about massive changes in his life.
Far away countries, buzzing cities with restaurants, clubs, fun! And above all freedom.

   Oh, he liked where he was born; a village near the sea on a remote island in the northern hemisphere where the winters are long and dark and the summers a sea of light with mild temperatures.
It was a nice community where people knew each other, being helpful where ever possible.
But it was sooooooo boring! So predictable! Apart from modern facilities, they still lived the same life as many generations before them and most likely, many generations after them. And he did not want to be part of it.

   He planned an escape but then the Corona pandemic started and all his plans were put on a hold.
He saved enough money to leave the Isle and to travel for a week or so. In his fantasy he found temporary jobs during his journey to what ever thriving city he was going to arrive.
He thought of London, Amsterdam, Berlin, Paris..... Somewhere he could have fun, meet other young people. A girlfriend maybe who was not some sort of relative. He sighed, everyone on his Isle seemed somehow related to some one. Family traditions and stories were woven like a carpet into all families.
Stories in which cousin so and so 'you know, daughter of so and so who was a grandson of so and so, also a cousin of your grandfather from mother's side....' had done something incredible good or bad (the perfect example of who you should be or never become).

   It bored him all to death. Speaking of death.... he did not mind living here for a while but being buried.... Never!!! Once leaving, he would never return! He preferred to be burried some where grand, a large Tumb at the Pere Lachaise cemetery in Paris, to name one. Close to his idol Jim Morrison. Or even Frédéric Chopin, speaking of famous musicians. How cool would that be!
He imagined that during spooky nights, Frédéric and Jim composed music together with him listening to it.

   This triggered another thought. Would he be possible after his death in 60 years time or so, to look down on his Isle and it's people? Would he be able to hear them? Would they still talk about him as the successful runaway who managed to leave the Isle in a time of world wide lock downs and restrictions?
Maybe he was famous too by then with the whole Isle proudly telling his stories to their offspring. Another cool thought.
Well, if famous, he might have been returned before his death. Smiling, a man of the world, tapping the heads of the children who asked for his autograph. Being the hero and example of courage to others who wanted to leave but never had the guts.
He would tell hem that dreams can come through. 'Just look at me!'

   Thinking of all of this he watched a foreign ship entering the harbour. Their harbour wasn't exactly the world famous harbour of Rotterdam but funny enough, the ship was called The Rotterdam II.
A small container ship with indeed small containers. He did not recognize them as such although they were bright orange. And they were bundled, strapped. Not at all like the large ones he watched from a far distance. No, these small ones had white roofs with what looked like, little chimneys.
And red and white stickers with black and white letters of which he did not understand the meaning.
Not important, he thought. More intriguing and above all important, were those chimneys.
They tickled his already thriving fantasy. What if.......... and how........ and should I, and when...... Thoughts tumbling around in his brains like the laundry in his mother's washing machine.
He left the small rock on which he sat and walked home.


   He sat on a toilet seat, very comfortable. At his feet his bag with food, drinks and power food bars, his e-reader and mobile phone stuffed with music of Jim Morrison. Oh yes, and of course solar panel chargers for his gear.
Sufficient to survive for a week. And how convenient having a WC under his bum! And a chimney with fresh sea air above his head. He praised himself for this brilliant idea and successful mission to hide in what seemed a portable loo.
Maybe he would be able to escape from his voluntary and temporary prison during the night when most of the staff on board was asleep and the ship deck empty. To stretch his legs to keep the blood circulation going. That much he learned from the internet when his escape plans were all of a sudden within reach. Thanks to the engine problem of The Rotterdam II which stayed in the harbour for more than a week.

   He had carefully observed the hundreds of loo's, all commissioned by one and the same Dutch company and on their way to Holland. It exited him tremendously that he would start his city hopping in Amsterdam and from there he could always travel to Paris to visit Jim at the cemetery. Because once settled in his head, this seems very attractive.
He noticed that one loo wasn't fastened too tight and he was not tall nor fat.
When most of the crew was in the local Pub, he managed to climb on board to try if he could access the loo and he could.

   Back home he started with the preparations and wrote a note to his parents not to worry as he was safe and sound travelling to his new future.
The night before the ship left, he climbed on board to hide in his shelter, his Adventure Room as he called it with a smile. And the ship set sail.

   He felt sick, very sick. The journey was not at all what he imagined. Not at all!
The sea was rough, the waves sky high and he needed all the muscles in his arms and legs to squeeze against the walls so he wouldn't tumble around like a little ball in a gambling machine.
What first looked like a lucky coincidence - a not so tight fastened loo - was now a nightmare!
He knew he would be bruised all over when the weather would finally calm down. If...... because in is mind this already lasted for days although it started only a few hours ago.
And even worse, the content of the loo produced a terrible smell which made him even more sick.
He prayed for forgiveness, for being so stupid thinking that escaping was a piece of cake. The word cake emptied his stomach, sweat was running down his body, what was left of his food and drinks bounced against the walls of the loo. His mobile phone flew around his head, underneath his feet, the voice of Jim Morrison died with the battery.
He lost track of time and slowly escaped into the phantasy that started long ago. Holding on to his destination dream; the buzzing cities of Europe......

 

Photo: Klaas Keizer (Instagram)

Passing the route above the Dutch Isles, The Rotterdam II lost a few items of it's freight due to the heavy storm. Orange loo's were swallowed up and spit out by the high waves that rolled between the isles towards the mainland.
All but one sank. The waves were determined to deliver this one to the mudflats where it stayed for over a week, straight up and lit by the light of the late sun.

The helicopter hovered above the loo that was surrounded by coast guards, police and journalists and even TV stations. Everybody had to leave their cars at higher dry grounds and walked through the mud in proper wellies.

There was a lot of excitement when the helicopter lifted its freight to fly it to the mainland for further inspection. Apart from being too battered to be back in use, it first was going to be examined by a forensic team.

   He would have loved it as a TV series but now he was the subject. He was famous, talked about, people guessing his name and where he came from. Helicopters, news papers, broadcasted... all he wished for.
But not in Amsterdam, London or Paris. No, in an area even more remote than the Isle he left.

Unfortunately he wasn't aware of all the excitement.
Maybe by now he talked to Jim and Frédéric. About music, dreams, travelling........

We will never know.

Word of thanks: the photo of @klaas.keizer (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 Klaas! Tige tank!

Links: please visit the beautiful Instagram account of Klaas and his web stie where you can buy his stunning photos of the Wadden Sea.

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

Helen

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

Deadline

It is dark and cold. But I am used to it.
It is black but I can not remember the light.
There is light but I do not recognize it.

I am trapped but can not remember freedom. 

   It is noisy and smelly but I do remember silence and scents. If so, why can I not remember light?

I know, there was light but not the light that brightens your days, that feeds you, that makes you happy. Have I ever seen such light? As a child perhaps? Sadly I can not answer your question. I might have blocked the memories. I must have, how else could I have survived my prisoned life for so long without getting insane?

   Have I ever been a child at all..... please tell me I was! Please tell me I once was an innocent baby, smiling, babbling, playing. Or a toddler, falling and getting up, learning to walk, to play, to run. But above all, loved.

   If there was love, I can not remember. I ask you, what is love? Is it food and water? Punishment to teach you obedience? Harnessing your soul to be a better person than..... than who or what? I never found the answer so I am asking you. Can you hear me? Will you hear me?

   I was never heard, so please be excused not to answer my questions.
I learned very fast not to ask questions, they only caused pain, not words, not replies. The physical pain I learned to bare, the mental pain became my second nature. My second I.
I talked to my mental pain, gave it a name to make her feel comfortable. To ensure her the other I loved her although I never knew what love was. But at least my mental pain had company and so had I.

   Where we did not talk about was yesterday. Because all yesterdays were black. We invented tomorrows in which we were free. Even happy maybe. We talked about what happiness was, or was supposed to be and we decided it had to be freedom. We also questioned each other if we could bare freedom because, and I am very honest, freedom also contains independence. And you will have understood by now, that this was not something we knew about at all. The word had a nice taste, felt good in my mouth. But what was it!

   You wonder how we know all these words?
It will surprise you the only book I was allowed to read was a dictionary. Old, moulded but to us, to me, so valuable. Someone must have written it, it was therefore my connection to the unknown world outside, the spares light which penetrated the filthy glass in the tiny window high up the wall of my dark cell. You see, that is how I know light exists. But it faded over the years and I lost track of the rhythm of day and night, light and darkness.

   No one taught me to speak, I was not allowed to speak when I was given food, drinks and clothes. Not even “Thank you”. I was allowed to bow, I once tried to look at him but my reward was abuse. I am a fast learner, you know, and never tried again.
But he spoke to me. His voice was ugly, causing my heart to become cold, like it was frozen. His sharp pronunciation was like the sharp knife he once forgot and which I hid in the soil in the corner of my cell. He never came to look for it.
He even taught me to read but I wasn't allowed to repeat. He slapped me in the face until I tasted blood. But when he was gone, I covered myself with the old blanket and repeated all the words. Words I found in that dictionary.

   Now you ask me why I never tried to escape....
Escape from a life that was my only life? A life I learned to live with? A life that was predictable as long as I obeyed him? Do you understand that this was my safety? I did not know any other life. I did not know how the world outside my cell looked like. And if there were more of him out there. Or how these people behaved. Were they all the same? If so, how was I going to cope with them?

   Until that gloomy day his interest for me changed. I was no longer the child he fed and spanked. There was another sensation around him, even more smelly than his ugly sweat. And it frightened me to death.
He stayed longer then normal in my cell and sometimes he touched my hair, following it from my head to the tips below my back. I trembled with fear, I did not recognize his sudden interest but my instinct told me it was bad and black. As black as my cell was his soul.
My instinct also told me there was more fear around the corner than I had ever experienced before, a fear I could not explain but which used all my energy.

   I concentrated on my energy, got in touch with the tiny inner of me that I

Photo: © Mark (@128_latimer on Instagram)

found in the dark corners of my heart. I forced myself to believe in escaping from my prison, regardless what I was going to find outside.
I learned to play his game. I also learned his game made him sleepy, less alert. He was the centre of his own pleasure, I was not. So I made a plan and discussed this with my mental I.

We discussed it thoroughly and knew his sleepy minutes afterwards, were the only minutes to fulfil our plan. With the knife, as sharp as his own words.

   I succeeded, the knife caused enough damage to stay ahead of him. Whilst I ran for my life, my heartbeat outvoted his screaming, outvoted the sound of his running feet. 

   Outvoted the sound of a large engine that made the iron track I was following, tremble. Which speed caused a strong wind, stronger then any other power I knew. A wind I could not fight. I did not wish to fight, the wind which pulled me towards the end of my story. I finally reached my deadline.

Word of thanks: the photo of @128_latimer inspired me to write this story and I was given permission to use it as an illustration for which I am very grateful. The title of the story was born during our conversation about his photo. Thank you so much Mark!

Links: please visit the beautiful Instagram account of @128_latimer

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

Helen

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

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

Faint Whisper

   They asked him to trust them. And to be very, very quiet, even more quiet than a mouse.

   He knew mice always wandered around. In the middle of the night when he could not sleep, he heard their little feet on the wooden floors or scratching the burlap to which the wallpaper was glued. He got used to their soft squeaks when they quarrelled or calling each other. And now they kept him company in his hiding place.

   He pulled his knees up as high as he could and rested his chin on them. Before he wrapped his arms round his legs to keep warm, he first pulled the blanket over his ears, thinking that if he did not hear them, they would not hear him. The old pillow his head rested on, smelled mouldy but he did not care, it was only for one or two days and nights they told him. Not that the pillow at his bed smelled much better. It was only every other month that the bed linen was refreshed. The amount of starch that was used made the linen crack as soon as you turned or moved but after a few nights it felt softer and the noises were gone.
    He hated the smell of starch. Some of the children said it smelled fresh like the wind blowing over the fields but they probably did not know the smell of Lavender.

    He blinked his eyes, he did not want to cry but the thought of Lavender, the smell from home, caused emotions he had almost forgotten about.

He was only 6 and did not remember any more why he was here and when he arrived. He did not remember the face of his mother but he remembered the smell of Lavender that always surrounded her.

   He pulled his arms tighter around his legs and imagined it were the warm and comfortable arms of her, the woman that held him when he had scary dreams or when he hurt himself when he fell. Or just because it was so nice to be in each others arms.
   He tried to remember her voice to expel the deafening silence in his hideaway.

Suddenly he remembered a few words of a poem that always made him laugh: '.... eating a Christmas pie. He put in his thumb....!'

    His brains worked hard to remember the whole song and in his head he started again: '.... sat in the corner....'

Little Jack!! He remembered again because that is what his mother called him... 'little Jack, my little Jack'.... Was this his real name? Where he lived now he was called Boy and the number of his bed at the large ward where he slept with numerous other boys his age. Here he was 'Boy Twelve Stroke Three', which meant that his bed was number 12 in the 3^rd row.
Suddenly he knew the whole song: Little Jack Horner sat in the corner, eating a Christmas pie. He put in his thumb and pulled out a plum and said: “What a good boy am I!”'

    His name must be Jack, there were too many similarities. Why should he otherwise lay in a corner right now? A corner in a very dark space with walls so tight that he could not even see a glimpse of the candles that moved through all the rooms. He could hear the people holding the candles walking and whispering but there was no light at all.

   He held his breath when footsteps came his way. It sounded as if a hand stroke the panels behind he was hiding. Then there was a long silence in which he thought he could not much longer hold his breath and it was a relieve when the footsteps finally moved away from him. But still he did not dare to move. He kept his promise to the people who told him they were coming back to take him home.

    Although the dark space was big enough for two or three children, he was on his own and wondered if there were more hidden spaces like his. Hiding other children and if they too were told to be patient and of course very, very quiet.

    Because the sound of feet and whispers faded, he dared to breath normal again but he did not dare to move although his muscles cramped a little. He noticed how tight he held his arms around his legs and carefully loosened his grip.

    He was thirsty but wanted to wait till all the sounds in the large house were gone. He knew too that drinking the water they gave him, would cause him to go to the loo and he could of course, not go downstairs to the outbuilding where the dark and smelly buckets were.

    Being very tired, he had difficulties keeping his eyes open. He did not notice he fumbled a corner of the blanket in his little skinny fist, stroking his face with the tip in a slow and steady rhythm. He asked himself where the thought of a soft toy came from. A toy with brown eyes, fluffy ears and large feet. He did not know the name of the soft fluffy creature but he remembered it was always with him. He did not remember where it was now and if another child took it to bed or talked to it. He hoped so for the toy which must be cold an lonely without him. The same feelings he had now; cold and lonely.... cold and lonely....

    He woke up from a strange sound. It frightened him being so very afraid of them, the people with the candles and the whispering voices of which he knew that they were not the same people that hid him here. He listened but again the silence was of the same density as the darkness. He carefully stroke his face and noticed his cheeks were wet. He realized it was his crying that woke him up and all of a sudden he could not hold his tears any more.

   He cried and cried; his fist pushed into his wide open mouth to damp the sound of his desperate hiccups. He pushed his knees together not to pee in his pants, afraid of the painful punishments that always followed when it accidentally happened. But he failed.

    When he finally calmed down, he did not know for how long he was sitting there. His skin started to itch where his wet pants touched it but he did not dare to scratch. He wanted to be a good brave boy because, what if his mother came to collect him? He wanted to tell her he wasn't afraid in the dark. Not even for a few seconds. He was big enough to look after his mother, to earn money to buy food, and flowers that smelled like lavender.

    He was going to buy a beautiful house with large windows where the sun could shine through. And with a large garden with a pond with coloured fish he was going to feed together with his mother.

And in the bedrooms nice beds with shiny white sheets and soft blankets and heaps of pillows they could rest their heads on. And boxes full of fluffy toys.....

Photo: @daftintin_official (Instagram)

   
   The large estate is still standing in its dark grounds, surrounded by centuries old trees that keep the sunshine from reaching the windows. The crumbling outbuildings do not release their terrible smell any more; even the rats left it.

   The silence in the large house is still deafening and only occasionally disturbed by a few people that can not resist exploring it but who leave very quickly after a visit to the large hallway with the numerous doors.

   Only the brave look behind the doors but there is one they never open. They can not explain why they walk pass it as quickly as possible. Is it the sound of a soft cry? The smell of Lavender or the sinister faint whisper of a child's voice repeating a poem?

Word of thanks: the photo of @daftinitin_official (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!

Links: please visit the beautiful Instagram account of @daftintin_official and visit his impressive YouTube Channel.

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

Helen