Grandpa's House - Next instalment

Grandpa's House - A ghost story... I posted a little of the beginning a couple of days ago. Here's the next slice...

I looked down at my feet and scrutinised the intricate patterns of the floor tiles, grubby with the colours faded by dust and dirt accumulated over the years of neglect. Regret and sadness for a situation that I was powerless to address swept through me. The dignified flooring hid apologetically. The panelled walls grimly observed from their once proud post. I traced my fingers along the dusty panels as I moved through the entrance hall and lamented the degeneration around me.

I knew exactly where I was heading – even though I was in denial. The house knew where I was heading – even though it allowed me my pretence. I made my way past the staircase and to the narrow corridor that ran behind it. I knew the corridor led to the stairs for the kitchen below and the maze of corridors that spread through the house like veins and arteries. Concealed passage ways that enabled the servants and maids of years gone by to maintain the house unseen and unheard. The heart beat of the house beating imperceptively.

I could trick myself and the house by taking this route. I made my way through the spacious rooms at the back of the house which once looked out upon picturesque and meticulously manicured lawns. The large French doors now hidden with mountains of clutter, peeked at me through discarded furniture piled haphazardly. Strange, interesting items that I knew I would never have the opportunity to indulge in pleaded for my attention. I always looked out for the unusual faded child’s horse mounted on springs. Its face peeking out at a painful angle as it begged to be rescued and released.

With an increasingly melancholy mood I made my way through to the room that demanded my attendance. Such an insignificant little door.

I reached out and touched the brass knob: intricate and detailed. I felt its coldness seep into my arm as we became one. Smoothly and cautiously, I twisted the handle. It clicked its release and I took a deep breath. Slowly and with relish, I opened the oak door which breathed a sigh of relief with me.

I stepped through and into the most atmospheric room in the entire house. The huge expanse of the ballroom laid waiting in front of me. The dust swirled and resettled. The darkness drank my presence and pulled me in to the room. I closed the small servants’ door behind me and leant back onto it to steady myself. The room welcomed me in a husky dry voice. It wondered when I would visit again and had been looking forward to seeing me.

I surveyed the room: its sad grandeur perceptible through the years of neglect. The parquetry flooring, grand in its design, was now obscured with grime. The tiny pieces of wood were inextricably linked like jigsaw puzzle pieces crafted by a talented hand. The immense windows, sacrilegiously covered with sheets and curtains, blocked the daylight begging to be allowed entry. It was a sombre sight.

I took small dainty steps around the edge of the room as the room began to come alive. Music teased, in and out of my mind as I tried to grasp mist like sounds that had little substance. Foggy swirling colours, faded with age, brushed past me and disintegrated. Light tinkling laughter was almost perceptible. I smiled at the barely discernable sounds and paused at the immense fireplace now cold and dead.

Leaning against the ornately decorated surround I surveyed the scene and my imagination urged the memories to enter. The blackened fireback sooted to the flue, the hearth scattered with the remnants of its last known heat, now frigid. The house was despondent and drained.

I pushed away from the once opulent fireplace and made my way across the ballroom towards the pretentious double doors that stretched towards the carved ceiling. My time with the room was over for now: its death and decay cancerous and progressive.

I didn’t want the house to die. I wanted it to live. I wanted it to live for ever. It should have been vibrant and pulsating with the hustle and bustle of a bygone era. Yet here it was decaying and terminally ill. Its encroaching darkness threatened to envelop me.

Reaching for the handles of the ornately decorated doors, I glanced back to the room and promised that I would return. I knew that I must return. I belonged to the house and the house belonged to me. It was an irrational thought but I knew we were connected somehow. But I was within its walls too late. It was falling into ruin. I felt that I should have been here many, many years before. I had always felt misplaced within my family. It wasn’t that I was treated poorly; I was just an outsider, in the wrong family, in the wrong time.

Whenever we came to Grandpa’s house, I felt at home. Not because of Grandpa but because of the house. I could not allow the house to die. I felt as though I was visiting a terminally ill, elderly relative every time we came. But the house’s end was drawing dangerously near and I was the only person who cared. I was the only person who could do anything about it. I just didn’t know what or how. For now, I had no answers and had to escape the suffocating illness that threatened to overcome me as it had the ballroom. When I had found the reasons, answers and solutions, I would return.

Gently, I opened the left hand door of the immense double doors reserved for guests and heard the whisper of music and gaiety behind me as I stepped out into the grand entrance hallway beyond.

I turned to my left and mounted the first stair where my foot stopped and I froze. I knew where I wanted to go but my way was barred. There was nothing physically perceptible ahead but I could detect and sense a change in the air. On the first turn of the staircase was a thickness of air that permeated the staircase. It hadn’t been there when my family had ascended the staircase but it was definitely there now and I contemplated my options.

I didn’t know what the thickness of air signified or even if it was real or my imagination. Was my mind playing tricks on me or was the house testing my bravery? Could it deter me with games or was it trying to bar my way in order to warn me and hinder or even prevent my progress? I was unsure and consequently unable to decide whether I should retreat or approach the obstruction.

I reprimanded myself. My house certainly had a complex character but it would never intentionally harm me. Of this, I was almost certainly sure. The house was bitter and its bitterness gave it wretched undertones, but I could understand these emotions. It had been abandoned and was suffering from the neglect. Of course it was bitter. Its playful, mischievous element still took precedence and fought the negative elements. How much longer it could maintain its control over these less than desirable aspects was questionable but for now, the positivity was dominant although weakened.

I took a fortifying deep breath and ascended the staircase with purposefulness. I aimed to appear confident and unnerved by maintaining a steady pace as I progressed. I fought the urge to increase my speed as I approached the turn on the stairs. The air was threatening to attack me and prevent my progression. It perceived it as being unfriendly and not wanting my intrusion. I had to show the house that I was stronger than its less desirable elements. I had to demonstrate my superiority and leadership of the house if I was ever to become its mistress.

That thought had flown through my subconscious mind without warning and I wondered at its origin. Focusing momentarily upon the ridiculous notion that had imposed itself upon me, I strode proudly through the insipid air. I glanced nonchalantly and unintentionally at the door on my left at the turn of the stairs. Haughtily, I raised my chin and feigned fearlessness as I progressed through the air which taunted me and played or ridiculed. I caught an almost imperceptible sound of childish giggling emanating from behind me and paused to listen more carefully. The giggling ceased as if suppressed by a hand which was designed to cover the misdemeanour.

I refused to acknowledge the sound by turning round in order to investigate. I wanted to show the house that as mistress of the house, I would have control and be above this kind of game. Strange adult thoughts from another era with unfamiliar social rules and expectations were circling through my young mind that felt mature beyond its years. It was a familiar feeling within me that I suppressed frequently. Internally, these feelings ostracised me from my family and peers. Externally, they were permanently hidden as I had learnt that they were out of place in the world in which I existed and would render relationships impossible.

I continued to climb the staircase and caught myself trailing my hand in a somewhat elegant manner along the banister. It was an unnatural gesture for a person of my age and era but was done subconsciously and naturally. I smiled at myself and stood at the top of the stairs and looked back over my shoulder. A shadow, a flicker of movement, caught my eye before I could catch its form. A clear shrill giggle rang out then disappeared into the distance.

I shuddered. As I shuddered the thin veil of the more mature, sophisticated persona fell from me. It slipped away and I could not hold on to it. As it fell, my more childish nature took precedence and brought me roughly to reality and the present day which I felt I had left. I was back in my uncomfortable skin.

Sauntering along the landing, I realised that I was approaching the forlorn room that my grandpa insisted upon inhabiting to the neglect of the rest of the house. I could never understand his possession of the grand house. I didn’t understand why he had bought it, and then chosen to reside within four walls of one of the rooms which may have been a large parlour many years previously. I contemplated motivations such as the financial implications of running such a large house. The heating bills alone must have been insurmountable in this day and age. Or were there alternative motivating factors? Was he sensitive to the house too? Could he feel the personality of the house which overpowered those who could detect it? Was he scared of the house? Did the house not want him in residence? Did he serve the purpose of temporary custodian? There were numerous possibilities that I could contemplate but none seemed to hold a definite answer.

I made my way towards the one employed room and my family. The landing was graced by an ancient Persian runner that would have once made previous owners proud. It would have announced superfluous money and a lifestyle that few could afford. Foreign excursions were costly and lengthy. Only a few intrepid Victorians would have made a journey to Persia: an expensive souvenir would have been an essential status symbol and demanded awe and respect from those who could not afford such trips or were not brave enough to undertake such exploration of the world. Now the rug was dejected and thread bare, the pride worn away.

I sidled along the panelled walls as I approached Grandpa’s door. I could see it was agape. I needed to ensure that I passed without the adults confined in the lifeless room beyond perceiving me at all. If I was detected, I would be called to join them. My parents did not approve of me having freedom and liked to keep me close at all times.

Grandpa’s dismissal of me would not have met with their approval. Although my father was dominant in our family, he was submissive to his father alone. Even though he would not have wished for me to have the freedom of the house as had been granted to me by my grandpa, he would not have contested or over-ridden his father’s authority out of fear rather than respect. It was a childhood habit that would never leave him.

I stopped and stood motionless against the wall to the side of the door and breathed as silently as I could. I aimed to not move a muscle. I had to evaluate the situation in the room beyond. If any of the inhabitants, including my sister were at this end by the kitchenette they may detect my presence and demand my company.

I listened carefully in order to establish their whereabouts but could hear nothing. There was no conversation. The room was silent. Curiosity fought with my self control. Curiosity won and I turned my head slowly in order to try and see what was going on in the silent room through the gap in the barely open door.

The room my grandpa chose to inhabit was bleak. He had converted one substantial room, which may previously had been an opulent drawing room into what was effectively a bedsit. A salvaged bedraggled range of kitchen units had been installed at one end of the room with a sink and a cooker. In front of these were a small table and two chairs. (My Grandfather didn’t entertain). In the centre of the room were some worn sofas and chairs, which I was sure he had found in a skip. At the far end of the room was a wooden wardrobe and a forlorn bed tucked in the corner with a contraption around it that barely coped with the heavy hanging drapes.

The whole room was stale and devoid of life. The walls were drab shades of brown and dark green – colourless in their gloom. The wallpaper appeared to move in a dark swirling mass that went unnoticed by my family and my Grandpa. Wetness seemed to seep through the faded olive flowers. The once opulent oppressive dark velvet curtains stood guard and squinted at the daylight that attempted to seep through the windows into the suffocating the room. It was desperately sad looking and the only room that I ever wanted to escape from.

My sister sat silently bored on the bedraggled sofa picking at her cuticles due to a lack of alternative entertainment. My mother sat next to her, bolt upright and feigning interest in nothing. The conversation had clearly become stultified.

I was about to make my move and pass by the door, hopefully undetected when my father raised a topic which stopped me in my tracks. My father asked how the renovations were progressing. That was it, I was attentive and rapt.

I strained to hear. Grandpa explained how he intended to renovate the house and create mini flats to let within its precious walls. My grandfather was in the process of annihilating my house. My precious house was to be lacerated and torn apart in order to make money by renting it out. I knew the changes would be made with no consideration for the house.

But this was not to be the main focus of their conversation as I expected.

My father asked why there had always been one door that had been kept locked in the house when he had been a child. He explained which room he meant and questioned why his brothers and sisters hadn’t seemed to have noticed it when they were younger. It was the one with the door on the turning of the main staircase.

I slunk against the wall ensuring I was comfortable and still. This served two purposes: I ensured that I wouldn’t be detected and I could hear better when I kept still and slowed my breathing.

My grandpa revealed that beyond the door was a relatively small room which he described as comparatively insignificant considering the prestigious nature of many other rooms in the house. This was partly why it went pretty much un-noticed by my father’s siblings when they were young he supposed.

My father informed his father and my mother that as children, he noticed that the door on the first bend of the staircase was always locked. He recalled that their father had initially explained the locked door by saying that it was a cupboard that they had lost the key to many years before.

This explanation had pacified the other children, but my father had still been mildly curious and would put his eye up to the key hole in an attempt to establish further what lay behind the door. As far as he was concerned, he felt that there was more than a storage cupboard hidden behind the door. He was sure that he had seen a flicker of colour pass by the keyhole one day. It had made him jump back and give a little shiver of nervousness as he trotted away with more speed than he would otherwise have done had he not seen anything untoward.

Whenever my father had stood at the bottom of the staircase knowing that he had to pass the door in order to get upstairs but was reluctant to do so, he explained that he felt his way was blocked by a thickness of air that surrounded the area. He would have to grit his teeth and run past it as fast as he possibly could. He would use the defunct servant’s staircase whenever possible. Apart from when he had to pass the door, he hadn’t thought about the room too much. At least, he tried not to. But it had made him uneasy. He hadn’t spoken to his brothers about his feelings as he knew that would make him an easy target for ridicule. And that wasn’t a position he was prepared to put himself into.

My father is not the spiritual kind so I was rather taken aback at his accepting tone when he spoke. But on this particular visit, as an adult, he had raised the subject with his father and in an unusually open conversation.

My younger sister was still in the room and had been given some paper and pencils to distract her attention from their conversation. As grown ups do, they believe that children can’t hear what they talk about even when we are present. They seem to think that we don’t understand their words and that they suddenly speak in a foreign tongue which we can’t comprehend. Usually I switched off from my parents’ conversations as, to be fair, they were often tedious. However, my ears were alert to their every mumbled word of this conversation. My sister, from what I could glimpse through the door had immediately become engrossed in drawing. Was she feigning absorption or had she really managed to disappear completely into her own world? Maybe the adult perception of children was true and it was another of my personal anomalies that didn’t apply to others of my age. I didn’t usually listen so intently to my parents’ conversations but this one grabbed my attention immediately.

My Grandpa began to tell his story that he had kept in his possession for many years.