Writing for Fun
November 2020
The Big House (part 2) 'I Don't Believe In Ghosts' - Pete Norman
Sunday is the best day of the week – of this Matthew was convinced.
Sunday is a day of rest. Sunday is the only day of the week when he did not have work or any other commitments to worry about and Sunday was the day he always went for a long walk – come rain or shine.
His favourite walk took him past the old Barnoldswick Cotton Mill – which some years ago had been restored at great expense as a ‘Museum of the Industrial Revolution’ – as if such hell holes deserved be celebrated. He then followed the railway line which, in the days before the ‘Beeching Axe’, fed the Mill. The rails were long gone but the cutting through which the trains used to rumble was a haven of peace and nature. Isolated from the background mush of the industrial town and lined with lush greenery this was a beautiful place to spend some quality time on a Sunday afternoon.
Sunday is also the best day of the week because on Sunday afternoons the three musketeers always meet up at the Rose and Crown for a pint.
His journey back towards the pub took him along a narrow lane and past the ruins of Crossmore, the old manor house, better known to the locals as ‘The Big House’.
Matthew had only ever seen the Big House from a distance and he had never paid it more than casual attention but today was different – today there was a sheet of laminated paper fixed with cable ties to the wrought iron gates. His natural curiosity drew him closer. He squinted at the tiny writing. It was a Council notice. It seemed that planning permission was being considered, on this very site, for what was described as ‘50 QUALITY HOMES’.
Up the wide driveway he could see the Big House. Partially damaged by fire and after decades of neglect it looked a sorry sight – a pale memory of what it must have been in its heyday but surely, he thought, this magnificent mansion did not deserve to be pulled down, to be replaced with 50 QUALITY tiny, characterless modern HOMES, which Prince Charles would have probably have declared to be ‘a monstrous carbuncle on the face of a much-loved and elegant friend’.
He finished the last half mile deep in thought, ignoring the symphony of bird calls which surrounded him and which, on any other day, would have been a delight to his ears.
The Rose and Crown was busy but David and Adrian had managed to secure their usual table in the corner. David said, ‘Where have you been? Your pint’s getting flat.’
Matthew stared at the glass of amber nectar but did not acknowledge the comment, instead he said, ‘They’re pulling down the Big House.’
David said, ‘About time too. Pull it down before it falls down – it’s a bloody wreck.’
Adrian said, ‘Might be worth taking a look over it before they do, you never know, there may still be something worth having in there.’
Matthew looked from one to the other, hardly surprised at their lack of empathy. However, he was anxious for his own reasons to have a look around. ‘That sounds like a plan,’ he said, ‘we’ve still got a few hours before it gets dark.’
Adrian drained his glass. ‘Well, I’m ready, count me in.’
Close up the house did look a bit of a wreck – apart from the fire damage to the left wing it looked as if the local kids had used the windows for target practice, one of the chimneys was leaning at a dangerous angle and the roof was missing a lot of slates. Adrian carefully stepped around what looked like the smashed remains of a couple of gargoyles on the gravel path in front of the door. He looked up. ‘Glad I wasn’t here when they came down.’
David said, ‘Well, perhaps we’d better not hang about then.’ He put his shoulder to the front door but, it stood firm and he simply bounced off the solid woodwork.
‘Looks like it’s the window then.’ He cleared away a few shards of glass and climbed through. Despite the sunshine outside, the inside was dingy and stank of rot and other unmentionable things.
Undeterred the musketeers made their way methodically through the ground floor rooms which, unsurprisingly, they found had been stripped of all their grandeur. In the hallway lighter patches on the walls marked where the paintings had once been and where the heads of dead creatures had hung. The whole house was open to them with the exception of one door, which was locked and the size of the lock hole suggested that it was very firmly locked. David took a heavy kick at the door but apart from a dull thud resounding through the empty rooms he had little success.
The last door in the corridor led up a staircase – plain wood, unpainted with no other embellishment. Adrian said, ‘Got to be the servant’s stairs – forget it, there’s not going to be anything worth having up there.’
Matthew looked up the stairs and on impulse said, ‘You carry on, then. I think I’ll take a look anyway – it’s all part of the history, you Philistines.’
The servants’ rooms were small but adequate and, he thought, they probably found them an improvement on their room back home. They was very little left in any of them but in one was a small wooden cabinet. He pulled open the drawers but they were all empty. However, when he closed the bottom one there was a slight clunk. He pulled the drawer completely out and there, hanging behind it from a rusty nail, was an even rustier key. From the size of the key he realised that it quite possible might fit the mystery locked door downstairs – although why, if the contents of that room were so precious, was the key entrusted to a mere servant.
He hurried downstairs but there was no sign of the other two so he slipped the key into the lock and turned it. The lock stubbornly fought back with a combination of age and rust but eventually it surrendered and the door opened. The room was quite large but completely empty – apart from a thick layer of dust and a small pile of junk in the far corner there was precious little else to see.
The floor boards creaked alarmingly and he tested the floor carefully before he crossed the room. As he looked down he could see faint marks on the worn floorboards. He bent down and brushed away the dust. The marks looked like lines – parallel lines, very close together – and the only suggestion he could come up with was something like a model railway track.
As he made his way slowly across the room, the marks flowed across the floor and around in front of the far wall – so, he decided, a railway it surely was. The small pile of junk in the corner turned out to be a worn and crumpled piece of green fabric. He pushed it out of the way with his finger and there, beneath it, were two small but beautifully painted tin figures, one a gentleman and the other a lady; they were both dressed in smart Victorian clothing.
The only other thing in the corner was a book, which looked like a diary. As he opened it a slight draught brushed his face, as if someone had just walked across the room. He dropped the book and spun around but there was no one there. It had to be the musketeers up to their childish games as usual. He checked outside but the corridor was empty and silent. Puzzled he picked up the book and opened the cover again. On the first page was written, in a very fine copperplate hand, ‘Thomas’. He flicked quickly through it and saw that it contained pages and pages of detailed records of model railway stock.
Another slight draught brushed his face and he carefully placed the book down. Like a mantra he kept repeating to himself, ‘I don’t believe in ghosts . . .’ but the draught brushed his face again. Matthew opened up the book and checked the name on the first page. ‘Thomas?’ he said, quietly and with very little conviction, ‘Thomas is that you?’
There was another draught but this time it moved back and forth across his face until he put up a hand to stop it. ‘Thomas, if that’s you, two knocks to say yes.’
In response there was total silence but the draught continued more forcefully. Matthew stood up and backed against the wall. ‘Two knocks for yes . . .’
A faint tap almost beyond the limit of his hearing definitely came from inside this room, so it couldn’t be the other two playing a prank this time.
He took a deep breath. ‘Two knocks, Thomas . . .’
In quick succession came the unmistakable sound of two soft taps. Matthew drew in a deep breath – he did not have a clue how to deal with this. He somehow wished that the other two were here with him but then he immediately decided otherwise, they would only make fun of him and the moment would be lost.
He closed the door so that they would not know that he was inside and then turned to face the apparently empty room.
The only thing that appeared to have changed was the two Victorian tin figures, they were both lying on the floor but he was certain that he had left them standing when he put them down.
All kinds of emotions scrambled randomly through his mind but a more determined Matthew stood the figures up again. ‘Did you do that?’ he asked with a faint tremble in his voice. There was utter silence so thick that you could cut it with a knife and then slowly, first the lady and then the man, both toppled with a faint tap onto the floorboards.
Matthew could feel the ice cold hand of panic creeping up his back but whatever it was it did appear to be benign.
He struggled to think what questions he could possibly ask which could only be answered with a yes or a no. In the end he did neither, he asked, ‘Can you show yourself? Can you materialize?’
Once again the draught around him intensified until the dust on the floor swirled up and he had to back away to stop himself choking.
‘That wasn’t very nice,’ he snapped but then his eyes were drawn to the floor where the faint ghostly image of a model railway train was moving silently around a complex arrangement of track. At that moment he heard, ‘Hey, that door’s open now.’ The apparition vanished as Adrian’s head appeared round the door. ‘Matthew. How’d you get in here?’
‘Well I’ve always found the easiest way is with a key.’
David looked around the room with disdain. ‘Nothin’ special in here either, then. The whole place is just a plethora of mediocrity. We might as well get home before it gets dark.’
Matthew shook his head. ‘Not me, I might just stay here for a bit, I think I’ll have a better look round.’
Adrian said, ‘But ain’t you afraid the headless nun’s gonna get you?’
Matthew shrugged his shoulders. ‘I ain’t afraid of no ghosts.’
When the other two had left he turned back into the room. ‘Thomas, you must have been here for years but you can’t possibly know that very soon they are going to pull down your home and put up a load of modern crap. You can’t stay here.’
The draught swirled uncontrollably and Matthew could almost hear the anger and fear. He put up his hand and the room calmed once more. He had no idea why he said it but at the time it seemed the most logical thing to say, ‘I think, perhaps, you might be better off coming home with me.’
There was a long silence which dragged on and on until Matthew was convinced he had offended Thomas. He said, ‘Perhaps if I get these little tin people a train set to play with?’ The two taps that followed, in quick succession, were much louder than before.
Matthew smiled. ‘Looks like we’ve got a deal then.’ He picked up the two tin figures and the crumpled piece of green cloth, which he now realised was supposed to be grass. He locked the door behind them and pocketed the key.