All houses take on a
completely character during the hours of darkness,it is almost as if
they have a secret life which only begins when its daytime occupants
have retired to bed for the night. In the ordinary course of events
this dual personality remains the houses secret when its residents
sleep soundly ,only now and then do they truly inhabit the house at
night and often they are awake because of illness of some other less
than pleasant reason.
At such times the house
quickly returns to normal almost as if it is self conscious,
preoccupied we fail to see anything different even when we take the
house by surprise!
It is , however quite a
different matter for those, who , like myself spend a good deal of
time not only awake at night but out of bed and fully alert. Every
sound is unexpected and strange, old floor boards make creaks which
can seem as loud as pistol shots and windows and doors rattle for all
the world as if someone were trying to get in!
It is easy to imagine
why, in the days before electric light ,people were convinced that
evil spirits roamed about at night ,making them draw their bed
curtains or hide under the blankets.
There is no doubt that
wandering around a large old house in the dead of night is a spooky
experience, even inanimate objects like chairs,hat stands and coats
hanging behind a door take on a life of their own and become vaguely
sinister .
Many years ago I lived
in a modern house and I almost missed the frisson of fear that
encountering a strange shadow in the wall or hearing a rustle or a
creak can cause. In this house there is no shortage of night time
noise, especially on a windy night like tonight ,when everything
rattles and groans as each new gust buffets the ancient roof and
walls. Stove pipes rattle , stems of climbing roses, detached from
their moorings by the gale tap at the windows like Heathcliff's Cathy
and the same wind blows across the chimney pots where it's moans are
amplified by the cavernous old flues.
From time to time small
lumps of soot or maybe old mortar break free and these rattle down
the chimney,sounding like scurrying mice...or rats.... and doors
creak slowly open, or even slam shut when caught in a particularly
fearsome draught.
I have ,with only a
years exception lived my whole life on houses of considerable age and
am used to this strangeness, it can be almost comforting, when one is
alone to feel that the house is sentient, aware of ones presence and
putting on a show.
If ,as in this house
there really is the odd ghost stamping about there can sometimes be a
little too much variety, speaking personally I prefer to have the
place to myself as a general rule. Bumping in to a pipe smoking old
gentleman in the library at two in the morning can be more than a
little disconcerting I find.
Often the only clue to
his presence is a wisp of smoke floating in the air,or the pungent
whiff of tobacco, at least he uses a pleasant smelling brand.
On still calm nights
when there is no wind the smallest sounds become noticeable,the
ticking of the library clock, the rustle of a scrap of paper blown
across the kitchen floor by the draught from the cat flap. On such
nights the comforting sound of the crackling logs burning slowly in
the wood stove make cheerful company for those who cannot sleep.
Some times I almost
believe I can hear the a different sort of of crackling from the
windows as the frost forms fantastic ferny patterns on the glass and
when snow falls the sibilant whisper of flakes blown against the same
frozen glass can change in a moment to a loud rattle as the falling
snow becomes a swirling blizzard of ice crystals.
I often write at during
the at this time, when everyone else is fast asleep so often that the
sounds of my home at night have become like old friends. When even my
little cat is fast asleep the house and I keep company, both wide
awake and full of life in a dark and silent world, and when at last
my eyes begin to grow heavy with long awaited sleep I pad in
slippered feet along the dark landing to my room at the end of the
house.
The last sound I hear
as I drift into oblivion is the gentle creak of my wooden bed as it
accustoms it,s self to my long delayed presence.
Four o clock....it will
soon be morning.....goodnight, goodnight.
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