Spirit of the Château

"SPIRIT OF THE CHȂTEAU" - Patsy Collins

The boy is dressed all in black. His loose trousers and shapeless top are black. Even his footwear is black. I suppose he is a boy, at my age anyone under thirty seems young. His hair is long and dark. It moves, gently blown by a breeze I cannot feel. His face is pale, too pale for summer, for health. He looks sad, lost. I follow as he wanders around the Château. I cannot hear his footsteps echoing through the empty rooms. His feet don’t seem to touch the same floorboards that I walk upon. He has a hazy indistinct appearance, as if not quite of my world. I shake my head, I’m being fanciful, the sad reason for this visit is clouding my imagination.
   

I think I’ve seen him before; I may have done. There was a boy born here, a cousin of mine. No, that was too long ago, perhaps this is his son? I’ve visited so often, seen so many people, that it’s difficult to remember. People and events are confused in my memory. Time passes quickly now, a whole summer passes and seems no more than a few warm days. People I remember as laughing children, picnicking in the gardens or rowing on the lake are now grey, or gone.
           
My early years are clearer, my happy childhood spent in this Château, the ponies I rode in the grounds. I remember friends and the games we played. I remember the handsome young woman I became, my love affairs and heartbreaks. Grand parties were held here, in this very ballroom. The gilding is peeling from the walls now. The once glittering chandelier was removed years ago. I hope it sparkles from another ceiling.
   
The boy moves toward the sweeping staircase and ducks under the coloured tape that warns the structure is now unsafe. He seems to care nothing for the potential danger. Perhaps he feels, as I do, that the Château can never harm those who love it. I see him in profile as he turns. I was right; he is one of the family. Men who were my ancestors had a nose like that, eyebrows just like his. I’ve seen their portraits. They were bigger, more substantial men than this boy. Their smiling faces watching me from the canvas seemed more alive than this slim, pale child. He is one of us though; those features will be carried through my family for generations to come.
   
I remember him now, how could I have forgotten the little boy who occasionally wandered this very hallway at midnight? He crept quietly, keeping to the shadows, looking for something he never found. His disappointed face saddened me whenever I caught a glimpse of it. He does love this place. I see that now as he slides his hand over the cracked wooden panelling. I know he is trying to see the fine detail gleaming with centuries of care and polish. That’s how I see it, the beauty, the magnificence is still there, just beneath the neglected surface.
   
I have to concentrate to keep the present and not the past before my eyes. I remember the luxurious furniture that once graced these empty rooms. I can almost feel the warmth from the open fires, although I know the grates hold nothing but fallen soot and accumulated litter. The echo of voices is faint now. To anyone but those who love this old decayed Château there is nothing here but crumbling plaster, rotten wood, and weakened bricks. To them it won't matter that men will come tomorrow to demolish my old home. Perhaps they’re right, it doesn’t really matter, wherever I am, I will still have my happy memories.
   
The boy is in the bedroom that was once mine. He looks up. Sun streams through the hole in the roof. He looks away from the light and into the shadows; looking for something. Surely, he knows everything of value was taken long ago. Since then the curious, the homeless, the lovers seeking privacy have walked through every room, searched every secret corner. There's nothing here but my memories, my love for this place and now, the boy. He walks to where the window once was. The glass slipped and fell so long ago, the frame shortly afterwards. I smile, recalling the mornings I’d leapt from bed and thrown open the heavy curtains to see what kind of day I would have. There were the Christmas mornings, when I longed for snow. There had been long summers with skies of unbroken blue. There had been rain and wind and sun, but always joy.
   
The boy turns to face me, his eyes widen and then he smiles. I know that t he sees what he sought. He sees me; the Spirit of the Château.
   
“I’m glad to know you’re real,” he whispers.
   
“Of course I’m real, why did you doubt that?”
   
“Because although I heard all the stories, I never saw you. Whenever I stayed here as a child I’d stay up late, hoping you’d appear, but you never did.”
   
“I was here.”
   
“Then why didn’t I see you?”
   
“The living often can’t see us.”

Together we take a last look around the château that had, in life, been our home, then we leave to join our ancestors.


BIO: Patsy Collins lives on the south coast of England, opposite the Isle of Wight. Her stories appear in magazines in the UK, Ireland and Australia. To learn more about her and her writing, please visit patsy-collins.blopgspot.com

Cold

"COLD" - Patsy Collins

It’s cold. Not the sharp biting cold of an east wind,
Nor the tingling exhilarating cold of winters first snow.
This is the slow steady cold of January clinging to your flesh,
Mixing with your blood. Soaking into your soul.

This cold cannot be escaped; it’s within you now.
It drifts through your mind when you sleep and when you wake.
Too late now for the fire, a warm drink, soft blanket.
This is the cold of disappointments of loneliness.

The cold wraps around you, caressing as once the sun did.
Lost friends, forgotten hopes chill your dreams now.
The warmth of happiness, confidence, strength - all gone.
No spring will come, for the cold you feel is death.


BIO: Patsy Collins writes short stories for magazines including,
Woman's Weekly, Fiction Feast, Ireland's Own, My Weekly and That's
Life. To read more about her and her writing, please visit patsy-collins.blogspot.com

Ice Cold

"ICE COLD" - Patsy Collins

The children ran off excitedly yelling for ice creams; they ran back terrified yelling for their mums.

Weird Walter the ice cream man lay dead on the floor of his van. His cooling blood oozed from the neat hole in the left side of his head, mingling with strawberry sauce, chopped nuts and chocolate flakes.

Police say he topped himself.


BIO: Patsy Collins writes short stories for magazines including, Woman's Weekly, Fiction Feast, Candis, Ireland's Own, My Weekly and That's Life. To read more about her and her writing, please visit patsy-collins.blogspot.com

The Scent of Lilac

"THE SCENT OF LILAC" - Patsy Collins

“Mum, what was Grandma’s full name?”

As Primrose spoke, a heavy perfume filled the room.

“Agatha Myrtle Galbraith, why love?”

“If we’re going to apologise we should get things right.”

"Primrose, are you sure you want to do this?”

“What can you smell?”

"Lilac.”

“What can you hear?”

“Your sisters, crying.”

“Then what choice do I have?”

“You’re sure Grandma is really haunting the twins? Perhaps they’re just frightened because they saw her die.”

“She’s been dead for almost a year and they’re getting worse, not better. And the scent hasn’t faded, it gets stronger each time she’s mentioned, I’m sure that’s why we’ve all got sore throats.”

Rose helped her daughter find a brooch and shawl of Agatha’s. As they handled the shawl, the scent increased. Primrose and her sisters walked to the hall.

“Will Grandma really be there?”

“Yes, Chloe. Then you and Louise can apologise for frightening her. I’ll say sorry too, because I think she’s angry with all of us.”

“Then she’ll leave us alone?”

"I hope so.”

Inside the hall, Primrose marked out a five pointed star. She placed a candle in every segment, then ushered her sisters into place. Her Grandmother’s shawl and brooch were placed in the empty places. Primrose lit each candle.

“Now we must all think about her.”

“It won’t really work will it?”

“Just saying sorry won’t, but I’m going to call her back from the dead. We’ll make her go away.”

“That’s not what you told Mum.”

“She wouldn’t let us do this if I’d told the whole truth.”

“What if it doesn’t work? Will Grandma never leave us alone?” asked Louise.

“Are you going to do this? It won’t work if we don’t all do it.”

“We will Primrose,” chorused the twins.

“As I was saying, when she comes we’ll tell her we’re sorry.”

They each thought of the dead woman. Primrose remembered how her Grandma spread nasty rumours about her father, suggesting an unhealthy attachment to his daughters. She remembered too, everything she'd heard of her mother’s awful childhood. The twins remembered their grandmother calling them close and then giving painful pinches. She said nasty things about their mother and tried turning them against their sister. They remembered too that afternoon, exactly a year ago. They had listened to their teacher talking about bullies.

“Bullies are really cowards,” Miss said. “You should always report them, and if you can, stand up to them, it sometimes frightens them off.”

They told their sister, who agreed Grandma was a bully.

The twins decided to frighten her away. They hid in this hall and waited for her to come for piano practise. They appeared under a sheet, wailing. She hadn’t died of fright because she realised who they were. She became angry. She’d screamed and chased them, walking stick raised. She fell down the steps, broken her neck and died.

The family thought they’d lost the bully until the funeral. The sweet sickly scent was so strong the guests quickly left and her angry presence was felt. A year later, the sisters still smelt the lilac fragrance.

“Agatha Myrtle Galbraith we call you to us. Agatha Myrtle Galbraith we call you to us,” Primrose whispered. Her voice became louder each time she repeated the incantation. Her sisters joined in the chant.

Slowly the shawl and brooch stirred and rose. The shawl draped as if supported by a body. The brooch hung as if pinned onto it. The candles flickered and dimmed.

The light regained its strength to reveal a figure wrapped in the shawl. It was faint, barely the shadow of a reflection. They recognised Agatha.

“Sorry we frightened you Grandma,” said Louise. “We didn’t want you to die, just to see what it’s like to be scared.”

“They are sorry Grandma, and I’m sorry too. I should have known what they were planning and stopped them,” Primrose said.

The girls repeated their apologies and each in turn begged Agatha to leave them in peace. As they spoke the lilac scent increased. Through their streaming eyes, they saw the figure growing taller and stronger.

Agatha was now more substantial than she’d been in life. She looked bright and strong. They screamed.

“Well I’m not sorry,” shouted Rose from the doorway. “You were cruel to me and you were cruel to the children.” Rose hugged the girls. “When Ralph died you said you wanted us to come home. I thought you’d changed. I was wrong. You just wanted to share your misery.”

As Rose shouted, the figure began to spin, sending sparks and clouds of perfume at every turn. She became paler, smaller.

“Agatha Myrtle Galbraith we called you to us, now we send you back. Agatha Myrtle Galbraith we send you back,” said Primrose.

All four of them repeated the phrase. Agatha spun faster and faster. Then with a hiss, she cast off the shawl and flew about the hall wailing and thrashing. Lilac scent choked them and the unearthly sounds throbbed through their bodies.

Then silence. Agatha was gone.

They never smell Lilac now, except in the spring when the flowers bloom.

BIO: Patsy Collins writes short stories for magazines including, Woman's Weekly, Fiction Feast, Candis, Ireland's Own, My Weekly and That's Life. To read more about her and her writing, please visit:
http://patsy-collins.blogspot.com/