Read The First Chapter Of 'Discovery at Rosehill' by Kathryn Brown

Discovery at Rosehill 

by Kathryn Brown 

 

Chapter One

I fought back the tears as I turned the corner and saw the house standing proud on its hill, sheep grazing in the bottom fields. It was as though time stood still, nothing had changed. There was nowhere I wanted to be more. It drew me in by some kind of magnetic force, wrapping its soul around mine until I had no control.

I sat in my faithful old Land Rover for a while, as I watched the rabbits go about their business, totally oblivious to my presence. The wind rustling through the trees and the birds singing to one another was all I could hear as feelings of affection poured from my soul.

The farm house, a large stone building had an aura of warm colours around its walls. This was my dream come true. Relief and excitement besieged me as I realised that I had finally found the last piece of my jigsaw, the piece I had searched for all my life. I was complete. I was final. I was home.

‘Your world you have to discover,’ my grandmother said. I looked at her sat beside me and saw tears in her eyes. When she visited I had to listen. I didn’t always agree but she was wise, she spoke with sincerity. I didn’t remember her passing. She often manifested before me, presenting as I would have recognised from her photograph which stood on the fireplace.

I looked longingly at the derelict building in dire need of love. It had a soul; a desire having lived on through hundreds of years. I knew it was where I needed to be. My life would unfold inside these walls as a future of certainty lay before me.

‘It’s beautiful,’ I said to the energy which occupied the passenger seat beside me. ‘But I don’t understand why you’ve brought me here.’

‘You’re ready to move on, Camilla. You’re in your forties and you’re lonely. I see it in your eyes every time I look at you.’ My grandmother knew so much.

‘But look at it. It’s derelict. I couldn’t live here.’ We both stared at the cluster of buildings. ‘I was happy in Edinburgh. Why would I want to live so far away from civilisation?’

‘You will find more civilisation in this house than you could ever wish to find anywhere else. Believe me, you’re meant to live here. You have so much to learn about your life and it all starts here, at Rosehill.’

I turned to face her as she too, turned to look at me. Her eyes were sparkling, her mouth curled up in a vibrant smile. I could sense the excitement within her heart as she impressed it upon my own.

‘Go. Find yourself. Understand that what you have in your life is only a fraction of what is really there. I’ll be by your side; I’ll watch out for you.’ She began to fade. I reached out my hand towards where her spirit body had rested in the seat. But as the fabric touched my hands I realised I was once more alone, and a little frightened of the journey which clearly lay ahead.

o

            It didn’t take long for legalities to process, nor did it take long for my decisions to be made as to what I had planned for these ancient walls.   My grandmother helped me to pack, all the while telling me about the home in which she lived with her beloved husband, my grandfather. It took longer than expected to fill the boxes which contained my life but I was grateful for her company. It was always such a pleasure to welcome her. She visited me often, usually at an appropriate time when advice was sought. I was never sad at not remembering her in our physical world. Her existence was much calmer, more sincere than ours. Her words were softly spoken, her smile forever worn. She never rushed, always stayed.

I moved with very little in terms of furniture and possessions, for the house already held such items; antiques from a forgotten age, ornaments belonging to the Ladies of the house. My heart raced as I passed the threshold, feet at a standstill to find my bearings. It was just as I’d imagined it as a dank and musty aroma reached my senses at an alarming rate.

Dust and crumbling plaster scattered about the floor, fallen from neglected walls, a dirt infested Aga stood against one wall; cupboard doors hung loosely; a drawer balanced precipitously, warning of danger looming with sudden movement.

Aged tiles clung in despair, no wallpaper adorned the walls. An abandoned room treated with dishonour, in need of heartfelt hands; now my room. No longer would it be abandoned. No longer would this room deteriorate into nothingness. It needed me. It needed my soul to revive its memories and bring it back to life.

As I made my way out of the once loved kitchen, I found myself in a long passage way. A dark, disconcerting space with several doors closed to hide remembrance within. I could smell tobacco smoke as it seemed to drift through the air, leading me to the bottom of a staircase. There was a white mist, wrapping itself around the handle of a closed door. Feeling coldness on my hands, my head began to pound, yet serenity filled my heart. I walked towards the door, curiosity beckoning me to turn the handle. My hand felt detached from my out-stretched arm as I watched my own fingers form their grip. The door opened slowly, its hinges old and piteous. It creaked, whined as it once more felt duty bound.

A large sash window was the first object my eyes caught in their frantic search, open shutters unable to withstand manoeuvre. No curtains hung, nor was there a carpet beneath my feet. A black and white wedding photograph sat upon an antique dressing table, its subjects unsmiling but proud. A few ornaments scattered about the mantel piece, a pathetic display of a no-doubt sparse life. Bed sheets were clumsily placed on a war-time bed, the mattress in desperate need of disposal. But apart from these few items, the room was empty. I could sense laughter at sunrise and pleasing dreams when the moon lit up the sky though I could feel no energy; no atmosphere prevailed. It smelt of a forgotten ashtray, of musty clothes and worn out leather; of a life from long ago that hung on for fear of being excluded. I caught myself in a worn out mirror which nestled on the dusty floor boards. Not a large item but big enough to reflect the middle aged woman I had become. I used to be slim and pretty, but the mirror portrayed me as frumpy, down-trodden and a little grey around the edges. It wasn’t the image I wanted to see. The woollen cardigan I wore was perhaps hiding my curves but my pale face needed reviving, as if I’d only just awoken from the deepest sleep. I made a mental note to dig out my makeup bag and freshen up my complexion.

Gathering my thoughts I closed the door upon my exit, leaving the room once more in silent abandonment. The next space I was compelled to enter seemed hollow, an area once filled yet now containing empty shelves and a worn out fireplace. I was quite eager to inject some colour into the house and thought this would be the place to do it. I had never been artistic with a paint brush, but was determined to at least try to decorate a little by myself. This room had no life within its stone walls, it was quite eerie, even to me.

I was rewarded anticipating optimism as I removed ivory sheets from furniture in the guest wing. Dust particles took flight, settling gracefully upon wooden floorboards and a central rug. There was much work to do. Some parts of the house required major renovation whilst others would be satisfied with a lick of paint.

This was to be my home; my work; my life. I had to make plans. Bated breath and racing heart bestowed upon me as I thought about my grandparents and their wish for me to rededicate Rosehill.

As the weeks passed, the builders began their work and I looked on with bemused eyes. Wonder and intrigue filled my head as I touched walls and was graced with memories from a bygone age. I knew there would be tales to tell, mysteries to unfold, spirits to meet.

As units were stripped from their ancient bed, dust gathered and spiders retracted to safety. Three men removed four decades of memories to make way for new life. It was surreal to see a room almost bare, the decaying plaster and neglected walls, a record of family life beyond flesh and mortar. I could sense eyes in abundance, witnessing the demolition, heads shaking at the changes they would have preferred to avoid. Drilling and hammering, aggressive release continued throughout the day as a new room came alive, a room I had meticulously planned to alter, finally beginning to hold its head up high. No going back; it would only do to go forward, make progress, create something new and exciting, something I had thought about doing for so long.

Plaster was applied to walls. Old sockets were torn from their core; wires were fixed as modern clashed with old. Still so much to do yet confidence high, a nod of the head, no cursing or negative thought, just optimism ensued as workmen saw an end in sight. I sat at my laptop, trying in vain to concentrate on words which found it hard to reach the surface. Workmen up and down the stairs, in and out of the bathrooms, laying new wires, problem solving with little problem involved. I was impressed by their efficiency, their constant determination to complete the task in hand; they knew they could do it; I hoped they were right.

As the house lay silent once more, their vans departing in convoy, I stood and realised the fact that within days I would have that new kitchen I had so desired. My eyes continued to catch movement darting from one side of the room to the other, checking, approving, disagreeing. It was at that time that I heard the crying, a faint voice from the top of the stairs. The woman whom alerted my senses beckoned me as I continued to follow her voice; the stairs were empty, the landing mirror in a state of unclean. I ascended the first staircase where I stood in front of the looking glass, a grandfather clock to my left. I was disappointed.

Nearing the end of the week I could see a drastic change in the room with a view. It was remarkable; incredible; a wonderful feeling to finally be able to visualise this space worthy of time and effort. I wanted to paint the world a message, inviting them to see my new kitchen, informing them of a new birth in a country mansion. Perhaps that was why my calls were answered. Why, when I asked for my guests to knock, that they did, several times. I could not have been sure at that time exactly how many astrals were present but I imagined it was at least two, maybe three as footsteps became more distinct.

And when I stood at my new ceramic kitchen sink, looking at the distant orange glow of horizon lights, I was alerted once more to a soul with no face; the silence broken in the wake of a repetitive knocking on my new kitchen table. ‘Do you like it?’ I asked after turning round to face the answer. The reply: two knocks, knuckle bound on ancient Pine.

o

            I had finished familiarising myself with my new home, it was time to set up my reading room and begin my work. A small room downstairs sufficed, red velvet curtains already hung at large sash windows. The carpet would need replacing in time and perhaps the fireplace would need to be rediscovered but its atmosphere felt perfect for visiting spirits. I positioned a small solid oak table in the middle of the room. Two chairs facing each other, currently unoccupied. A lace table cloth I draped in heavy splendour, of old fashioned appearance, found amongst a chest of antique fabrics. I placed my Crystal Ball upon pewter stand in the middle of the table. A large, silver candle holder with ivory candle adorning the mantle, alone and eager.

Perfect. All I needed now were people to grace me with their excited presence, looking forward to finding out which loved ones were able to bare their soul. I sat in that room for a while. Meditation came easy in such calm surroundings. Taken to a world of vivid imaginings, my mind’s eye was able to distinguish between our earth plane and the plane in which our spirit friends had no choice but to reside. Lush green grass, morning dew still evident as sheep feasted upon blades and cud; a stream, gently flowing, carrying fallen sticks over rocks which had embedded over the years; blue skies; a yellow sun pointing her rays at poppies and wheat in the fields beyond.

I sat, flat-footed against the floor, my shoulders back and my hands resting on each lap. I couldn’t hear the water in my imaginary stream, or the birds which chatted in their wake. I knew something wasn’t right. Calm was upon me as a storm brewed in my head. I needed to come out of my meditative state, find reality once more, ask why I had been presented with this unwelcome feeling.

As I lifted my feet from the floor, moving my head to see the Crystal before me, the picture appeared, clear and instantly visible, my mind’s eye drawing in to understand what was about to happen. A broken heart and tears. It was all too predictable; too corny. I had seen broken hearts before, many times. But there was no one else in the room. I could feel no spirits beside me, could find no explanation for a broken heart. I dismissed it. Put it down to the Crystal being in new surroundings; my own surroundings being new to myself.

As I opened the blue velvet cloth in which to securely return the Crystal, I wondered if my ears were deceiving me. I could hear the faint sound of a woman crying, so faint I could only just make it out. The woman sobbed as the sound became more distinct. Covering up the Crystal, the sound appeared much clearer; a haunting cry for help.

‘Who are you?’ My words prompted the sobbing to stop. ‘Spirit, come forward.’ I looked around the room, hoping a sign would appear of astral presence; anything; tapping, knocking, even poltergeist activity. I was eager to know whether my reading space had been appreciated by my spirit friends.

‘Please give me a sign.’ I made some suggestions. ‘Perhaps knock on the table. Maybe you could push the candlestick from the mantle.’

It was clear after fifteen minutes of patience that the crying woman either no longer felt comfortable in her communicative encounter or she simply didn’t have enough energy to answer my calls. I hoped she would return, maybe she would realise she was able to draw from my energy and communicate with me in confidence.

That evening, the sun made her beautiful descent beyond the hills, lighting up the once blue sky with fire opals in abundance. I wondered how God could have created something so intense whilst allowing our neighbours to shed blood in battle. I wondered about God often. How some of us walked amongst the spirits, made friends with another dimension whilst others laughed, unable to understand their astral cousins. I thought about the world so breathtaking, abused by destructive hands, buildings of such captivating interest yet at the end of their existence as they lay destroyed by religious anger.

The television switched on by itself that night. It had often performed that highly amusing trick in my previous home but since I had moved here, it was my own hands that brought it to life. However, this time it had decided not to wait. Perhaps there was something worth watching, possibly a visiting soul thinking I might find its own favoured show of interest.

It switched onto a channel currently showing a film, a romance starring well known actors, one in which I would have chosen to avoid. I gave the film the benefit of the doubt and made myself comfortable. The remote control lay next to me, waiting with bated breath as I found it physically impossible to take it in my grasp. I didn’t want to sit through this film. I wanted to watch a documentary which was due to be shown on the other side. I would find it more interesting, romantic films weren’t my thing. The sound increased.

I found myself surrounded by voices, but not just the romantics who looked into each other’s eyes on the magic screen. The walls around me had started to speak; women’s voices, children laughing, men asking questions, a barking dog. The room had found life. Still unable to reach the remote control I had no choice. The picture on the television began to fade as new imagery presented itself to me, two new faces, radiant with bliss. But one of the faces was beginning to look familiar. The brown hair, hazel eyes, the long profile. It was me. I didn’t recognise the other face; a woman’s features, quite beautiful, elegant perhaps.

Spirit had appeared. An eager soul releasing energy insisted that I look into my own future. The voices and the dog’s bark waned until I could hear nothing. No sound came from the box before me, there now remained just faces; mine and that belonging to a stranger. But who was she? Why was she appearing with me? I needed answers; I had questions which I suspected were not going to be answered during that visit.

‘Who are you?’ I asked. A faint knock came from the opposite corner of the room.

‘Mum?’ She didn’t visit me often even though I knew she was able to. I hadn’t mourned after her death. She had been deteriorating over many years after suffering an excruciating illness and we felt at the time that her passing had been a blessing. Still, after twenty years, I felt she had failed to forgive me for a lack of respect. We had so much catching up to do yet she made it hard for me when she refused to visit.

‘Please give me a sign. Tap on the window. Is that you, mum?’

The faintest knock sounded once more. It was as though she was with me, yet she didn’t know if she would be welcome or not. I wanted her to communicate, tell me about her journey from the earth plane.

‘Knock louder, mum,’ I requested, becoming a little impatient with her modesty.

She did. It was a much more distinct knocking, hard against a table. My captor had released me from the chair and I was able to sit on the floor by the table in which I believed her to be near. I knelt on the floor, resting my palms on the table top. The woman’s face on the television had become melancholy; my own face appeared to be fading. I felt cold. So cold. The heated radiators seemed to make no difference. Something touched my head. Unseen hands stroked the top of my head, running fingers carefully through my hair. Spirit was above me, guarding me from a future I had to unveil.

Grab Your Copy Of Discovery at Rosehill