Content Warning: this article contains references to dementia and death
My grandfather was always a quiet man. Growing up, he never told me stories of his own childhood or anecdotes to embarrass my aunt. I never had much to say about him. My classmates would rattle off stories of trips their grandparents took them on in lieu of their parents. I would struggle to write more than a couple of sentences on my grandfather in any intimate detail. Even less on my grandmother: she passed a decade before my birth. However, my mother always said that wasn’t the cause of his reserved nature. She claims he has been like that since her earliest recollections. Always aloof but never had any streak of malice to him. Aunt Grace put it rather succinctly once, saying he was, “a man who was always felt but never heard”.
Upon news of his passing, I can’t say I was overcome by any swell of emotion. He had been demented for many years, passing at the age of eighty-nine. If anything, I wish it had happened earlier to avoid those last years of suffering. It affected Mother in particular, you could see the toll it took on her. I will say that I did feel like there was a sudden absence in my life, a chasm that had opened up in front of me. My grandfather was hardly present, but knowing that I would never see him nor he me again certainly left an impact on me. His omnipresent gaze had been forever lifted.
All the procedures following his death went without anything of note for the most part. After he was widowed, he sold the old property and managed to acquire the house he grew up in. This came as a surprise to our whole family. The estate in Leicestershire was worth a fortune, so it was presumed to be kept in the family. Even more left-field was that the following house he bought was a fraction of the value, an old two-bed terrace up in the middle of the North East. What he did with the leftover money still eludes us to this day. He gave scant justification when asked by Mother. This made it all the more shocking when it was read from the will that the house and all its contents had been left solely to me. My initial reaction was to rescind it either to my mother or aunt as virtually nothing had been left to them. Still, as a twenty-five-year-old without a consistent job, the offer was impossible to turn down. Mother and Aunt do more than well for themselves.
Moving in last week didn’t take long. I only have two full suitcases to my name and was assured the house was fully furnished. I moved in alone. The house is about 10 minutes from the train station, situated in the centre of an estate of rows of red-brick terraced housing occupied by pensioners and young families for the most part. The furnishing was bare-boned, but I had enough for the essentials.
This end of the country is alien to me. Isolation has clung at my heels from the moment I first stepped off the train. My whole manner feels at odds with the town. I always sense a litany of eyes on me. Occasionally, staring back, I find there is some semblance of recognition. After five days or so, I found it better to stay inside as much as I could. I needed to work on applications, and I thought it would be a good opportunity to go through the house. In my search I found many photos of him and the family that I’ve never seen before. Most of them were before my time, grainy portraits predominantly. There were so many in fact that you could find several framed photos in every room of the house, even the kitchen.
The only one I could find of me was a school portrait, placed on the centre of the mantlepiece. Upstairs, I started snooping around his converted study.
It wasn’t hard to find. In the first drawer of the filing cabinet, there was a thick brown envelope addressed to me. Inside was a handwritten letter and a stack of photos. Dozens of photos of me. Most of them candid. Me when I was younger, eating or bathing. More current photos I didn’t know existed of me asleep in my bedroom. I should’ve stopped and given myself the comfort of ignorance.
-nothing has been simple since that night at the old house. I’m sorry, Joseph, it’s one of those encounters that is once in a lifetime. Before, my life would’ve been reigned by entropy. Just try to understand.
I can remember that night, it plays in my dreams. I was living in this house you’re in right now, I was sixteen. Dead middle of autumn. For as long as I could remember, I was transfixed by this old manor house in the upper-east quarter of the estate. It’s situated on top of a mound and is three stories high, so it can be seen from the rear facing window upstairs. Every other night, all the windows of the old house glow with a warm orange light. Music and laughter emanating from its confines. One night I snuck out. I walked for a couple of minutes in my pyjamas and an overcoat until I was standing at the foot of the house. The orange glow coloured my breath, an englufing warmth coming from the front door. Beyond those doors was Bosch brought to life.
The heat was intoxicating, condensation clung to the walls and ceilings, frosting the tall windows. Before me, a swarm of bodies writhed on the dancefloor, pirouetting and stomping in vague rhythm. Amongst the knotted legs and arms, various drinks were flying all directions, leaving a trail of sparkling residue in stasis above their heads. Each dancer in various states of undress, their screams of laughter smothered by the cacophony around them. On top of the bar to my left was a slumped bear with an array of knives stuck in its back. Blood bubbled out of its mouth as it resigned itself to a death at the hands of a gaggle of naked children brandishing rusted hammers around it. Onstage were several string players, leering over their instruments with famished sneers. Playing at inhumane speeds, the squeals of fiddles flew around the room untoiled, untethered. The chaos of the house moved in unison with such uniformity, a melody for none to hear.
One of the fiddlers towered over the crowd at the back of the room. He stood at seven feet, entirely nude, blindingly pale. Our eyes met, his almost entirely black, bordered with purple discolouration. He unravelled his long teeth and made his way through the mangled crowd with no resistance as if he was floating over them. Once he stood before me, I had to crane my neck to meet his eyes again. He took me by the shoulders and embraced me into his flesh.
In Arcadia we stand. Our blood sanctified and as one. All beasts who stake claim to the stage must dance. Those that dance and those that don’t, the false dancers for a night that is eternal and without name. We will never sleep. I’m so sorry, Joseph. I can-
It ends abruptly. The letter appears to be demented nonsense, but it captured a feeling that has permeated me since his passing. I put the letter back and shut the door to the study as I left. I’ve not been able to eat since. I think his gaze was never really lifted, at least I don’t feel like it has been anymore. There’s some unnerving comfort in it.
Last night, I went back upstairs again to look out the rear window at the old house on the mound. I could see the orange light dimly emanating from it and despite being a distance away, I swear I could hear those fiddles, the laughter, howls in wretched tongues. It was a while until I noticed a tall figure underneath the window, looming in the shadows of the garden.
Arcadia is etched at eye level on the windowsill.
Image: gato-gato-gato via Openverse
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