My childhood could be
considered strange to some people. I was raised by my
grand-mother in a small country home. There were no
neighboring homes so I interacted with other children only
at school. My closest friend was an imaginary man named
Charles. I couldn't even imagine interaction with other
children.
Charles and I spent hours talking about the great palace
we would build. I would draw squares and triangle to create
the image of where I would call home. As the years past the
drawings became more detailed. I could see every brick,
every floor and every wall in my mind. I drew the entry way,
the stairs leading to the upper floor, the wide concrete
stairway leading to the lower level of my home.
On September 5th, 2002 my grand-mother passed away. I
felt a great loss. My only living relative and my best
friend was gone. Charles and I were completely alone. The
drawings of the palace were engrossing my thoughts. I knew
how the inheritance money would be spent.
Ground was broke, my dream home was being bult. I began
packing my grandmother's belongings. The attack was filled
with years of memories. I was amazed to find paintings she
had packed away. I began dusting oil paintings of Henry VII,
Queen Elizibeth and the church of England. It was as if my
grand-mother knew they would hang in the home I dreamed of
building.
I began searching antique stores for replicas of
furniture from the Tudor time period. I became obsessive in
the search for any remnant of the Tudor history and culture.
On July 18th, 2004 I moved into the palace. I carefully
hung the paintings from my grand-mother's attack. I stood
back and looked at the walls. I said the only words I could
find in my heart, "Charles we're home." I felt a cold draft
brush my side.
The first few days in the house were restless. The rooms
were much larger then the small country home I had lived in.
The drafts moved through every room. A strange sound of
creaking foot steeps would often break the errie silence.
By the second week in the house I realized I wasn't
alone. The foot steps became louder, shadows of people could
be seen. The smell of stew would fill the air each evening.
Voices could be heard in the kitchen as well as the lower
level of the palace.
I walked down the concrete stairs to find every room
empty. I turned to return to the main floor when a shadow
darted across the room.
" Charles is that you?" I whispered. Charles never
replied.
I made my way to the top of the wide concrete stairs.
There waiting at the door was a tall thin shell of a man. I
knew it wasn't Charles.
"What do you want? Why are you here?" I asked.
The spirit faded at the sound of my voice.
More shadows were walking around the house. They stood
watching my every move. I went to bed hoping sleep would
calm the fear that was building inside of me.
I tossed and turned in my bed. I listened to the
intruders moving around the hallway.
"Charles where are you? I need you to stay with me!"
I could feel the warm tears burning my face. My heart was
racing with fear.
"Lizzy." The voice called out. "I'm here." Charles said.
I lifted my head to find Charles standing by my bed.
"Come with me." Charles said.
I slipped on my robe and followed him down stairs.
The spirit of the frail man stood at the bottom of the
stairs.
"Charles, who is he?"
Charles didn't reply. The trunk from my grand-mother's
attack stood open next to the man. I knew it was what they
wanted me to see.
As I moved closer to the trunk I glanced into the
kitchen. I could see the women working on a meal. None of
the women looked towards us.
"Lizzy." Charles called to me.
I bent down over the trunk, I could see my grand-mother's
photo album. I lifted it and eased myself into a chair. I
opened the book and read "My Trip To Tudor England." I
glanced up to find Charles and the other man gone. I ran
into the kitchen, the women were no longer there.
I made myself a cup of warm tea and returned to the photo
album. I looked at the photos of the castle and read the
brief notes of the history of kings and queens. Pages of
photos of buildings, grand-mother's notes of the Tudor
history and culture. I became intriqued by the beauty of the
town of Tudor.
Page after page I marveled over the sights my
grand-mother experianced and never spoke about. I became
amazed at her detailed accounts of the royal family of Tudor
and their reign. I could feel the others watching over my
shoulder as I read aloud.
The last photo in the album sent a rush of fear
throughout my body. I felt the chill bumps rise on my arms
and the back of my neck. I felt my muscles tense and my
hands begin to shake. The last photo was my dream house.
The palace I drew as square and triangles, detailed over
the years was in the photo album. Every brick, every floor
and every wall just as I imagined. The brief note of history
below the photo read: Tudor prison closed July 18th, 1604.
The prison of Tudor closed exactly four-hundred years before
I moved into my home.
I looked up to find Charles standing before me.
"Why?" I asked.
"Why would you help me recreate a prison?" Anger covered
me as a dark blanket. The spirit of Charles faded away.
"Why would you help me to do this?" I cried. "Who are the
others?"
I walked around and looked at the paintings on the walls.
I felt confused and somewhat betrayed. I could feel the
spirits of the others all around me. I struggled to
understand why I would dream of a prison.
Was it Charles that gave me the vision?
I returned to the trunk, I read articles grand-mother
saved over the years. I learned of her love for history, her
fasination with the royal family of Tudor.
I saw a figure kneel down next to me, the spirit of a
lady.
"Help me to understand." I pleaded with her. "I want to
understand!" I felt her hand touch my back. I never heard
her speak yet she made me understand.
My grand-mother had a love for life and travel. She
enjoyed the freedom that age and retirement had brought. At
the death of her daughter she was given custody of a
grandchild. I became her prison.
At the death of my mother I was sentenced to a life of
solitude. I had two friends in my life, a grand-mother and a
spirit of an inmate of the Tudor prison. They became my
prison.
My grand-mother invited the spirits from the prison into
her life. She understood their pain of confinement. I
accepted the spirit of Charles. I needed a friend within the
prison I lived in. I accepted the other when I built the
house and hung the paintings.
Every man invites spirits into their lives. We each open
the doors for the dead to enter in. We search for remnants
of yesterday and those beyond search for us. Spirits will
rise upon anyone willing to accept them.
The living often can't understand that.
Spirits move around the living. They are often unseen and
unheard yet they are there. Not everyone will see them but
they can be felt. They are above us, below us, looking over
our shoulders or just watching us sleep.
Ghost are only invisible to those who don't look close
enough. What ghost is interacting with you? What time period
is moving around your home? When will you hear them call
your name?
I was a child when I imagined my dream home. I was an
adult when I realized an apparition helped me to design my
palace. He guided my toughts and dreams to rebuild the
prison that confined him during his final days. Four-hundred
years after the prison closed the replica was built in West
Virgina. The prison became our palace. The spirits of the
inmates and laborers were home. They were free from the life
that bound them, as I was free from a life of circumstance.