Ghosts behind the curtain

 

Perhaps I was seven years old, I'm not entirely sure, but I was certainly still a child, thankfully. I spent a lot of time at my grandmother's, my father's mother. Her house was very old, one of those with a room that had two doors, allowing you to tour the entire apartment starting from one room.

There was nothing new, except for the newspapers; everything was in perfect harmony with the years of the dwelling, and in every corner, there were still unexplored things and places. This was fascinating, but at the same time, for a child, not knowing what could be hiding even behind a door could be unsettling.

There were hidden doors, trapdoors in the ceiling, invisible built-in closets, staircases concealed behind mysterious doors, curtains to cover storage spaces as long as galleries leading to who knows where. And above all, there was the 'Room at the end,' which I'll save for last because it was a very intriguing place and requires a more in-depth narrative. In short, many adventures could be experienced without even stepping outside.

I remember the small room used as a makeshift woodworking workshop, first by my father and then by my uncle, his brother. Eventually, of course, I started using it too, even though at the age of seven, I certainly couldn't take up carpentry. But I definitely didn't lack enthusiasm or initiative. What I least spared myself were the hammer blows on my fingers and on the floor, which, indeed, was in terrible condition. In the end, I didn't build anything significant, but judging by the expectations, I seemed like a skilled carpenter, at least in intentions.

 

There were other hidden storage spaces scattered around the house, in improbable places. For instance, in the same woodworking room, at the far end, there was an old, heavily worn green curtain. Behind it were old pieces of furniture - I remember a rickety table, a few chairs, and many other things. The end of this makeshift gallery couldn't be seen because it was very dark inside. So, one day, I asked my grandmother where it led, and she replied: 'It's a very long corridor. You can't see the end because there's neither light nor a window. But at the far end, there's a door that connects the apartment to an old uninhabited tower.'

 

"I wondered, 'Who could have abandoned a tower? Are we really sure it's truly abandoned? And why is there a door right here where I'm hammering?' Questions that never received answers. Nonetheless, I never had the courage to go all the way to the end of the corridor, and every time I knelt on the floor, focused on hammering a piece of wood, I always felt strange noises coming from behind the curtain. Sometimes, I even saw the curtain move, undoubtedly due to some draft. But to me, it could very well have been a ghost; in fact, I was quite certain. And that's why I ended up hammering my fingers quite often. 

 

Illustrator,Writer, Roald Dahl style, Children's book author, Whimsical illustrations,  Fantasy storytelling,  Character design, Magical realism, Quirky narratives,  Storybook art.  Children's literature,  Imagination,  Creative storytelling,  Illustration techniques, Whimsy and wonder,  Author and artist, Picture book creator,  Narrative fantasy, Visual storytelling, Children's fiction, mark thedi, birdies life

 

Read the original Italian version of the story:

Versione in Italiano