Exploratoring The Real World - The Racecourse

Three and a half years ago, I wrote about a place in Northampton called 'The Racecourse' that was a nice place by day, but dangerous and to be avoided by night. This held a lot of symbolism for me, so I wrote and recorded this. Thanks for reading.

 The Racecourse

     Do you walk dogs, or do dogs walk you? That's what I was thinking. Swaying on those swings – rusted and immaturely coloured with reds and blues. Those creaky chains could resist the wind, but not my weight. I wasn't swaying forwards and backwards, as it was more of a side-to-side; my mind was peaceful – simple. Noticing the childish smoke from my mouth, I pretended to be a dragon in the way that had always been funny since I was little.

     It was a heavily coated dog, walking a heavily coated man. That's what it was. The dog had a jovial bounce to his step – somewhat of a skipping child on four legs. He was as fluffy and grey as the looming clouds. A dark night threatened. The man tailed a rigid trail behind; he definitely wasn't in control. I stared out to the mass of open space peering closely at the hiding spots: trees that could hold dens or hills to roll down. The Racecourse was so innocent and vague; there were fewer things more sinister.

     Guess who I felt sorry for most, though? Those information signs that act so self-importantly. They sit and tell you things, constantly - sat gleaming their information to deaf ears and dull minds. Who was really going to stop and hear them out in that kind of cold? Must be hard to have a job. Or at least a boring one where you slave away the majority of your waking life to a cause that isn't your own. Those kinds of people probably cross through places like the The Racecourse every day in an attempt at being punctual. I doubt they even stop to look at the monotonous, striving, aimless field.

The signs probably should quit their jobs. They won't, though, because they work to live their ever extending life. You have to admire their persistence, calling out to happily married couples romancing hand in hand – clearly enjoying the rest of their lives so much more than the signs. I wondered how old they were – when does a sign retire, anyway?

     So many leaves on the ground from the time of year. Some of the leaves had a youthful shade of white spread over them as if trying to dye their 'greying' hair. Hiding from their own mortality. Brown must be a dull colour for a leaf; morbid and dry. Sometimes the wind would carry them speedily along as if chasing a hearse: 'Take me with you' they'd whisper in the despair of the night. At first they lose their tree, and then the death of darkness has to plague them, destroying their overt attempts at being innocent and pure. When the scythe strikes, The Racecourse wins.

I wonder if the dog made his way home? I bet the man got enough exercise. I made my own way home before dark, it's not quite my time, yet.

Something In The Wall

    The first couple of weeks in a new house, you have to get accustomed to so many things. Little differences that scatter your day, jarring you from a certain status quo. As I eased my way around the fresh house that day, I made a point of taking note of the little things that stood out. My partner was away on business for another two weeks, leaving me to learn the ins and outs on my own, which was fine by me – I relished the personal time. Without too many new furnishings decided upon, the place was sparse. Naturally, I spent a good twenty minutes dancing around the free space, in a way only I could. It helps to get to know the place.

     There are other things than just the décor to get used to though. The speed of the taps, for example, or the springiness of a new bed. The general feel of the place; the atmosphere of the way the sun shines during the day, and the specific noises in the night. Especially the noises in the night.

     It had been a long day moving a load of stuff, so I decided to have an early bed time, around nine thirty, and it wasn't until around eleven that night when I was woken. A banging and a struggle sounding from downstairs that felt utterly frantic. It was accompanied by some kind of raised voice and I figured it was just my luck for next door to have a domestic, and ruin my first special sleep in the new place. It continued for a fair while, but I managed to drift off again – although I'd barely woken up at all – and slept through the night.

     I woke, startled as to where I was, naturally. Then followed that first proper breath of fresh air that felt like the joy of a new beginning, a fresh start to a long and happy next part of my life. It wasn't until around midday I thought about those strange sounds I had heard from my bed, and then it came to my attention that I did not even have neighbours. When I remembered that the place was detached, a shiver ran up my spine. I really didn't want to disturb my partner on business, so I just left a message instead. Though, it was just one time, so I forgot about the odd noises until later that night.

     It was around eleven when I heard the first thud. I was walking through the living room and a dull boom engulfed the silent space, definitely coming from the wall. I stepped closer to examine the wall, and it happened again, a stirring feeling built up inside of me. I knocked on the wall, not sure whether I'd be happy or not to hear the scattering of rats, then the thing in the wall screamed at me. A muffled screaming of someone with their mouth clamped shut burst from the wall accompanied by the urgent thudding, as if whatever was inside wanted to get out.

     Adrenaline was the only thing that carried me out of my house, hyperventilating and totally not in control of myself. After an hour, having calmed somewhat, and no replies on my phone, I realised that I would need to go back into the house. If I could just sleep through the night and sort it out in the morning, though I don't know what I could do. Needless to say, I didn't get any sleep through either the adrenaline, or periodic screams of someone trapped, and eventually I couldn't take it any more. I got up at around three in the morning, sought out a claw hammer that I had only unpacked that day, and readied myself for the wall to wail again.

     The second I heard the thing in the wall scream, I screamed with it in retaliation. I wrenched my arms back and struck a small chip into the plaster wall with my hammer. It wasn't enough. I smashed the same spot again and again until there was a visible hole, and the screaming stopped. An eerie nothing embraced the room, I approached the hole, no larger than a once folded post-it note, and cautiously looked inside. The room's light didn't give much illumination, so I grabbed a torch. Flashing the light inside, everything was still. Cracked lips smiled at me. I panicked and fell and everything went black.

     When I woke, I woke in shock. I tried to look around, but my head felt completely restricted. Everything was pitch black and my throat was dry, though my arms had a certain amount of freedom. I balled my hand and punched forwards, my fist met with a dull thud. I started hyperventilating, scratching the back of the plaster, and screamed the muffled scream of a mouth contained.