Paintings

Aurora Consurgens
The Little Boy and the Glowing Globe
Cyclothymia
In the Footsteps of my Shadow
Daphne Descends
Various Projects
Studies and Sketches

The Little Boy and the Glowing Globe

Written by Anna and MariaVon Hausswolff
Painted by Alessia Iannetti

In a blink of a second I thought I saw something, a shadow over my bed, a movement so fast that my eye couldn't catch it properly. What was that? I raised the question out loud but all I faced was complete silence. My hair stood up on my forearm and my heart was beating intensely. I should be all alone in this room. I'm stiff in my bed looking at the door. The door. My exit is someone's entrance. The thought frightens me. The door is small. I'm not even sure I can call it a door. It has the size of a tiny tiny dog hatch. It's a big wood piece with a handle blocking a free way out, and in. The size of the door scares me because it's not fitted for an adult, it's too narrow. Who was it made for originally? I stare at the handle, it doesn't move. I stare at the corner next to the door, it's dark and empty. I stare at the closet door, it's half way open. I stare at the empty bed next to mine, it's not moving. I close my eyes. The sound is unusually present. The wind is shaking the leaves. The wind is shaking the house, making it twist and turn. I hear wood cracking. Birds are moving across the roof. A few distant cars are rushing down the highway on the other side of the lake. Time passes by and, while being fully awake, the night shifts to morning. Suddenly I hear a knock on the door downstairs. The door opens with a squeak and I hear my mother's voice fill the air.

- Yes?

A lingering silence. After a while I could hear another voice that froze my blood to ice. An old woman's voice. It was scratching against the walls, tearing the silence apart. Leaving an echo of horrible vibrations inside my ear.

- Is Mr. Wassberg home?
- No.
- Good. I have a story to tell you.
- I don't have time for stories, I just got up and...
- This story will change your and your children's life.
- What do you mean?
- It ́s a story about this place.
- Ok, but why should I let you in? You're a stranger to me.
- Because I will do you no harm. I'm an old lady. I want you to be aware of the beautiful story of this place.
Your husband knows something about this place that you don't. This place deserves to have its history told. To prevent it from happening again. My mother grew silent, maybe it was a hesitation. Then she uttered with a polite voice,
- Welcome in old lady, I can't recall your name?
- So you have heard of me already? Kids around here call me Kärringen i Granhäcken, but my real name is
Greta Larson. Your kid probably believes I'm a witch.
- Oh no, I highly doubt that. Would you like some coffee Greta?- Yes please.

It was hard to hear their conversation downstairs from my bedroom upstairs. Chairs were moving around and the porcelain's hollow twanging sounds covered up their words. I sneaked out of my bed, opened the little door to my bedroom, climbed carefully down the wooden stairs and hid behind a wardrobe. I could hear the old woman's shaky voice swallow the room she was in. Her story began.

“Only 50 years ago every full moon hour a big group of people came marching from the lake and through the forest up to this house. During their march they sang an unfamiliar song together. The song was beautiful but very sad. The harmonies made the trees die out of sorrow and sleeping children cry in their dreams. Only a few people were able to see them, but many heard them singing. One of them had an owl on his head as an instrument. It was howling together with their marching echoing steps and angel-like voices. It was always misty around their presence and they disappeared as secretly as they appeared. What's very strange is that they always left a special object in front of the main entrance to this house. The object they left was a tiny glowing breathing globe that gave light in the dark. The light didn't last for long, only a couple of hours. Then it turned into ashes. When I later found out about the secret history of this house, I figured out that this glowing globe was a gift for someone inside.”

My mother paused the old lady in her story,

- So who was the gift for?

Greta's face drastically changed, and a sneaky smile grew upon her lips,

- Well, the gift was for...a little boy.

My mother stood up, and while bringing more cookies to the table she cried out,

- I don't understand! I've never heard of, or met someone who lived here before my husband!

With glowing, vivid eyes Greta continued the story, excitedly munching on her cookies,
“The family that lived here hundreds of years ago had something kept upstairs in this house. In your children's bedroom. They used it as an attic. One day, none of their 7 kids were permitted to enter the room upstairs. If they did, they would get one hundred lashes on their bottom from their father's stick. Which would hurt extremely. The kids were terrified. Weeks passed by and new strange sounds started to appear in the house. Obviously something was living up there. The family kept living a normal life downstairs in the house, but they stopped inviting people home. Later it turned out that they had kept a little boy up there. A boy who had never in his life seen light. Never in his life heard a language. Never in his life met friends or any other living soul. He didn't know colors, had never seen the beauty of butterflies, shimmering water, flowers. He didn't know anything. He didn't even know what a country was! But he was a great survivor. And in his own world, he created the most incredible, remarkable, stunning sounds!” -

But why did they

keep him there? What happened to the poor little boy?!

My mother asked in despair.

- Well, the child was only a child of the mother and not of the father. In those days that was a sin. They hid him away so no one would ever know that the wife had been with another man.

Greta took a deep breath and continued the story with a satisfied and enlightened voice,
“The boy died when he was in his twenties. No one knows how. He lived up there, in complete darkness without anything for twenty years. The incredible sounds the boy developed whilst he was alive were recorded by the father of the family. He tried to translate and understand them.
When he finally figured it out, the whole family disappeared. No trace of them since. The singing group of people that arrived every full moon hour are believed to be farmers who died close to the lake during the farmer's revolt against the King in...”

- So where are they all...- Sssscchhhhhhhhh!!!

Greta hushed mother with her long crooked finger, one could tell she didn't like to get interrupted.
But my mother was carried away with the story and eager to hear more. My body was shaking strong like an earthquake behind the wardrobe.Greta slurped on her coffee and continued,

“When the little boy died, his sounds and spirit still remained inside this house. It was in that state he got in contact with the dead farmers. The little boy's beautiful sounds brought them to him. They felt sorry for the boy, because even in his death he couldn't leave the house. The glowing light they left for him was light that he used for trying to find his way out. Unfortunately the light never brought him outside.It was not until Mr. Wassberg moved in here that the boy could finally leave this place. That ́s when the singing men stopped marching. But, if you've not already noticed, the boy, even as a free spirit, is still visiting this house now and then...”