House of Leaves
House of Leaves
A long hot summer as a teenager wrapped in adventure, music and an old house…
One hot and humid summer school holiday in the early 1990s, long before mobile phones and social media, my friends and I were already bored by the languid days stretching out before us.
My bag was filled with a notepad of scribblings (I had plans to be a writer), a Sony Walkman with orange spongy headphones, a collection of ink-stained mixtapes filled with the sounds of the era - the guttural cries of Nirvana, the poetic melancholy of The Smiths, the jangling guitars of R.E.M., and the raw energy of Pearl Jam. The grunge and indie scenes had me hooked, a fitting soundtrack to our teenage angst.
Alongside these musical necessities were 20 Camel cigarettes, a Zippo lighter, black eyeliner, and a packet of Polo mints. Being 30 miles from where I lived, I had these essentials by my side at all times.
Like grubby teenagers from a Stephen King film, we embarked on a new adventure, determined to make something incredible of the weeks ahead of us.
We clamoured over bushes, cut through fences and private land to uncover the secrets and gems of what seemed to be the smallest district in Stockport.
On one of those days, we wandered away from our usual haunts of the meadows and the train station. We took shortcuts through the local college grounds, over a sprawling golf course, and into blackberry thickets.
We fought untamed holly bushes and coppice woodland until a massive silhouette of a mansion appeared just beyond a gap in the hedges. We explored the grounds of this grand old house that could've been a stately home if not for the neglect.
It was in a sorry state, with trailing ivy and half-attempts at graffiti on its ashlar stones - the perpetrators presumably scared off by security.
The roof was weather-damaged, with green, parasitic tendrils poking through, taking advantage of the disrepair. Still, you couldn't mistake the beauty of the once-grand Grecian Villa.
Builders and security men were on-site, clearly at the beginning of a vast construction job, with metal Heras fencing surrounding the entrance, which lay above several wide pale stone steps.
There was no way through, but I was determined to get inside.
Each day after that, we returned, becoming enamoured with the place, convinced it was alive with ghosts and energy, which we claimed we could feel when we walked along the tree-lined drive. Perhaps we could.
That summer, we traipsed over the golf course to the woodlands at the back of the villa daily. We spent our time writing, playing music, drinking warm cider, and talking about the 'mood' of the house.
Keen to explore inside, I buttered up the security guard, saying I was working on a school project on the house. He agreed to let us in to wander around unsupervised.
Inside, the air was still, with dust motes like waves of glitter and a thick, mouldy atmosphere. There were white sand-like layers of brick dust everywhere, decaying walls bowing, a spiral staircase with creeping rust along its curves, and spongy window frames with shattered glass panes.
The house had belonged to the first bishop of Manchester. It was passed from buyer to buyer, proving to be ruinously expensive. Later, it became a 'home for incurables.' The incurables who lived in the home were, of course, those who had led respectable and honourable lives.
It was a literal house of pain.
The largest room at the front of the villa had been used as a ward for these poor souls. While there, one of the huge doors slammed shut, and the remaining windows shivered. There was no wind in the house, no source of a gust. The door had slammed angrily of its own will. To say I was terrified is an understatement.
I've since heard things about that house that confirm there is more than can be seen with an human eye and it’s more likely to be felt — but that's not my story to tell.
Something about this house stayed with me for years. Recently, I was back in my childhood town and decided to stop by to see the place. I drove up the drive, with familiar trees lining the way, and parked outside the gates to get some photos.
There's still a feeling in the trees, a different kind of air, a shift in the wind that can't be explained, but it's kind. The mansion is now a beautifully restored family home that doubles as a Chinese Embassy. It's obviously well-loved, which warms my heart.
I still vividly recall the crumbling walls, sagging ceilings, creeping mould, discarded metal hospital bed frames, the tallies of 'recently deceased' pinned to the walls, and the unforgettable summer we spent there.
Have you ever revisited a place from childhood?
Did it measure up to your memories of it?
Want to read more like this?
Check out ‘The landlady's daughter (and 20 nostalgic earworms)’. Growing up in a pub wasn't the idyllic childhood that many people might think, but it did ignite a lifelong passion for music.
Wow that’s wild. Can’t believe someone lives there now 🫣😨
We had similar formative experiences… Camel cigarettes, zippo lighter, the Smiths and REM… but no eyeliner! There was an abandoned school at the end of our lane but, unlike you, I didn’t have the bravery to go in. Reminds me of that melancholic Smiths song ‘Back to the Old House.’