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Description
The answer to the question,' What is your favourite room?' is a simple one. I do not even need to think about the possibilities. The single room that stands out in my mind is one right at the top of a large house, in a small village. It is so light and airy. It has pure white walls, and a white standing lamp. Even the floor is plain white. White painted boards. Carpet is irritating. There is very little in the room. A bed, a lamp, a chair. No desk, no writing needs to be done in this tranquil haven. Other matters can be left at the door. A single oak bookshelf, hidden by a white curtain, is all that intrudes, to remind one of the outside world.

On the wall, is a huge window. It has a blind, again white; to hide the world, but this is not frequently used. Instead it is left open, to reveal a breathtaking view. Rolling hills, tall cypresses and a picturesque village. It is hard to retreat back into the room, once the sight captures the observer. I could stay there all day. However, eventually the peace of the room calls the inhabitant back, and the view is replaced by the cool serenity evident in the surroundings.

The room was once used as storage space, but was converted into a bedroom at the start of the decade. Some of the original features linger on; the dark imposing wooden beams, now also white, of course. They reminisce of the house's origins, as a calm country getaway for the more wealthy Tudors. Also included in the room are the telltale marks of a box room, darkened marks on the boards from the feet of an old bathtub, and slight scrapes on the walls, from an old bookshelf being moved.

The only decoration in my room is a single picture, hanging on the far wall. It is only about five centimetres square, but it draws the eye in, convincing the admirer to delve into the tiny portrait. The designs on the rim of the frame show that it belongs to a long lost era, but the picture inside tells a different story, a black and white photograph print, artistically taken, maybe in the early twentieth century.

The photo itself is of a young girl, maybe fourteen or fifteen years old, with large dark eyes, and a long dark braid, running the length of her back. She is seated on a small stool, trimmed with velvet, and she is wearing a beautiful dress, emanating wealth and bearing. Around her neck hangs a delicate string of pearls, and on her lap sits a small kitten, playing with a ball of string. In the background the room itself is obscured by a large brocade curtain, being used as a backdrop, and in front of this on the right, stands a magnificent old globe on a stand, and to the left, a large well-stocked bookshelf.

The child herself seems unaffected by her impressive surroundings. Her head is turned to the camera, and her eyes show a mournful tint, as if she can see the future of all the gaudy possessions around her. Indeed their future is not beautiful, as they gather dust in an attic storage room, and are eventually thrown away, to make way for more modern frippery. Her face shows no discernable emotion, and even any request by the artist of a smile has been ignored. She looks not lost, nor haughty, but simply unaffected, as if she does not belong in the frame, but has wandered in by mistake, and been placed, like a mannequin, for display.

This child embodies the overall sense of the room, showing how no matter what decoration or dress is placed over the space, it will not change but remain as it was created. This makes the room come alive as one moves from the picture. Upon turning it becomes obvious that this is where the picture was taken, despite there being no particular shape or item to suggest as such. It is simply the atmosphere that gives the indication.

At this point some doubt springs into the mind as to whether this room is in fact as magical as it first appears. Having discovered the picture depicting the space, almost in another life, it seems confusing to suggest this room is so perfect. The face of the girl coveys dislike for her surroundings, and one wishes to know, having discovered this, what it is that she finds so hideous about such a pleasant room, with such a picturesque view. There must be some reason, and only her picture holds the key.

Instinct takes over, as it becomes evident that there is some secret to be unlocked in this room. There is so little there however that is seems difficult to know where to start. Some old books, on a lightly concealed bookshelf, wooden Tudor beams, and a tiny photograph seems very little to go on. The obvious place to look is the picture. As it is removed from the wall, the light falls on the back of the frame, revealing the tiny indents where the back can be removed. Now decided on a line of inquiry, the back is allowed to fall away, down onto the clean white bed linen.

On the back of the photograph are some small letters giving an insight into the rest of the picture. Composition notes as to the organisation of the shot. They are partially faded but the remainder reads,
'…red curtain pinned to beam, globe stood in fr…',
'…bookshelf moved from its alcove, scraped wall in process.'
'The child had been sat on the stool, with her kitten on her lap, her mother's pearls around her ne…'
The last note, at the foot of the picture is probably the most revealing. It is not in the same hand, and states simply, 'Louisa'. Next to this, something has been scribbled out. It once read a name, beginning with the letter 'J'.

Once the picture has been replaced, attention turns to the bookshelf in the alcove. Whereas it has previously gone relatively unnoticed, further inspection leads it to become apparent that this is the bookcase in the picture. The books appear untouched by time, and though the pages are yellowed, they are still legible. Most are uninteresting, encyclopaedias, and almanacs, detailing the family line or the sea voyages of a long lost uncle. One however immediately catches the eye. It is more worn than the others, as if it has been handled many times. The front is blank, but on the first page there are a few handwritten lines. They read, 'The Diary of Louisa Anne Strachey'

On turning a further page, more lines in the same small hand are revealed. It is not interesting, simply the trivial matters of a young girl noted down. However, one page, in the centre of the book is detached, and falls away from the rest of the book. It is cleaner than the other pages, and is obviously not part of the book but something placed there. It is a letter, written to the child, and the words convey a terrible secret, which keeps one fixed to the paper.

'Louisa,

I know that you do not want to have any communication with me from now on, and after what you saw I cannot fault you. It must have shaken you, and I apologise profusely, though I know I can never hope to make it right again. I have run away, escaped. I cannot tell you where to for you may hand this letter over to the authorities. I just hope that you will read through this whole letter, and make your own decision about the events that took place.

I know that he was your younger brother, just as he was mine, and as the oldest I should have protected the two of you, not split the family up. However, when Father and Mother were killed, and we were left in the care of Uncle Henry, he took it upon himself to share the content of the will with me, as I was fifteen at the time, and responsible enough to know. It was then that I first found hate for our father. The reason for this hostility is simple. He had decided to leave our entire inheritance to Paul.

I know well that we both already harboured hate for the snivelling brat, not of our mother, but a lowly servant girl. That our father would neglect us in his favour was monstrous. I was only thinking of you, dear sister, when I took the child up to the box room, up to the old bathtub. My intention was clear in my own mind. If I killed the boy, then the money would be ours. The fittings for the picture were still fixed up, but thankfully the tub had been left in place behind the curtain. I started and finished my task with little interruption, save for the kitten, who made its way up the stairs. I was just removing my hands from the child's throat when you entered, in search of the cat. I wish you had been spared the sight, but sadly you understood immediately.

You ran from my presence screaming, and knowing what was to follow, I escaped as soon as I could. I had to leave him there, in the bath. I dread to think what else happened on that fateful day. All I know is what I have found since, that you inherited the money. For that I am glad of everything that happened that day in the box room. I would do it again, a thousand times.

I love you my dear little sister, and I hope you will forgive me.

Jeanette'

Poor little Louisa, to find her dear sister killing her younger brother. For her this room could never have been the haven it is now. After fifty years her spirit still lingers, revealing the rooms sinister past. For me however this will always be my favourite room, with its calm serenity, and beautiful unspoilt view. The mystery of the past, contained within these four walls, only creates more haunting appeal. In this place where beauty and peace reign, the dark mysterious undertones give it the final quality to make this my favourite room.

Description
The answer to the question,' What is your favourite room?' is a simple one. I do not even need to think about the possibilities. The single room that stands out in my mind is one right at the top of a large house, in a small village. It is so light and airy. It has pure white walls, and a white standing lamp. Even the floor is plain white. White painted boards. Carpet is irritating. There is very little in the room. A bed, a lamp, a chair. No desk, no writing needs to be done in this tranquil haven. Other matters can be left at the door. A single oak bookshelf, hidden by a white curtain, is all that intrudes, to remind one of the outside world.

On the wall, is a huge window. It has a blind, again white; to hide the world, but this is not frequently used. Instead it is left open, to reveal a breathtaking view. Rolling hills, tall cypresses and a picturesque village. It is hard to retreat back into the room, once the sight captures the observer. I could stay there all day. However, eventually the peace of the room calls the inhabitant back, and the view is replaced by the cool serenity evident in the surroundings.

The room was once used as storage space, but was converted into a bedroom at the start of the decade. Some of the original features linger on; the dark imposing wooden beams, now also white, of course. They reminisce of the house's origins, as a calm country getaway for the more wealthy Tudors. Also included in the room are the telltale marks of a box room, darkened marks on the boards from the feet of an old bathtub, and slight scrapes on the walls, from an old bookshelf being moved.

The only decoration in my room is a single picture, hanging on the far wall. It is only about five centimetres square, but it draws the eye in, convincing the admirer to delve into the tiny portrait. The designs on the rim of the frame show that it belongs to a long lost era, but the picture inside tells a different story, a black and white photograph print, artistically taken, maybe in the early twentieth century.

The photo itself is of a young girl, maybe fourteen or fifteen years old, with large dark eyes, and a long dark braid, running the length of her back. She is seated on a small stool, trimmed with velvet, and she is wearing a beautiful dress, emanating wealth and bearing. Around her neck hangs a delicate string of pearls, and on her lap sits a small kitten, playing with a ball of string. In the background the room itself is obscured by a large brocade curtain, being used as a backdrop, and in front of this on the right, stands a magnificent old globe on a stand, and to the left, a large well-stocked bookshelf.

The child herself seems unaffected by her impressive surroundings. Her head is turned to the camera, and her eyes show a mournful tint, as if she can see the future of all the gaudy possessions around her. Indeed their future is not beautiful, as they gather dust in an attic storage room, and are eventually thrown away, to make way for more modern frippery. Her face shows no discernable emotion, and even any request by the artist of a smile has been ignored. She looks not lost, nor haughty, but simply unaffected, as if she does not belong in the frame, but has wandered in by mistake, and been placed, like a mannequin, for display.

This child embodies the overall sense of the room, showing how no matter what decoration or dress is placed over the space, it will not change but remain as it was created. This makes the room come alive as one moves from the picture. Upon turning it becomes obvious that this is where the picture was taken, despite there being no particular shape or item to suggest as such. It is simply the atmosphere that gives the indication.

At this point some doubt springs into the mind as to whether this room is in fact as magical as it first appears. Having discovered the picture depicting the space, almost in another life, it seems confusing to suggest this room is so perfect. The face of the girl coveys dislike for her surroundings, and one wishes to know, having discovered this, what it is that she finds so hideous about such a pleasant room, with such a picturesque view. There must be some reason, and only her picture holds the key.

Instinct takes over, as it becomes evident that there is some secret to be unlocked in this room. There is so little there however that is seems difficult to know where to start. Some old books, on a lightly concealed bookshelf, wooden Tudor beams, and a tiny photograph seems very little to go on. The obvious place to look is the picture. As it is removed from the wall, the light falls on the back of the frame, revealing the tiny indents where the back can be removed. Now decided on a line of inquiry, the back is allowed to fall away, down onto the clean white bed linen.

On the back of the photograph are some small letters giving an insight into the rest of the picture. Composition notes as to the organisation of the shot. They are partially faded but the remainder reads,
'…red curtain pinned to beam, globe stood in fr…',
'…bookshelf moved from its alcove, scraped wall in process.'
'The child had been sat on the stool, with her kitten on her lap, her mother's pearls around her ne…'
The last note, at the foot of the picture is probably the most revealing. It is not in the same hand, and states simply, 'Louisa'. Next to this, something has been scribbled out. It once read a name, beginning with the letter 'J'.

Once the picture has been replaced, attention turns to the bookshelf in the alcove. Whereas it has previously gone relatively unnoticed, further inspection leads it to become apparent that this is the bookcase in the picture. The books appear untouched by time, and though the pages are yellowed, they are still legible. Most are uninteresting, encyclopaedias, and almanacs, detailing the family line or the sea voyages of a long lost uncle. One however immediately catches the eye. It is more worn than the others, as if it has been handled many times. The front is blank, but on the first page there are a few handwritten lines. They read, 'The Diary of Louisa Anne Strachey'

On turning a further page, more lines in the same small hand are revealed. It is not interesting, simply the trivial matters of a young girl noted down. However, one page, in the centre of the book is detached, and falls away from the rest of the book. It is cleaner than the other pages, and is obviously not part of the book but something placed there. It is a letter, written to the child, and the words convey a terrible secret, which keeps one fixed to the paper.

'Louisa,

I know that you do not want to have any communication with me from now on, and after what you saw I cannot fault you. It must have shaken you, and I apologise profusely, though I know I can never hope to make it right again. I have run away, escaped. I cannot tell you where to for you may hand this letter over to the authorities. I just hope that you will read through this whole letter, and make your own decision about the events that took place.

I know that he was your younger brother, just as he was mine, and as the oldest I should have protected the two of you, not split the family up. However, when Father and Mother were killed, and we were left in the care of Uncle Henry, he took it upon himself to share the content of the will with me, as I was fifteen at the time, and responsible enough to know. It was then that I first found hate for our father. The reason for this hostility is simple. He had decided to leave our entire inheritance to Paul.

I know well that we both already harboured hate for the snivelling brat, not of our mother, but a lowly servant girl. That our father would neglect us in his favour was monstrous. I was only thinking of you, dear sister, when I took the child up to the box room, up to the old bathtub. My intention was clear in my own mind. If I killed the boy, then the money would be ours. The fittings for the picture were still fixed up, but thankfully the tub had been left in place behind the curtain. I started and finished my task with little interruption, save for the kitten, who made its way up the stairs. I was just removing my hands from the child's throat when you entered, in search of the cat. I wish you had been spared the sight, but sadly you understood immediately.

You ran from my presence screaming, and knowing what was to follow, I escaped as soon as I could. I had to leave him there, in the bath. I dread to think what else happened on that fateful day. All I know is what I have found since, that you inherited the money. For that I am glad of everything that happened that day in the box room. I would do it again, a thousand times.

I love you my dear little sister, and I hope you will forgive me.

Jeanette'

Poor little Louisa, to find her dear sister killing her younger brother. For her this room could never have been the haven it is now. After fifty years her spirit still lingers, revealing the rooms sinister past. For me however this will always be my favourite room, with its calm serenity, and beautiful unspoilt view. The mystery of the past, contained within these four walls, only creates more haunting appeal. In this place where beauty and peace reign, the dark mysterious undertones give it the final quality to make this my favourite room.