Disclaimer: I have no claim over Torchwood, which is owned by the BBC. This story is just for fun and I make no money from it.
Author's note: So despite planning to take a break for long stories, that didn't quite happen. This began with a very simple idea some time late last year. My dog had brought in some dry leaves and somehow a couple had found their way upstairs to my bedroom. I stared at them one morning and thought about what stories they might have to tell. And in that moment, the House of Leaves was born in my head. It expanded to include some general themes that my beta and I had discussed for potential future stories for me to explore and the rest, they say, is history.
This takes place between To The Last Man and Meat, and will be a canon story.
I am, as always, indebted to my beta, Darcy58, for his encouragement, guidance and wise words. I'm extremely pleased that he was up for another long haul! And indeed, I couldn't imagine anyone else betaing my stories now.
I'm particularly grateful for him, because I ran full speed into a brick wall with this prologue. I managed to develop a complete mental block with it, so much so that although I was writing later chapters and that was going well I came very close to abandoning this whole project. It was only my beta's patience and reassurance that got me over the issues and enabled me to get to a point where I was happy with what I'd written. So if you enjoy this story, know that it's here only because of Darcy58.
This is all for you.
The House
Every leaf has a story. For one particular house that is quite literally the case, every leaf indeed has a story to tell.
It is a house on the outskirts of Cardiff, at the far end of a no-through road. On a road of brick buildings, its wooden walls and unusual architecture stand out, despite its unassuming air.
Hedges of hawthorn surround its large garden. Once trimmed into neat orderly angles, now overgrown and left to spread unchecked, they offer a safe haven for all manner of wildlife. Likewise the garden, once well kept and tended to with love has over time been reclaimed by nature. Where daffodils, snowdrops and tulips once grew in neat rows around flower beds, they now spread with wild abandon and dot the grounds in random clusters. Here and there, berry bushes grow tall and knotted, protected by thick clumps of stinging nettles. Time and nature have morphed the lawn into a colourful meadow of wildflowers, supporting a host of miner bees and drawing in from afar swarms of hard working honey bees, fluffy bumblebees and all manner of beautiful butterflies. Ivy and other creepers snake through the tall grass, weaving winding trails across the garden and wrapping the trees in their choking embrace. None touches the house itself, no weed has taken root on the stone steps of the enclosed porch, nor has a tree root damaged the moss covered grey foundation stones.
At the back of the property, shaded by old, leaning trees is a small pond, overgrown with reeds. Every so often a brief flash of golden light can be seen, when a ray from the sun touches upon the bright scales of koi inhabiting its watery depths. On clear evenings, mist rises from the water, spreading damp tendrils across the lawn. Gradually they blanket the whole garden, until the house and the trees rise from a sea of obscuring whiteness and everywhere spiders' webs become strings of pearls, weighed down by neat rows of dew drops.
Many oak trees grow in the grounds, as do maples and elms. Every autumn and winter the earth disappears beneath a carpet of brightly coloured leaves. Strong branches, gnarled like old fingers, reach towards the house. In the slightest breeze swathes of leaves stroke its walls gently, as if soothing a lover to sleep.
Throughout the year, no matter the season, the leaves in the garden whisper. They whisper when the wind is strong and they whisper when not a blade of grass stirs. They whisper in the summer, when the trees are lush and green, and in the winter, when the leaves form whirling mounds of colour in the garden. And they whisper a continuous, soothing sound, composing music of their own kind; a music easy to get lost in. Many people have done so, only to awaken from deep thoughts filled with melancholy and strange tranquillity. Over the years more than one person has found the garden a perfect place for quiet meditation. The music of the leaves reaches to their very souls as they surrender themselves to the world around them. The whispers offer inspiration for artists, hope of a bright future for young lovers and peace for those in mourning. None are left untouched by the whispering leaves.
Situated towards the front of the generous plot of land, 'Oaken Home' - for that is its formal name - has rooms that are spacious and bright, light flooding in through numerous windows. Once painted a pale yellow in colour, weather and age have caused the paint to bubble and peel, revealing the grey wood underneath; a wood that will endure any storm. The sienna roof tiles are green with moss, adding to its air of distinction.
A painted terracotta tile by the front door reads 'Oaken Home', but each owner of the house knows it by a different name. A name that has never been written down on any official paperwork, a name never passed on from one owner to the next, but as soon as people pass through the front door, they know. They know they have entered the House of Leaves.
None can explain how this instinctive knowledge arises and yet to question it is inconceivable. Some try to research the origins of the name, but always they come up empty handed. Sooner or later the same baffling conclusion is reached: it is the name the house has chosen for itself. No name could describe it better.
Inside the house, the leaves are everywhere. They settle underneath beds, cluster in corners and cling on to rugs. Even in the summer, when the trees outside wear shrouds of green, the leaves inside are yellowed and dry. No one quite knows how the leaves enter the house, but every day new ones appear, as if by magic. There are moments when the entire house seems to draw in its breath, and then another leaf floats down the stairs, its progress unhurried and curiously dignified. Although they are yellow and orange and red, none feel it right to describe them as dead. There is plenty of life left in the leaves.
The leaves are indestructible. Any attempt to burn them simply floats them in the air, held aloft by the hot currents of the fire. A leaf cutter that sucks in and shreds leaves returns them out undamaged. Piling them into a bin bag for disposal invariably ends up with the bag splitting and the leaves spilling everywhere. Sweeping them out of the house is ineffective, for they always make their way back in. Each is undamaged and without tears or missing sections. Each seems too perfect to be a real leaf. But they look real and they feel real. They make the right sound, rubbing against one another, and they even smell real. They are real leaves and yet they are impossible.
Sooner or later, each owner has ended up dealing with the leaves in the exact same fashion: the loft. In the highest part of the roof, where one would expect to find a part boarded loft, there is instead an additional room. Its ceiling is slanted and it has numerous windows, some of which are circular and point to the sky. Perhaps it would make a lovely room for an older child, or a quaint guest bedroom, but for the fact it is filled with leaves. Decades' worth of them have been heaped in the room, where they rustle and dance to a melody only they can discern.
For every owner a pattern emerges. Whenever the leaves appear elsewhere in the house, they are taken to the loft room. In this way, both the house and the inhabitants remain happy. And indeed it is a happy house, one which has always welcomed life and laughter within its walls. The structure of the house is suffused with the simple joys of ordinary days as well as the memories of more special occasions: of births, weddings, reunions. Even funerals have added to the mix of emotions, their sweetness and grief commemorating lives lived to the fullest, celebrating love that endures until death and beyond. All who have lived in the house have felt safe and loved, protected by the House of Leaves.
As a result, none of the owners have ever begrudged the presence of the leaves. Nor have they been worried by the lights flickering for no apparent reason or by the strange sounds that sometimes came from the loft room. Even the occasional face spotted at the window of the loft did not worry the inhabitants. Let the house have its quirks, they said with a smile and a shrug. They were happier in that house than anywhere else and none would change it for the world.
The house has been empty for many years. The leaves have been left to float through the house and gather in its corners undisturbed, while the garden has grown wild unchecked by human hand. The residents of nearby houses wander in to pick blackberries and raspberries, or to enjoy the serenity of the garden. None enter the house itself. Some, perhaps those who are the more perceptive, claim the house is mourning the loss of people living there, the loss of the sounds of human happiness, but such talk is quickly dismissed as nonsense. Most agree, however, that there is something melancholic about the house.
Light fades on another day and as the leaves whisper their music, on the other side of the city a man draws his final breath, confident he is leaving the House of Leaves in good hands.
More author's notes: Just to say that the next chapter is called The Last Will and Testament.