The Thornhallowe House Records and the Abandoned Soil-Phonographer’s Bench

The Studious, Soft-Spoken Life of Merrin Vale Thornhallowe

Merrin Vale Thornhallowe, an experimental soil-phonographer who attempted to catalog sound vibrations within subterranean layers, lived here alongside his cousin Theryn and her young son, Calder. Merrin’s notebooks brimmed with vibration sketches, resonance readings, diagrams of layered soils, and early theories on how earth density shaped acoustic propagation. Reserved yet gentle, he frequently worked late into the night, bent over instruments of his own invention.

In the Phonographic Soil Chamber, thin brass rods lie bundled by pitch, glass cylinders of soil samples are arranged by grain size, wax plates sit stacked beneath tarnished weights, and vellum diagrams display wavelike curves drawn in deep graphite. Theryn’s domestic steadiness remains in the careful folding of linens, labeled jars of herbs, and neatly stacked mending. Calder’s presence lingers faintly: a wooden whistle carved by Merrin, chalk numbers smudged on a slate, and a folded drawing of “The Ground Singing,” labeled in a child’s hand.

As Merrin’s commissions grew, his drafts narrowed. Lines overlapped in dense layers. Wax plates accumulated faster than he could refine them. When Theryn fell ill, the home’s structure loosened. After her passing, Calder left to stay with distant family. Merrin’s final notes show trembling resonance curves, incomplete soil readings, and sketches tapering mid-stroke. One evening, he stood from his bench and never returned. Thornhallowe House has been silent ever since.

A Corridor Softened by Diminished Routine

Upstairs, the corridor’s runner rug sags into muted folds, its pattern nearly erased by dust. A hall table holds a broken spectacles hinge, a rusted resonance rod, and a note ending mid-sentence. Rectangular outlines linger on the wallpaper where soil-layer charts once hung.

A Sewing Room Paused in Its Last Gesture

In the Sewing Room, Theryn’s last work remains unmoved. A child’s sleeve lies pinned beneath the treadle machine’s presser foot. Thread spools toppled from their tidy rows have faded into chalklike tones. Pincushions hardened with age bristle with rusted needles. Folded muslin stiffened along its edges awaits hands that will never return.

Behind the smallest crate lies a slip in Merrin’s thinning script: “Complete soil reading — tomorrow.” Tomorrow never arrived at Thornhallowe House.