Rafferty Mansion

Somewhere in the mountains of Colorado sits the old Rafferty mansion, undisturbed. The two-story house had been a legend among the various townspeople below. The legend goes on about Thomas Rafferty, a partially famous politician turned miner turned oil tycoon. After discovering gold in a nearby cave, he ceased his political life in New England for a chance at the riches in the Midwest. For good reason though, for he struck it big when he found oil in Oklahoma. Thomas Rafferty was living the high life... that is, he would've been, if it weren't for Mrs. Lucille Rafferty.

Lucille was a brat from birth to death. She had to have it her way and when Thomas's potential and pocketbook whistled by, Lucille refused to be last in line for the gravy train. They married and birthed three children, the oldest, Harriet, middle child, Thomas Jr., and the baby, Brady. They were a beautiful family, happily living off of their gold money. Things turned south quickly once the oil was found.

Thomas, now 55, drank heavily and spoke very disrespectfully about his wife and their relationship in news articles. Lucille wasn't having her good name stripped from her in a time of a massive boom in the oil and real estate industries. She refused to let Thomas leave to drink. She went so far as to drugging him and tying him up. Eventually, Thomas grew tired of this act and, after pretending to go to sleep early, escaped to his favorite bar. Thomas got very intoxicated that night and, after he walked home, no one saw him again... or his wife and kids.

Four days pass, doctors estimate, based on bank records, this is about the point in Thomas's life in which dementia was setting in. He withdrew all his money from all his bank accounts one day. The very next day is the day he arrived at the police station to admit his murdering his wife and kids. In police custody, he gave detailed descriptions on how and where his family was murdered and buried. His motive was that his wife worked for the government and wanted his money. Thomas Rafferty was killed by the state in 1898.

The Rafferty mansion was never resold. It was never remodeled. The townspeople thought it best to leave the house in where it remains today, in the middle of the Colorado mountains. Many a high schooler, ghost hunter, and tourist try to locate the house but, since as this happened many generations ago, no one has located it yet.

The paint is weathered from a bright white to dying gray. Because of the surrounding miles of forest, the house suffered from lack of sunlight during the summer, and bitter cold during winter. The windows broken from the winds and tree branches, the shingles sat in meticulous patterns on the forest floor. The path before the house lay covered in foliage and insects. The front porch had a roof; alas, it has since collapsed. The front door, covered in vines reaching inside, hangs from it's hinges.

The entrance way leads to a staircase adjacent to a door which leads to the living room. In the living room, dead leaves lay scattered about, and the furniture is gone, long gone. The wooden floors creak when touched. The walls were brittle and freezing cold. Two doors leave the room, one for the entry way and the other for the dining room, then kitchen. These rooms are in the same state as the living room,in rubble, ruin, and deciduous disarray.

In this living room, Lucille Rafferty was bludgeoned to death with a wooden club. Her blood is still visible on the walls of the home, stained since 1895. The townspeople say if you talk, the ghost of Lucille will talk back. Wind blows through the broken windows, even nature mourns. The wind brushes the leaves gently, sliding a few across the still bloodied floor.

Thomas, who was drunk and coping with his actions, exits the living room and proceeds upstairs, to his sleeping children. The staircase, once intimidating in fashion, is now nothing, a withered version of it's former self.. It is now always dark. It hasn't felt day brush it's bottom steps since the day the former realtor locked the doors. The stairway leads to a hallway with four wooden doors. This being the most center of the house, has little leaves and few abrasions to the décor.

Thomas stumbles into the first door on the left. Harriett, the oldest at 17, slept peacefully in her bed until her father woke her with a wild swing to her head. Her screams, though brief, wake her brother, middle-child at 13, Thomas Jr. Once Thomas Sr. realizes his daughter is a bloody mass before him, struggling to breathe through broken ribs, he exits the room. After he's exited, he comes face to face with Thomas Jr., who asks why Harriett screamed. Thomas Sr. passes her yells for help as bad dreams and invites Thomas Jr. to his study, the second door on the left from the top of the staircase.

Harriett's room still has moons and suns on the bottom lining of the walls. The walls themselves were still pink, a decayed pink but pink no less. Her furniture is gone but her blood is stained across the floor from when she tried to crawl for help. Her one broken window allows wind to whisper a fleeting, inaudible prayer. The creaks of the home increase with the sudden harsh winds.

Once in his office, Thomas Sr. takes his loaded revolver from his drawer and tells Thomas Jr. what it is. Thomas Jr., having never seen a gun, is astonished as any boy would be. Thomas tells his son he will show him how it works outside. Once they leave, Thomas Sr., now behind Thomas Jr., shoots and kills his son with one bullet to the back of the head. Thomas also notices Harriett, still alive, crawling for help. Thomas, drunken and in a moment of violent insanity, kills his daughter before she makes it to the doorway. He bloodied body only feet away from her brother's. Baby Brady is woken up by the commotion. He begins crying loudly.

Thomas's study, once draped in awards and medals of excellence, now an empty room of broken glass, and one large puddle caused by rain and an unsteady roof. Flies and mosquitos circle the puddle, buzzing loudly, angrily. Just beyond their wings one can barely hear the the wind whisper a prayer for the fallen father, not the condemned murderer.

Thomas, now in a full-blown insane kick, walks into Thomas Jr. and Brady's room. After glancing at Thomas Jr.'s empty bed, he turns his attention to the crying baby. Thomas picks Brady up and holds him gently in his arms until he no longer cried. Once Thomas laid him back down, he grabs a nearby pillow and forces it over Brady's face. The baby cries, then kicks, then leaves this world. Thomas Sr. drudges from his son's room to his and his wife's.

The boy's room still has the crib in it to this day. Legend goes that if you approach the crib, you will hear the sound of a crying baby. The walls are still painted blue and the window is not broken, but it is open. Through the crack between the window and pane, the wind creeps in as the house moans loudly. Another child, another prayer.

Thomas now sits on his bed, contemplating suicide, but his morals reject the idea. He must accept his actions. He must face the consequences. So he begins burying the bodies before sunrise. They were buried in his basement alongside the grisly tools used to take their lives. He wiped his hands of the dirt and returned to his cave for four days. After sitting on the edge of his bed for the better part of a week, he began the long arduous walk to the police station, ten miles away. On this walk, he saw the sun rise. He wept with such pain and self hatred that he could not walk. After falling to the ground and begging for mercy from God, a traveler spots him. Thomas exclaimed he murdered his wife and kids and he needed to go to jail, scaring the tourist away. Thomas finishes his trek, dehydrated and suicidal.

His room still had curtains. His room still had soap by the master bathroom's sink. His room even still had a picture of the beautiful, young, Thomas and Lucille on their wedding day, the frame cracked and the glass broken. Their window let the sugary sweet serenade of the wind fill the room. The house moans in remorse for her former inhabitants. Her sweet bellows are merely whispers to the ears of the miles of trees in every direction. Her voice travels only feet from her doors.

The Rafferty house has never been found. The last owner only had one comment about the structure.

“I've spent my time in the ol Rafferty place. Yea, she used to be real purty. She was the Cadillac of homes, I tell ya. But ya know, there was one thing my mother used to tell me about homes with tragic pasts. She said... she said... 'A home without a whisper is a home without a soul.' And so this poor girl. Her, uh, soul is there but if you listen when she speaks, you can tell she's... she's not happy.”