Mansion (1)

Mansion

1.

      When I happened upon that foul place, it was the summer of 1991. The house looked as though it had been ripped straight from the Victorian era, with no one to tend to it since. Vines and creepers found their way up pillars that were at one point white marble. The grass had overgrown to past knee height, and weeds sprung out at odd angles from cracks and crevices. Behind me, I could hear the slow gurgle of the river, just beyond a small bank of thick willow trees. The air was hot and stifling, yet I still felt a cold chill.

     A black iron gate hung open, clinging to the cracked concrete frame that held its edges. Atop it were mean spikes, worn grey by the passage of time. In the forest beyond, I could hear the sounds of birds and other animals going about their daily business, but above the mansion there was only the mournful wheeze of the wind, and tree branches shaking like long lost tambourines.

     Despite my unease, the grounds drew me in. Sometimes late at night the other kids would tell ghost stories in the security of our pup tents, but I had never taken them seriously. A large abandoned mansion hiding out in the swamps was just unrealistic. Yet, there I stood, gazing at its ancient magnificence, unable to tell if I was a part of fiction or reality. Come to think of it, I still can’t seem to tell the difference. There was a dark separation from what lay within the gates, and the normal world beyond them. Past the iron spikes was a new world, twisted and different, in ways too small to immediately notice.

     In the yard, I could see several busts. Some were tipped over, joining the grass below, but others stood tall and proud. They depicted men and women in various states of proper dress. Iron plaques with engravings were bolted below them, but I could not read them from beyond the gate. It may have been this simple thought that drove me to push through, leaving all superstition behind. Just a simple thought, what could the plaques say?  Years later a colleague would tell me that it was dark energy, acting like a magnet for my soul, but even after all that I saw, I still think he’s full of crap.

There are nights when I wake in a cold sweat, worrying that I have been dreaming all along. The long hallways grin at me like false friends, and once again, I am trapped in their confines. Nevertheless, youthful stupidity outweighed reason on that day. My warm hands grasped the cold metal bars of the gate. I remember thinking it odd that they had remained chilled in the summer heat, but it barely registered. Mustering my strength, I pushed the gate inward. The metal groaned on its hinges, but gave way with ease.

     Wind did not howl, no ghostly voices called out, but the sweat running down my spine did grow ice cold. Just a few feet beyond the gate was a decrepit cobbled path, hidden beneath the overgrowth. Cracks stretched across the stones like tiny lightning bolts, shifting them at uneven angles. Even so, the care that was put into their initial construction was plain to see. Intricate patterns traced their way across the pathway for reasons only known to those who built it. Whoever it was had long since departed by the time that I first set foot there.  There was nothing left but the empty space. Willow trees hung over the edges of the grounds like dreary sentinels, watching my every move as made my way closer to the entryway.

     A large set of oak doors were firmly shut at the front of the house. Next to them were a series of latticed windows that had become opaque with cobwebs and dust. A rocking chair moved slightly in the summer breeze, giving a quiet creak that I had to strain to hear. I could no longer hear any of the animals in the forest beyond, or the river. The house held with it a darkened quiet.   

     The closer I got to the doors, the heavier my breath felt. Each inhale was more sluggish than the last, and I began to feel time pass at a slower rate. Red beams of light shone through the tree branches, casting a pallid shadow over the front garden.  It had only been midday when I entered the grounds, but time had a curious way of bending there. Days could be minutes, seconds could be hours, and it never seemed quite right. Perhaps there was a gravity well beneath it, distorting the reality within, but who knows?

     The steps to the porch bore only flakes of their former paint. Their remnants were long since scattered to the wind, leaving only dirty traces, slashed by the brown baseboards peeking through. I gently put my weight on the first step, testing to see if it would fall through. It did not. Though time may have abused the mansion’s construction, it still managed to hold firm. There was a mild screech as the rusty nails attached to the step shifted slightly, but that was it.

     Once on the porch I felt an overwhelming sense of dread. It only remained at the tip of my conscious for a moment, and then sunk down like a lead weight in my stomach. I still can’t say what possessed me to continue forward, but I did. The doors were only a few feet away. Each sported a gnarled black handle in the shape of an eagle’s claw. My heart gave a nervous flutter in my chest, but I quelled it and put my hand to the door. The handles were chilled like the gate. I took a deep breath and pushed inward. The door swung a silent arch, opening on a darkened entryway. I stepped in.