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House

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By Rachael MacDonaldPublished about a year ago Updated about a year ago 3 min read
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House
Photo by Robby McCullough on Unsplash

“If walls could talk,” Jessica whispered into the cavernous room. Her eyes glanced over ghostlike furniture lost in thought. The room itself was centuries old. Built in the late 1500’s by a Lord long forgotten. The room was scattered with furniture mixing regency and medieval collections in swaths of printed fabrics and gilded chairs. Most were currently covered by large white sheets, but where several of the cloths slipped, dust motes danced on faded silks in the early morning sunlight.

“What stories you’d tell,” her voice echoed off oil paintings and ornate tapestries. Jessica dug into her handbag and pulled out a large modern flashlight. Turning it on, she moved further into the room, pausing on creaking floorboards, she surveyed the space.

In the righthand corner of the room a crystal vase stood sentinel on a triangular plinth. It was uncovered and surprisingly devoid of the usual dust. The vase, almost two feet in height, was shaped into a large cresting wave, or was it a seashell? She was not entirely sure. An inscription was etched roughly on its surface. Jessica leaned forward and rubbed the letters with her fingertips. V.P. + F.P. 1848.

“A sad tale, those two.” A voice came on a whisper floating through the air.

Jessica jumped and had to quickly grab the vase as it teetered along the edge of its stand.

“Hello?” She called scanning the room quickly with her torch. “Who is there? Whoever you are, come out where I can see you.”

Silence filled the room.

“Hello?” she called again. “This is my house you know. I have a right to be here.” Her voice cracked as it rose several octaves.

“I did not mean to startle you, dear thing.” The voice oozed like liquid honey.

“Who is speaking? Come out now this instant! Or I’ll... I’ll call the police.” She paused and listened before continuing. “Alright, that’s it. I’m calling them now.”

However, Jessica continued to stand as if a spell had turned her to stone. One hand on the flashlight, the other on the vase. Her cellphone still safely tucked away in her jacket pocket.

“I thought you said you were calling them?” the voice came from everywhere.

“I am, I mean… I will,” Jessica replied flustered. “Can you see me, Why won’t you come out?” Her eyes darted back and forth searching for movement.

“Are you afraid? The voice responded with feminine seduction. “Don’t worry, I can’t hurt you.”

“Where are you? Who are you?” Distraught, Jessica crouched against the wall and prayed that if this was some sick joke, the person would just come out already. Her heart was thumping so hard in her chest, it became difficult to focus. Goosebumps covered her skin and she shivered unchecked.

“Me? Well your hand is on my…skin, I’ll call it,” the voice chuckled delicately.

Jessica jumped up and backed away toward the center of the room. She spun slowly, not fulling grasping the words that she was hearing.

“I am the walls, and the floors, the windows and the doors. I have been known by many names. Chesterton Castle, Mayfly Manor, Elderberry Estates. But you may call me house. And it is very nice to meet you, Jessica Van Taylor. I have been waiting a long time for you.”

“Gran wasn’t crazy?” Jessica gasped as memories of the elderly matriarch came flooding back in the final days. The mumblings of dementia, surely. Taking a deep breath in, Jessica tried in vain to collect herself. “Or I am just crazy, and it runs in the family.” She shrugged at the wall.

Jessica began pulling off the white cloths in the room. A grand piano emerged in front of a large bay window. Velvet green couches mirrored each other under a plush round carpet. The south side of the room was dominated by a dark mahogany desk, floor to ceiling bookcases towering behind. Only once all the furniture was uncovered did Jessica admit to herself that she was alone.

“Would you like to hear the tale?” The voice asked, the sound dipping down like an evening mist.

“What tale?” Jessica asked the empty room.

“The 1848 rebellion. Your ancestor’s tale. Victoria and Fredrick’s story.”

Jessica turned toward the crystal vase. It shined dust free in its golden corner. She sat down on one of the velvet couches, pulling her legs under her.

“Alright,” she spoke, resting her arm on a silk grey pillow.

The door to the hallway shut on its own accord.

“Settle in, dear Jessica, I know exactly where to begin.”

MysteryYoung AdultShort StoryHorrorFantasy
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About the Creator

Rachael MacDonald

Avid Reader, Sometimes Poet, Occasional Writer, and searcher of truths often lost in the breaths between candy-coated lies.

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