The Forgotten Manor

Chapter One: The appearance

The November morning was chilly, with fog entwining along the road's edges as Sarah’s bus slowly wound up towards Blackwood Manor. The air was damp and sharp, carrying the earthy smell of wet leaves and rotting wood. Her tires made soft, rhythmic noises against slick pavement; nearly swallowed by the girding fog.

Also the gates unfolded. Tall and crooked with ivy, brewing suddenly out of the haze. A ghostly air clings to them, the faintest hint of decay wrapping round their iron bars. They creaked open when Sarah pulled up nearer; the noise tore into the stillness like some wrenching conflict. For a moment, she wavered, watching the narrow path evaporate into darkness ahead.

She stepped out of the bus, her thrills scraping loudly on complexion driveway. The noise was felt to be intrusive it broke the creepy quiet that had wrapped around the manor house like a cloak. She dragged her scarf tighter against her neck but set up the cold surge wasn't the only thing making her shiver. Blackwood Manor stood out in the distance as a figure of worsening monument and tangled vines, with its long murk bleeding into the fog.

Sarah simply stood still, looking at it. It wasn't but windows, dark concave holes peering back at her as if eyes were carved out from life. And yet commodity about the place pulled on her. She couldn't explain it. It was further than her chronicler seeing the old frame. It felt like the house was calling her in.

Taking a steadying breath, she climbed the cracked monument way, each one worn smooth by time. The heavy oak doors pushed open under her hands, protesting with a long, downward wail. She broke just outdoors, letting her eyes adjust to the dim light.

The smell hit her first damp, wood corruption and a noiselessly sweet undertone that made her stomach twist. Dust hung in the air, visible in the weak light filtering through high, narrow windows. Chandeliers, coated in soil, hung precariously from the ceiling, their dishes dull and breathless. Large white wastes covered the furniture, draped like forgotten ghosts staying for their cue.

Her thrills echoed vocally as she stepped forward, the sound swallowed nearly directly by the vast emptiness. Ahead, a grand staircase entwined above, its rail ornately carved with patterns that sounded to move if she peered too long.

She ventured into every room with caution, flashlight in hand, in such a way that it sounded like some defunct age had been left to quicken off in her wake, abandoned in haste to gather dust and silence. The derelict furniture was buried under old, fine curtains; the film land suspended crookedly on shelling walls; and putrefied silverware sounded bright, dimly glowing in the dark. Amidst the stillness, she felt eyes fixed on her painted eyes from the film land- their eyes smelling, sharp with judgment.

In the sitting room, she stopped and concentrated on a gigantic monument fireplace. Its mantel was covered with candelabras, thick with cobwebs. Hanging over it in faded majesty was a huge depiction of a man; his expression was stern, his eyes piercing, and for a moment, she could have sworn that he was peering at her. She jounced and moved on.

The library was coming. Shelves stretched to the ceiling, every face concentrated with dust. It was also, in a forgotten corner behind a decaying armchair, that she saw it — a leather- bound journal. It was partly hidden under a mound of old journals, the cover cracked and worn from age.

She picked it up with care and opened it. The scent of old paper was unmistakable, rising in a faint air as the runners shifted. The handwriting inside was neat but hasty, the essay faded and uneven. She went through her sketches and fractured entries, her heart beating presto until she had the last runner.

“The darkness is closing in. They are also. There is no escape."

She set.

A blast of cold air moved through the small room, and the candle she had just lit drivelled out. Darkness fell over her like a cloak, pressing down on her casket. She blindly felt for her flashlight, her breathing shallow and rapid-fire- fire. When at last the shaft flirted to life, it cut through the dusk but it didn't lighten the rough feeling.

And also she felt it.

Commodity was there.

Not fairly visible, really, but unmistakable. Cold and suffocating, it hung just at the edge of her light. She saw movement in the corner of her eye — a shadow, moving unnatural, like bank.

“Who’s there?" she bruited, her voice shaking.

Nothing spoke up.

The air around her grew heavier, the inconspicuous presence pressing down on her casket. She gripped the journal tightly and backed out of the room, her flashlight casting long, wavering murk on the walls. She made it to the doorway, her heart pounding, when she heard it — a faint, nearly inaudible tale

“Leave while you can."

Her blood ran cold.

She bolted for her bedroom, slamming the door shut behind her. She sat at the very edge of the bed. She clasped the journal tightly to herself and came in ragged gasps as if she might be speaking. The bruited warning echoed in her mind, tangled with the nipping words from the journal" The darkness is closing in. They are also. There is no escape."

Terror eroded at her, but not important enough to consume her curiosity. Commodity was passing in Blackwood Manor — commodity associated with its dark history, its secrets buried beneath layers of dust and shadow. And though she could feel the fear clawing at her, she knew she couldn't go.

She knew she couldn't leave.

The manor house had her now, and Sarah didn't know if she wanted to be free of it presently.