Persephone's Purr

Though my hands trembled on the reigns of my trusted steed, Marion, I knew I must relay to you my experience in the hills of Old Denton. If, by chance, I am taken in the near future, then perhaps this story will still reach you. If my cadaver is found alongside this letter, I beg you pray for my soul, for it will be haunted.

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Exhausted by the mundane, predictable lifestyle of the city that I had been so accustomed to, I took to the backcountry for inspiration. My humdrum life as an author of speculative fiction had taken a rather poor downturn. “Mediocre” and “unexceptional” are not expressions a writer wishes to see used to describe their last few works.

It was midday as I guided Marion through the barely trodden paths of Old Denton with my feline companion, Persephone, upon my steed’s posterior. I created a box-like contraption of Tyrian purple that allowed Persephone to breathe freely without escape. A glorious enclosure for such royalty.

Fine, it was a cage with a purple cloth draped over it, though I refused to tell Persephone that. A regal beast such as she deserves better than a cage, but I needed to remove myself from the city with haste and I needed my queen of the underworld beside me for inspiration.

As we crested the final hill, a panorama of our destination was splayed before us: Bertevue Manor. The mansion looked to be an ancient relic with ivy encompassing each crevice, the brick chipped and crumbling, a layer of verdigris suffocating every inch of bronze. I was reassured that the interior was pristine, though my initial glimpse conjured doubt. I had paid for two months’ stay, but my instinct was to truncate my inspirational sojourn.

True to their word, the interior was well taken care of, but no less a relic than the exterior. The lofty ceilings, an ornamented blood-red rug, and mahogany railings and banisters of a curved staircase immediately stole my attention.

I was greeted by two housekeepers: a man and a woman. The man had a youthfulness about him, though I would place his age at fifty. He wore a crisp black tuxedo with immaculate white gloves and spectacles that were too large for his face. The woman appeared to be eighty if I could guess, though I would not be surprised to discover that she was birthed the year that the mansion was built. She wore an elegant emerald dress and a grey apron with fine silver trim. She, too, wore oversized eyeglasses which made her resemble some anthropomorphic insect.

“Welcome,” they said in unison. He bowed, she curtsied, and I stiffened. It all felt too awkward. Their synchronization and attire were kindling for my nightmares. I nodded and forced a smile. “You are wearing glasses,” the woman said. “Good. Though they should be bigger.” She shook her head at me.

My spectacles were, in fact, spectacle. Nothing but show, an accompaniment to my attire. It is, after all, a look. They certainly needed to be no larger.

I rejoined: “I would think yours' border immensity.”

“Nonsense,” the man said, “Larger glasses protect your periphery. You never want to view them directly.”

“Them?”

The two of them looked at each other, again synchronously, then back to me. “The ancients of Old Denton,” they said.

There was a long, uncomfortable silence. I could not help but laugh. They did not.

“My lodgings?” I asked after another awkward pause. The woman looked at the man and nodded. He gathered my effects and led me to my quarters. The ornamentation was ancient: extravagant, intricate hangings; eerie portraits whose eyes have the appearance of following you as you trek the seemingly endless halls; polished gold sconces with slender, bone-white candles that burned dimly, casting soft shadows against the red carpet and green-grey walls.

The man and I paused in front of a large, ostentatious door of ebony and gold. When I reached for the handle I felt his grip around my wrist. I followed the hand up the arm until our eyes met.

“Yes?” I said with a casual air, though my internal response was anything but indifferent.

“Dinner is in an hour. We will leave the premises before dark. Once night falls, we advise you remain in your room until daybreak.”

A voice from behind startled me.

“If you need to leave your quarters, wear your glasses.” I turned to see the old woman to my rear. She must have followed us, but I heard not a single step.

The man released my arm and attempted to assist me with my possessions. “I will take it from here, thank you,” I said.

“As you wish.”

The man and woman turned and walked away, down the long hallway that went on forever. Their steps matched up perfectly and at one hundred paces—I know because I counted, mesmerized—they both turned inward simultaneously to look toward me. I quickly opened the door to my room, pushed my belongings inside, and shut the door.

This was, to say the least, a peculiar place. My body was telling me to leave. My mind wished the same. But the writer in me, well, that said to stay. To live. To experience something novel. I thought that maybe this was what I needed to rejuvenate my ailing career. I listened to the writer within.

My quarters had similar ornamentation to those in the hall, though more luxurious. Carved ebony pillars surrounded the four corners of my canopy bed, from which hung a burgundy and mustard tapestry. The windows were of green and clear stained-glass that allowed no proper view without first opening said window. Odd choice for a bedroom, I thought. It was hideous, but it was all mine for two months.

I heard a pawing of claw on metal and turned to see Persephone in her cage. She desired freedom, and by God, she would have it. I got down on one knee and unlatched the door to her cage. She leaped out and swatted me a few times, claws retracted of course. I deserved it. Hours on horseback in a cage was no place for my grey fur goddess.

After placing my clothes in the grand closet, I did my best to make the room feel comfortable. I positioned books and pictures all around, and at the desk, some of my writing utensils and writing paper. I kept a little pad and pen in my front pocket in case genius struck.

When I felt satisfied with the placement of my belongings, I cracked the window for a breath of fresh air and a look at the grounds of Bertevue Manor. I peered out at the vast landmass ahead of me, gorgeous rolling hills that ranged on a green spectrum, dark to light, vibrant to dull. I looked directly down from my window and saw that the male housekeeper was looking up at me. I waved at him. He didn’t respond.

Now that the simple experience of looking out of the window had been ruined, I lay in my bed and looked at a list of books I had brought with me. Persephone jumped onto the bed, nestled in my lap, and mewed. The only time Persephone ever purrs is when she is caressed. When she has a desire, she mews. The moment my fingers graced the back of her head, Persephone began rumbling, low and loud, like an automotive.

At the door came a forceful knock. Persephone leaped from my lap.

“Yes?”

The door creaked open and Persephone darted through the open crack. How very unfortunate, I thought. I instinctually jumped up to catch her, but she was already well down the hall.

The old woman stood in the crack, the light from the stained-glass on her face, and said, “I will lead you to the dining hall.”

I trailed her, but I did not want to. I told myself that I followed to find Persephone, that I followed for dinner, that I followed for the experience of Bertevue. But truly, I followed out of fear. I know not why such trepidation took hold, as I was physically capable of defending myself against either, or both if need be.

Dinner was, admittedly, delicious. Flawlessly seasoned roast beef, accompanied by baked potatoes and succotash. The woman, whose name I still do not know, stared as I ate. When I put my fork down, she said, “We will take leave of you now. Would you like a guide back to your room?”

“Unnecessary, thank you.”

“As you wish.” She forced a smile and left.

I thought that I would feel relieved that the disturbing duo had taken their leave, but it was then that I realized how frighteningly alone I was, and in such a curious place. I walked to my room at a brisk pace. I left my door open a crack in case my sweet Persephone wished to join me.

As I read a recently published editorial by candlelight, I could hear raindrops tap against the stained-glass windows. Then, a bellowing crash of thunder to which I spilled a bit of wax on my thigh. Lightning illuminated the heavens and created a green wavy light through the stained-glass; an instantaneous and short-lived aurora.

Then I heard a soft mew.

“Persephone!”

I could not help but shout. I ran to the door and saw her fluffy grey tail sway as she scurried down the hall. I tried to catch her, but she was quicker than I. Through the hall and down the stairs I trailed until at last, I was outside the door of the kitchen. A quick clash of metallic noises came from inside, followed by silence, then, a low rumbling sound. An uneasiness took me, and for a moment I felt faint. I was apprehensive, my hand trembled as I reached for the knob. I inhaled as deeply as I could and opened the door.

There, on the floor, lying on her side, was Persephone. I exhaled in relief and watched my furry companion, her purring was music to my ears. I discovered the source of the metallic clanging I heard outside the door: pots and pans rested on the floor near the counter.

But something was not right, and the uneasiness I felt before multiplied tenfold, for as I mentioned, Persephone only purrs when she receives physical attention. Intense cloudiness fogged my periphery and my head began to swim. I moved closer to Persephone as she continued to purr. I felt a weight on my shoulders, a suffocating presence that I could not understand, for there was no one around me in the dim candlelight. I got on one knee to pet Persephone and my periphery went from cloudy to pure darkness. I removed my glasses and looked at my cat.

There, on her belly, was a white hand with long, bony fingers.

I followed the hand up an absurdly long arm to a face. Or, where a face should have been, for there was nothing but pale stretched skin over a skull, blue veins protruding through the translucency. A feeling like a million spiders crawled under my skin and a sensation of a lukewarm clammy ooze went down my spine. Had I a bad heart, I may have died there.

The thing stood. It towered over me. Its upper back brushed the ceiling and its shoulders hunched, its faceless face looked down upon me.

I ran. I am still running. And poor, poor Persephone, may she be safe for I lack the courage to return. There is no going back to Bertevue Manor. Not now, nor ever. And though I have made some distance on the back of Marion, a dread weighs on me. Will I ever be free of these beings? I fear if they do not end me, then they will haunt me forever.