The Haunting of Parsons Manor©

Part 1

The Arrival

     The old Parsons Estate frowned down upon the lonely town of Rockhaven from where it sat, brooding atop a desolate foothill just outside of town. The Victorian mansion was among the first of its kind in the area and, at one time, shined like a jewel in the crown of the Catawba Valley; however decades of neglect had taken its toll upon the once grand edifice. Abandoned, the house was merely a shadow of what it had been. Weather-stained whitewashed walls, which had long since tarnished to a dull gray due to the incursion of various molds and mildew, were draped in a rambling network of ivy whose greedy tendrils spread out, over the surface as they slowly suffocated the structure. One would almost feel naked as they stood before the vacant eye-like windows that seemed to stare morosely at the blight stricken landscape as though they were searching for the glory of the manor’s youth, which had long since left, never to return to its abandoned halls. The moss-eaten steep facets of the asymmetrical roof thrust crooked spires into the air at irregular angles, giving the whole at once a grim sense of beauty, laced with an air of utter depression. Even the occasional breeze, which stirred out of the nearby Smoky Mountains, blew across the land with a heavy sigh that carried with it the stale scent of air, which had been trapped for far too long within the mansion’s abandoned halls. Skeletal snags of withered hardwoods dotted the estate, reaching out at agonizing angles with gnarled limbs, as if pleading for release from their rheumatic existence, their piteous, bleached trunks adding to the cold and lonely edge, which lingered about the manor on even the warmest of days.

     From the manor’s second story window, one could see that a solitary visitor approached, traveling the weather-beaten cobblestone road that was known to the people of Rockhaven as Old Briar Run. He was dressed in a simple outfit of breeches, shirt, and jacket, with a backpack slung over his shoulder. Every so often, he would spy a rock in his path and give it a light boot to dislodge it from its resting place and send it tumbling, end over end, down the worn road that served as the main route between Rockhaven and Lovelady. A frigid gust of wind hissed as it passed through the trees whose limbs intertwined like bony fingers to form a barren canopy overhead, forcing him to pull his jacket more tightly about his thin frame. The raspy protest of a raven drew his attention to the air above him and the creature’s shadowy black form as it made its way toward the old estate. He could almost feel the carrion bird’s beady eyes glowering down at him as it passed him by in the fading light of the afternoon, its malevolent cries sending a chill down his spine that had nothing to do with the autumn weather. His eyes wandered from the raven to fall upon the ominous structure that loomed bitterly beyond the nearby gates.

     Paul felt a knot of dread form in his abdomen as he gazed upon the forlorn features of the old Victorian manor. The shadows of the late afternoon had begun to creep over the land, shrouding the estate in dismal shades of monochrome, adding to the unearthly despair that plagued its surrounding lands. As the youth looked warily upon the old house and its environs, he found himself thinking of the stories, which had been told about the Parsons Estate since long before his parents’ time. He recalled the tales of Jonathan Parsons- of how he kidnapped and tortured women and children from the town of Rockhaven and the surrounding townships- how one of his victims managed to escape, revealing his sadistic secret- how the townsfolk, outraged, banded together and raided his house to find the evidence of his brutal undertakings. How they found him in his study, locked in a state of dementia- and how they dismembered him alive on his own worktable where he had performed his grisly acts of torture, and then burying his body in different places throughout the estate. He even recalled one story that told how the townsfolk heard his agonized wailing even as they buried his remains, and every night for weeks thereafter. According to the town elders, no one since had been able to stay there for longer than a day or two and those who had tried were never heard from again. It was even said by some that the torso of Jonathan Parsons would drag its way out of its grave and search the estate for its missing remains, but no one ever said whether it succeeded, or what would happen if it did. He could not suppress the shudder that coursed through his body as his mind connected the stories to the foreboding manor that seemed to beckon to him with malevolent interest. He grumbled a curse at himself for letting Jacob and Christopher Jenkins talk him into staying up in the old house for the night. He also chastised himself for allowing his mouth get him into another situation that he couldn’t get himself out of.
It had all been set about a week ago when Paul, the Jenkins brothers, and Charlie Baker had been exploring the woods near the Parsons Estate. After wandering around, and following countless trails, they had come to a small clearing where they could build a campfire and sit for a while. They had been talking about everything from guns to what they were going to do for the Festival of Samhain in a few weeks when Paul spied the angular spires of Parsons Manor. Upon asking about the house in the distance, the other boys’ mouths dropped.

     “You don’t know what that is,” Jacob asked, his face a mask of disbelief? Paul gave him a questioning look and shook his head.

     “Should I,” he inquired?

     “Oh my god,” he gasped “I can’t believe this,” he looked around at the other boys to see if they were as shocked as he was. “You’ve never heard about the Parsons Estate?”

     “Well… yeah,” replied Paul with a shrug, “I’ve heard about it, but I’ve never seen it or knew where it was. Isn’t it supposed to be haunted or something like that?” 

     “Haunted,” Christopher chimed in, exasperated at what he was hearing “there’s not a soul between Rockhaven and Summerville that doesn’t get chills from just hearing its name! 

     “My grandma says that the ghost of Jonathan parsons haunts the place, and that his body searches for its missing remains from where he was cut up by a lynch mob and buried in different parts of the estate,” Charlie said with a visible shudder that brought him closer to the crackling logs of the campfire.

     “According to my aunt Claudia, no one has ever been able to stay there for very long, but those who have tried has either left town or disappeared altogether,” Jacob added. 

     “Aw come on,” Paul said with a look of disbelief, “don’t tell me that you’re unnerved by ghost stories?” Paul shrugged as he continued, “I mean sure, some bad stuff has happened up in that old house, but surely it can’t be that bad.”

     “What,” Jacob expressed with a look of shock on his face, “are you saying that don’t believe the stories about the Parsons Estate? People have seen things there, heard things there, and have even gone missing after going there, and you’re saying it’s not that bad?”

     “No, I’m just saying that how do you know that most of the stories about that old house weren’t just told to scare kids around the fireplace, or on the night of Walpurgis or Samhain?” Paul shrugged and tossed a couple of small sticks into the fire sending a shower of sparks into the air, and then continued. “No one really knows for sure if those stories are even true or not, that’s all.”

     “Well then,” replied Jacob with a knowing look on his face, if you’re so sure that the Parsons Estate isn’t haunted, then why don’t you stay there yourself, hmm?”

     “I don’t know,” Paul replied with a gesture that said that he wasn’t interested… 

     “What’s wrong;” Jacob retorted before Paul could worm his way out of it, “you’re not scared of ghost stories that you don’t believe in, are you?”

     Paul looked at his friends who sat looking at him with faces that showed that he had let his mouth override his common sense and now they wanted him to back up his claims by showing them that the tales of the Parsons Estate were nothing more than stories to be told around the campfire. “No, I’m not scared at all,” he replied, “it’s just that I don’t know if I can.”

     “Listen to that, guys,” Christopher commented sarcastically, “first he says that the stories aren’t real, but when he gets a chance to prove it, he backs out like a scaredy cat.”

     “I’m not a scaredy cat,” Paul shot back, growing annoyed with his friends’ heckling! 

     “Then prove it,” Jacob declared resolutely. “Prove that the stories that have been told about the haunting of Parsons Manor are only tales to frighten kids around the fireplace.”
Paul knew that there was no getting out of this without one of two things happening; either he could outright refuse to back up his words and lose any credibility that he might have with his peers, along with becoming the subject of their harsh jokes and criticism; or he could face a night in one of the most renown and shunned haunted houses in the area. Sadly, only one of which would gain the respect of his friends and make anything he said worth hearing. So after a few moments of thinking, along with the jeering chastisement of his friends, Paul emitted a heavy sigh. “Alright, when do you want me to do this?” As he spoke he was not looking at them, but toward the jagged spires that rose above the trees in the distance like broken skull’s teeth. A cold wind blew through the clearing chilling him to the bone, a wind that the others did not seem to feel, or if they did, it didn’t show.

     “How about this weekend,” Jacob suggested thoughtfully? “You can take anything you want, but you have to do something to show us that you’re there.” He cupped his chin with his hand, furrowing his brow in deep thought. “Christopher,” he said after a moment, “how can we know if know-it-all Paul here is in the old house where he’s supposed to be instead of weaseling his way out of his word?”

     Christopher thought for a minute, then answered, “I know, from the attic room of our house, we have a pretty good view of Parsons Manor. It’s a little far,” he explained, “but you can see the chimneys with no problem. So if Paul will start a fire in any of the fireplaces, we should see the smoke rising from whatever chimney he uses, providing we camp out in the attic anyway.”

     “Great idea,” Jacob exclaimed casting an approving look at his brother, “we’ll say we’re having a sleepover at our house!” He turned to look at Paul, “Once we see you off to the Parson’s estate, Charlie, Christopher and I will go back to our house and get ready for a sleepover in the attic room where we can watch for the smoke from the chimneys of the old Parsons house…” he stared at Paul, waiting for a response, “how’s that sound to you?”
Paul knew there was no backing out now so he offered a resigned shrug and answered, “It’s good enough for me I guess, so Friday it is.”

     “Good, it looks like we’re set then,” Jacob concluded glancing at everyone in turn. “Then we’ll see if the stories are true or not”

     A cold wind whipped through the trees, rattling them like a chime of dry bones, its chill biting at him through his jacket, summoning him back to the present. Once more, he was standing before the heavy wrought iron gates that sealed the Parsons Estate away from the rest of the countryside. Ivy draped over the entrance like a tattered shroud, nearly obscuring his view, save for a few places where the foliage was thin enough to allow a window-like peek of the estate. The knot in his stomach became a chunk of ice as he gazed upon the dreary landscape that lay just beyond the cage-like portal. With a deep, heavy sigh, he reached up and tried the gate. Hinges, all but paralyzed by decades of rust and neglect shrieked in protest as he forced the gate open, announcing his arrival to anything that might be within the surrounding area. He cringed as the sound echoed in his ears and across the overgrown estate, drawing the attention of the raven that had passed him only moments ago. It glared at him from the top of a gnarled and withered oak tree that seemed hunched over and twisted in a painful contortion, appearing to watch his every move as he passed through the entry. Dull gray grasses and various weeds had overrun all but the most worn parts of the old road that led to the manor house, making travel more precarious as Paul had to pick and choose where to walk to avoid brambles or the random patches of beggar lice that waited to ambush anyone that ventured too close. As he carefully traversed the desolate landscape, he became aware that the sounds that usually accompanied the coming of night in Rockhaven and the Catawba Valley- the mournful song of a whippoorwill, the chorus of crickets and katydids which sang of the coming cold, and even the melancholy call of an old owl waking for the night, had grown distant as though they shunned the dismal dwelling that sat atop of this lonely hill. The realization of this imminent isolation of things most natural sent a shudder through his very being, and even as he made his way up the path that would take him to the front entry of Parsons Manor, he wondered if the stories told in town might have more truth to them than he had originally skepticised.

     The path wound around a couple of ancient ash trees whose bleached, white trunks seemed to glow with an unearthly luminescence in the fading twilight. Great knot holes pocked the trunks just above the first large branches, which separated off from the main tree with crooked joints similar to that of a crone whose body and limbs are forever twisted by the knotted joints afflicted with arthritis, their hollows swollen with shadows giving them the appearance of the empty sockets of a skull’s face that watched wholly unfeeling as he skulked by. The feeling of their gaze upon him felt as though they pierced him to the very core of his being, baring his soul for whatever dark powers which gave them life to see. Here and there, he spied things that seemed to move and dart among the shadows at the edge of his vision, but were gone too quickly for him to discern their source.

     His eyes roved over the darkening landscape only to find their way to the looming beast that was Parsons Manor which now stood over him like a sentinel of darkness waiting to welcome him into the void. The wide porch branched out to either side of the tower-like veranda whose wide steps cascaded downward to the end of the overgrown walkway. Thick columns lined the porch in regular intervals connected to one another by archways of carefully sculpted filigree which reminded the viewer of an ornate garden which had long been forgotten by all but time. The hardwood steps groaned under his weight as though they were no longer used to being trod upon. He had to shake off a chill as the shadow of the house enveloped him, embracing him in its deathless grip. Thoughts of nameless terrors raced through his mind with each pace he took across the once welcoming porch to the heavy oaken door that waited for him as a spider waits for the fly to innocently crawl into its web before sealing its doom. A dirt-stained and decayed old welcome mat lay otherwise undisturbed at the foot of the door, its once friendly design marred and weathered by age and neglect, which seemed more like a living thing of its own design now than when it was fashioned so many years ago. In many ways the thought had crossed his mind that it might snap at his feet were he to venture too close, and so subconsciously he tried to avoid its moss riddled, grimy surface as much as possible.

     Paul extended a wary hand to try the gothic lion-headed doorknob and was both relieved and disappointed to find that it was locked. As much as he would have liked to have said that he had tried and gone home, he knew that he had already come this far and needed to see the rest of this terrible deed through. After all he had gotten himself into this mess, so it was up to him to get himself out of it. With that thought in mind he began searching for the key to the door. He ran his hand along what ledges he could reach, feeling his fingers trace the intricate carvings that matched in many ways the arches of the porch. Once he swept his hand through the silky strands of a hidden spider web which made him jerk his hand back in revulsion of the blatant invasion of his external senses. He could not suppress the heavy shudder that wracked his body as he thought about the creature that probably narrowly missed his probing extremities. When he had exhausted his limit of hidden places around the great door, his eyes fell forlornly to the foot of the entrance, and the decayed welcome mat that just moments ago he had tried to avoid. A sickly feeling churned in his stomach as he thought of having to touch that decrepit ornamentation to see if the key had been placed under its vile watch. He sighed heavily and with a reluctant motion reached down, half expecting it to leap at him like a wounded animal, carefully placing his fingers around the nearest, least overgrown, corner and began to peel it upward. Something squished between his fingers making him grimace with disgust at not knowing what it could possibly have been. He reached out with his other hand and started feeling around in the collected grime beneath the rug. He was disgusted yet relieved when his fingers happened across the cold metallic shape of an old skeleton key.

     Paul cleaned the key by rolling it around on the mat, hoping to get off most of the collected dirt that it had gathered during its long stay underneath the grimy old rug. Once he had gotten most of the excess off of it, he stood up and tried it on the door. The lock resisted at first, as though age had frozen its ancient tumblers in place, but with another try, the key turned stiffly, and with a loud clank of the square bolt, the door was ready to be opened. The hinges groaned under the weight of the heavy door, heralding his arrival to the inhabitants of the old manor whether they were alive or dead. As Paul took in a breath, he found himself fighting back the urge to cough himself hoarse from the putrid combination of dust and stale air which he had stirred up by opening the door. Thick dark shadows beckoned to him as he gazed into the void which lay beyond the entry. A sharp wind hissed through the corrupted boughs of the warped trees as though it was trying to issue one last warning to him about what waited for him within those forbidden walls. The door creaked loudly on its own, an action that, although it unnerved him, Paul dismissed it as something caused by the stiff breeze.

     Paul took a moment to light his lantern before going into the utter darkness that seemed to throb from within the house. He shifted his backpack around until he managed to slide it from his shoulders. Kneeling down by the door, he unstrapped his lantern and began fumbling around in his pack in search of the box of matches that he had brought with him. The cold wind moaned as it exhaled across the land with a sigh born out of depression, sending a chill through Paul’s body as he pulled the small box of wooden matches out of one of the backpack’s side pouches. He checked the fuel to ensure that he had enough oil to last him the night, and within moments had his immediate surroundings bathed in the golden yellow hues that emanated from the lamp as he adjusted the flame. Once he had the light set where he wanted it, Paul stood up, tucking the matchbox into a pocket where he could find it much easier the next time he needed it. He stooped and picked up the lantern, brandishing it in front of him to ward off the oppressive darkness that threatened to engulf him as he reluctantly entered the shadowy confines of the mansion. A feeling of apprehension permeated the core of his very being as he stepped across the threshold that separated the outside world from the bleak trappings of Parson’s Manor.

     The light from his lantern cast eerie shadows about the entry hall that loomed like phantoms, lingering just at the edge of sight, yet vanishing should he venture too close. Paul fought the urge to sneeze as the bitter combination of stale air and dust assaulted his nostrils. Taking a deep breath to settle his senses, he raised his light to get a better look at his surroundings. The foyer was coated in a fine layer of dust that dulled the shine that it once held many years ago. An ancient secretary of varnished oak crouched near the center of the room, adamantly protecting whatever secrets that it contained within its hidden recesses, the spidery limbs of a hat and coat rack, which cowered in the distant corner as though it was trying to avoid the light, were wrapped about its slender frame as though it had long since succumbed to mortality, and a long ornately carved staircase emerged ominously from the center of the floor just behind the secretary, climbing into the shadows beyond the reach of any available light source. Somewhere in the distance, Paul heard the chime of an old grandfather clock, which struck him as unseemingly odd in this abandoned abode, for as far as he knew, no one had been here for years.

     “Hello,” he called out, his voice was shaky and weak, but in the dark hollows of the foyer, it echoed almost as if to mock him. He waited for an answer, but none came. After a minute or so he tried again, “Hello… is anyone there?” Again he was mocked by the hollow echo of himself; its resonance in the hollow foyer made him want to cringe. As before, his call was met by the uneasy silence of the house. For an instant, he wanted to turn around and leave just as he had come, but he knew that he had to light a fire in the fireplace so that Jacob and Christopher could see the smoke from their house, or else this whole trip would have been in vain. Paul sighed heavily, hating the self-made defeat that had placed him in this position, and with a resigned step forward he began to explore the entry hall. 

     His footsteps echoed in the hollow darkness, accompanied by the stiff groans of hardwood planks, protesting their having been disturbed from their age-long rest as he made his way across the foyer. Starting to his left, Paul ambled to an ornate set of double-doors whose oiled surface had long since been stained by the collection of dust which had settled along their corners and edges. Decades of neglect had stiffened the knobs and hinges; however, with a little persuasive effort, the doors soon gave, complaining profoundly as they swung open to reveal a fairly large, dimly lit room. Even in the low light, Paul could see that the room was haunted by the apparitions of antique furniture which had, long ago, been shrouded with bleached linens in order to preserve their vintage beauty from the unforgiving wear of time. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling, corners and various wall decorations in thick, tattered curtains that swayed, ever so gently, in time with the constant shift of the wind. As he surveyed the room, Paul could not shake the feeling that he had, somehow, wandered into the drug induced dream of a madman on opium. The dusky shades of twilight that filtered in through the dingy, water-stained windows highlighted the dust and cobwebs with the somber hues of night, subduing the room in ethereal overtones, and only the mere glow of his lantern served as his defense against the unearthly gloom that encroached upon his very being. A vague sigh of reprieve escaped his lips when his eyes fell upon the carved mantelpiece of a classically adorned fireplace that nearly dominated the northern wall. Its stone recesses gaped like an open maw and had been blackened by years of use, yet the layer of webs that lined its entirety disclosed much about its lack of attention these past decades.

     Paul hurried to the fireplace, setting his lantern upon the carved mantle as he began to finger through the fireplace tools below. He filched the cinder broom from the rack and used it to sweep away as many of the cobwebs as he could reach without climbing inside of the flue. As he returned the broom to its hanger on the tool rack, Paul’s eyes roved over the room, searching for something to start a fire with. In the murky twilight, he could see that several wooden crates had been stacked carelessly against the distant wall. It only took a few minutes for him to gather some of the spent boxes and to begin breaking them apart. Using some old newspapers that apparently had been left behind by the house’s most recent inhabitants, he piled some of the broken planks into the hearth. Within moments he had a fire crackling to life in the old fireplace for the first time in decades. The flame burned warm and bright, beating back the dismal shadows that plagued the room, but it did little to burn away the vile chill that contaminated the air. Still, despite it all, Paul felt a reassuring measure of comfort as he stood there, basking in its light.