The Haunting of Parsons Manor©

Part 2

Venturing out into the Darkness

     Paul relaxed some as he felt the heat of the fire soak into his body, warming him despite the perpetual chill that seemed to linger in the air. He tossed some more wood onto the flames, sending a shower of sparks spiraling up the chimney; then using the bright yellow-orange glow from the flames, he surveyed the room about him. From what he could tell, by the grandeur of the covered furniture and the elaborate ornamental décor, he was in a grand drawing room. Even as his eyes danced among the sofa, chairs and various tables, he could imagine that this place had seen much use during the house’s early years. He almost felt a pang of pity as he looked upon the state of disrepair into which the house had fallen. Paul’s eyes continued to rove over the area around him until the secretary in the entry hall caught his eye. He had noticed it before; however, something about the oaken desk seemed to beckon to him, now. It was as though it was offering to share its innermost secrets with him, should he just open its sealed door. With a few moments of mulling it over and a restored sense of confidence from having warmed himself by the fire, he decided to take the desk’s offer. Gathering up his lantern once more, he sauntered back into the entry hall, cringing as he was again met by the haunting groans of the old floor.
     The secretary wasn’t nearly as extravagant as some of the covered furniture that graced the floor of the drawing room; however, the oaken desk was in remarkably good condition for having been constantly exposed to the dust and other various elements these past decades. Its door was set on a simple pivot and slide mechanism, held fast by a hook and release latch which no longer had a lock to seal its contents away from unwanted eyes. Paul unfastened the latch and lifted the door with relative ease. The ancient wood creaked stiffly in its joints as he slid the door back into its holding compartment. Just as it had promised him from the distance, its secrets were now revealed for Paul to see. Only a few objects had been placed under the secretary’s care; a leather-bound guestbook whose pages had become brittle with age, a steel tipped quill that still had dried ink in its tip from its last use, along with an inkwell which had long since dried into a useless mess within its glass container. He raised his lantern to get a better look at some of the desk’s other contents, and was pleasantly surprised to find a chamberstick and a small box of candles tucked away in a small cubby-hole at the back of the work area. The idea of using candles to light his immediate area appealed to him since doing so would save his lamp oil for when he might really need it. He took the chamberstick in hand and began examining it in the glow of his lantern. The reflector dish and chimney had collected a minimal amount of dust during its long stay within the confines of the desk, and it didn’t take much to wipe their surfaces clean. Once he was satisfied with the candle holder’s condition, Paul grabbed a handful of candles; he then took his lantern and candle holder back to the fireplace in the drawing room.
     Paul settled before the fireplace once more, tossing some fresh wood onto the lowering flames. The fire popped and cracked greedily as it accepted his offering, brightening up the room again. As soon as he could see more clearly, he dismantled the chamberstick with expert precision and placed a candle into its empty socket. Using a long splinter from the fire, he lit the wick and waited to see if it would continue to burn. With a nod of satisfaction, he placed the chimney into its position and extinguished his lantern. The chamberstick only gave off slightly less light than the lantern had, and in doing so, it would suffice for what he needed. Without warning a gust of wind swept across the estate, grabbing the heavy front door, swaying it back and then slamming it shut.
     Paul’s heart nearly stopped as the thunderous sound echoed throughout the house, rattling the walls. He chastised himself for not having shut the door behind him when he came in, but as he regained control over his pulse, he laughed at the incident altogether. How many times had his mother told him to shut the door behind him when he was at home; or how many times had a stray wind pulled the door to when they would have it open during the summer to air out the house? In his head, he could hear his mother’s voice scolding him about whether or not he was raised in a barn. His thoughts were interrupted by the sudden yet eerily familiar chime of the grandfather clock from somewhere further in the house. Its steady toll sent a chill down his spine as he wondered how or why such a thing would even be working in this abandoned abode. He began to wonder if he wasn’t entirely alone in the old house, but figured that it might not be a bad idea to find out before settling in for the evening. He threw some more wood onto the fire, and decided that while he was exploring, he might as well look for another source of firewood since his current supply would soon be spent.
     Paul skulked through the entry hall with his chamberstick held out, lighting the way. Its bright yellow glow illuminated little more than his immediate area, reducing anything outside of its reach into vague shadowy forms that taunted the imagination. He slowly made his way around the foyer, cringing against the audible protests of the hardwood floor, as he moved to the nearest door. The door was a single entry, similar in uniform and design to that of the previous room. The candle illuminated the tarnished brass doorknob that had been molded with filigreed ivy about its outside edges. Paul reached out, his hand trembling anxiously, and slowly turned the knob. The door yawned open without much effort, exposing a large room that was by far darker that the drawing room had been. Paul ventured into the darkness, holding the chamberstick high to spread the light out farther. He was thankful for the reflector plate as it served not only to cast the light out ahead of him, but it also shielded his eyes from the night blinding effect of the tiny flame being at eye level.
     The feeble glow of the candle wrestled back the ominous shadows which had engulfed the room, keeping them just enough at bay to reveal that Paul had wandered into what appeared to be the den. As with the drawing room, the decorative furniture had been wrapped in white linens to protect their surfaces from the elements. He strode carefully deeper into the den, hoping to steal a better look at the room as a whole. The cobwebs, though present, were considerably less prevalent here than in the previous room. As he made his way across the floor, he noticed that the placement of the furniture had been centered on the tasseled edges of a great rug whose interwoven surface stretched along the floor like a great shadow. It was obvious that the room’s design was for the sole purpose of making the both family and guests feel more at home; however, as spacious and comforting as the room had once been, something about the room made his skin prickle with disfavor. Maybe it was the overwhelming darkness that unnerved him, or the tiny, eyelike windows whose sight had been dimmed by the encroaching ivy that scratched at its panes with each hissing breath of the wind, like the claws of some ancient unnamable beast trying to find its way in. What really made him squirm with unease though, were the tiny beads of light that glared at him from beyond the reach of his candle. Something about them had his instincts screaming for him to back out of the room, gather his things and leave the house as quickly as his feet could carry him, but it was his stubborn resolve that drove him toward the source of those ghastly lights. Step by step, he edged his way closer to the flickering fires that seemed to stare right though him, watching his every move. He stepped onto the rug, careful not to get his foot caught under its edge as he skulked closer to whatever it was that seemed to watch his approach. The growing tension in the air threatened to strangle Paul as the throbbing lights gazed at him from just beyond the edge of the candlelight. Sweat beaded his brow as he forced his foot forward; taking the next step that would bring the source of the tiny lights into view. A gasp of relief escaped his lips as he found himself staring into the long dead eyes of a mountain goat whose head had been mounted on the mantle wall above the large stone fireplace. The relief he felt was short-lived though; for something about the goat’s head didn’t feel right. There was a malevolence that lingered about the mounted bust, poisoning the air with its vile presence. That tainted feeling was reflected in the thing’s long dead eyes as it unflinchingly glowered out, over the den. The ominous gaze chilled Paul despite the fact that the mountain goat had been slain, long ago, and displayed as a grim trophy to accentuate the large gathering room. He tried to ignore the beast’s loathsome scowl as he attempted to explore the room further, but it didn’t take long for the sinister glare of those piercing eyes to send him back through the door from which he entered.
     The hollow shadows and creaking floor of the entry hall was a welcome relief by comparison to the den and the goat whose terrible eyes stared out, ever vigilant, into the darkness. Paul shuddered as he tried to shake the dread of the mounted bust watching his every move, but the overwhelming anxiety created by the beast’s glare held fast. He opened the next door with hope that whatever lie behind its wooden portal would be better than the den. With his candle leading the way, he stepped into the bend of an oblong hallway that served as the passage between the various parts of the first floor. From where he stood, there were only a handful of doors to either side of him, each of which, he figured, led to a different room of the manor. Paul started with the door closest to him, reaching out for the knob as he came within reach. The knob turned with a click, allowing the door to swing open, groaning as it revealed itself to be nothing more than a musty linen closet. Dusty, moth-eaten sheets and other various cloths neatly lined the shelves, appearing as though they had not been disturbed in ages. With a shrug of disappointment, the youth closed the door and moved on to the next.
     An icy chill ran down Paul’s spine as he stood in the narrow doorway, gaping into the vast nothingness just inches away. The shadows beyond the door seemed to swallow everything they touched, including the feeble light of his candle. He put out a hand to brace himself against the door face, as he felt strangely drawn to the darkness much like a moth to the flame that singes its wings before fully consuming the rest of its victim. He could feel as the breath pulled itself from his body to leave him involuntarily searching for air as he gazed into the pulsating emptiness that led to the manor’s basement. Without warning the house exhaled, assaulting him with the stench of musty trapped air, mingled with the smell of decay that is often found in forgotten crypts. His resolve nearly melted to water as his mind began to fashion all manner of horrors that could be lurking in the dark void that dominated the basement. It took all the courage that he could muster to reach his hand out, take hold of the doorknob, and pull the door to. To his horror, it resisted, held open by something he could not see. For an instant he panicked, fearing that something had grabbed the door and was only inches from dragging him into the darkness that had consumed everything else. With a final desperate tug, the door gave, slamming shut and knocking a decorative sconce from the adjacent wall. His heart pounded audibly within his chest, leaving him short of breath as he fought to regain control of his nerves.
     Paul gathered himself together and then began checking the next few doors, one by one. The door at the short end of the hall was jammed shut, and refused to budge, though, he swore that he had heard someone talking in hushed voices on the other side.
     “Hello,” he called as he tried the door again, but it was no use, “is anyone in there?” He was answered by silence. Whoever or whatever was on the other side was gone.
     He turned around and started back down the hall, nearly dropping his chamberstick when he saw a figure staring at him whose glowing face was obscured by shadows, until he realized that he was staring into a dusty hallway mirror that he hadn’t noticed before. With a laugh that border lined hysteria at the idea of being startled by his reflection; he allowed himself a moment to clear his mind before rounding the corner where he had entered the hall. The youth’s footsteps echoed as he took a turn to the right, following the passage to yet another door. The oaken door opened with a yawn, allowing him to peer inside. Something about the room seemed vaguely familiar as he brought his candle to bear. A sudden realization came crashing down upon him as his lamp sparkled on a pair of hideous orbs in the distance. Once more he was gazing at the fearsome eyes of the mountain goat which had unnerved him only moments before. Even now they seemed to glare menacingly at him as he dared to invade their sanctum. With an audible shudder, he closed the door faster than he had opened it, knowing now that he had found another entrance to the den and the creepy mountain goat which brooded therein.
     Somewhere nearby the clock chimed again, making Paul jump with a start as its bells pealed louder than before. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to still his nerves against the cold gaze of the mountain goat, the living darkness of the basement, and the disturbing chime of a clock that had no reason to be working in the abandoned manor. He held his chamberstick out like a shield against the darkness and proceeded carefully down the hall. The narrow passage soon gave away to a cavernous room that in and of itself seemed colder than the rest of the house. Maybe, he thought, it was because he was on the windward side of the estate, and this part of the house was more exposed to the effects of the wind than the front, or maybe it was because the room was larger than the others he had encountered. Either way he knew that this room was much like the others, save that it was both larger and colder. The ethereal hues of night highlighted the bleached dust cloths that wrapped the furniture, setting them aglow in the ghostly overtones which were common in the dismal twilight. The colorless sheets seemed to move with the ebb and flow of the nightly breeze, making them seem more like living things rather than common room accessories as he made his way through the cavernous great room. His candlelight was too finite to illuminate anything beyond his immediate surroundings in this large room, leaving the rest to the obscuring effects of night, and making him wonder how the previous residents managed to beat back the twilight shadows.
     The sudden, yet faint click of clockwork gears shifting nearby broke the dead silence that dominated the room, causing Paul’s hair to rise on the back of his neck as he turned to locate the source of the unexpected sound. Hidden among the velvety shadows along the southern wall, stood an old handcrafted grandfather clock whose visible surface reflected the neglect of decades long past. Paul strode forward to get a better look at the wooden sentinel whose random chimes had been echoing throughout the manor since his arrival. Despite the years of negligence that mottled its surface, the great clock stood proudly as it guarded the room from its sanctity among the shadows. Gothically designed Roman Numerals lined the outer rim of the face, which was inlaid with a filigreed sun dial that seemed more like a cyclopean eye as it stared out, unflinchingly into the darkness. Through the dust-stained glass door, he could see the suspended weights and counterweights that were used to operate the clock between windings. They were preceded by a heavy pendulum which hung forsakenly from the mechanism, looking as though it had not been moved in years. As he took in the worn grandeur of the old clock, a sudden realization dawned on him that formed an icy pit in his stomach. The pendulum, which set the pace of the mechanism, had not, in fact, been moved, yet he had just heard the subtle tick of its pass less than a moment before.
     “Wait a minute,” he muttered to himself, if only to quell the oppressive silence that seemed to press in on him with a claustrophobic effect, “how can this clock be working if the pendulum isn’t swaying to keep the time?”
     His gaze shifted from the motionless pendulum to the cyclopean dial, raising his chamberstick for a better view. His breath caught in his throat as his suspicions were confirmed. The grandfather clock was a chain driven mechanism operated by winding its weighted gears with a crank or a chuck key, only there was no key to be found. It was clear that he had been hearing this clock’s chimes at random intervals, just as he had heard the shift of its gears, yet for all purposes, the clock had not been disturbed since the last owners left the manor house. Paul shrank away from the clock as the shadows attained a menace that he had not felt since his discovery of the mounted goat in the den. He felt as though alien eyes were watching his every move from the lingering darkness beyond the safety of the candlelight. As he strained to see through the inky shades of twilit darkness, he longed for the comfort of the fire that still burned in the drawing room. Continuing to cast a wary glance about the obscurely lit great room, Paul carefully made his way back to the hallway. As he moved, it seemed to him that the wind laughed mockingly at him as it swept through the trees outside.