The Haunting of Parsons’ Manor©

Part 3

Sanctuary in the Shadows

     Paul was relieved to be back in the warm, comforting glow of the fireplace. The encounter with the grandfather clock had left him shaken and the low, yet unwavering light of the coal bed offered a small measure of consolation. He placed some broken planks on the glowing embers, hoping that it wouldn’t take much to build the blaze back up again. To his delight, it only took a moment for the cinders to accept his offering as the flames began to consume the dry wood. Soon the fire once more pushed back the wayward shadows as it filled the drawing room with light and warmth. His heart sank as he gazed upon the dwindling pile of planks, knowing, full well, that if he didn’t find more wood, he would soon be sitting in the cold, lifeless darkness that had encroached upon this once beautiful house. Paul generously tossed another couple of planks onto the fire for good measure, and then sat back pondering where he might be able to find enough wood to carry him through the night. In the distance, the grandfather clock tolled; its bells echoed through the house, forcing a shudder of revulsion through Paul’s body as he was reminded of its foreboding presence. The drawing room suddenly seemed to grow colder, despite the fire that burned only a few feet away. He utterly hated having taken the dare that had gotten him into this mess. He stared at the flickering coals beneath the flames, longing for the coming of daylight so that he could go home and be done with this wretched place. As it was, he had only been there for roughly more than a couple of hours at the most. Paul added another plank to the flames and gave himself a few moments to allow the warmth soak into his body; however, when the fire started to burn low again, he piled the remaining planks onto the embers, reluctantly took up his chamberstick, and set out to find the necessary supplies that he would need to see the night through.
     Once more the rheumatic floors of the entry hall greeted Paul as his next venture took him to the base of the long staircase whose ornamental structure rose up from behind the oaken secretary only to disappear into the murky gloom that hovered overhead, just beyond the reach of the candlelight. He gazed warily into those shadows as if trying to pierce their ethereal veil; however, even with his chamberstick raised as high as he could reach, the candlelight was much too finite to penetrate the ebony shroud, allowing whatever secrets they contained within their shadowy folds to remain cloaked in mystery. Paul’s blood ran cold as it seemed to him that the looming shadows pulsated with a life of their own. He swallowed hard at the insatiable dryness in the back of his throat as he wondered what unnamable horrors might be waiting for him within the deepened folds of that impenetrable blanket should he venture into their shadowy embrace. From the drawing room, the fire popped, startling him, tearing his attention away from the hypnotic void overhead, and reminding him of what he had set out to do. With an uneasy sigh of resignation, he pulled his gaze away from the darkness of the second floor and turned for the front door.
     He had only taken a couple of steps on the cantankerous hardwood floor when he was stopped short by a curious sound emanating from somewhere behind him. He paused, turning his head to get a bearing on its origin; however, the brief, yet sudden shift in his weight conspired against him as the floor groaned loudly. Its profound complaints echoed throughout the hollow shadows of Parsons Manor, forcing an involuntary cringe from the youth at the blatant invasion upon the utter silence that otherwise ruled this abandoned abode. Paul took a deep breath, steeling himself so that he could once more listen for the stray sound. He waited silently as the moments passed like hours, straining to hear what it was that had stopped him in the first place. In his effort to listen, he had not realized that he had been holding his breath until he felt the tell-tale burn in his chest as his lungs screamed for fresh air. He emitted a sharp gasp followed by several deep, rapid breaths as his body drank in the musty yet fresh air. Paul was just about to dismiss the sound as a figment of his imagination when the soft, faint sound of a melody came drifting aimlessly through the night air.
     The song was a lonely ballad, whose haunting tune hung in the air like an old funeral hymn. Its graceful, yet melancholy tone seemed vaguely familiar to the youth as it drew him in; lulling him toward it, like a moth to a flame. Before Paul knew what he was doing, he had abandoned his search for wood and was ascending the long staircase that would take him into the shadowy folds that loomed above.
     The eerie melody tantalized Paul’s ears as he stepped onto the upper landing, its elusive sound growing only slightly more audible with each step, yet remaining too distant to discern its apparent location. Night had gorged itself upon the second floor, leaving only murky black shadows in its wake which ebbed mercilessly at the tiny flame of the youth’s chamberstick, and cloaking anything beyond the feebly illuminated globe in obscurity. Paul strained to see though the deepening gloom, but soon gave in to the futility of his effort. He knew that the source of the melancholy ballad lay hidden somewhere in the darkness ahead, beckoning to him with its mournful tone. Once more its notes swelled to a pitch of vague familiarity, pulling at him with the lure of a siren whose lonely call lulls the unwary sailor to his doom.
     With carefully placed steps, the youth started forward, following the haunting tune… or was he being drawn in by its hypnotizing rhythm? He was no longer sure as his feet glided over the wooden floor. The creak of a loose board assaulted him, rattling his senses as its unholy screech echoed down the darkened hall. With a shudder of pure revulsion, he continued on, passing the shadowy alcoves of what he assumed was doors. Further down the hallway, the gloom gave way to a murky twilight haze that whispered of a window somewhere up ahead. Cobwebs hung in various intervals from the walls and remote corners like grim tapestries that swayed with even the slightest stir of the air. The house exhaled a ghastly sigh as a stiff gust of wind buffeted the old manor with the fury of a brewing storm, stirring the phantasmal curtains to life, and giving them the appearance of apparitions locked forever within the amorphous mists of purgatory. Something about the sudden change in the air sent a chill through his body that made him long for the comfort of the fire which now seemed so far away; though the drawing room was merely at the bottom of the stairs.
     “The fire”… he thought for a moment, blinking his eyes profusely as he cleared his head. Paul felt dazed, as though he had just awakened from a strange dream. Glancing about, the youth found that he had wandered into an open room, where dwelt the shrouded phantoms of antique furniture that had, long ago, been abandoned and left to their solitary existence among the gathering dust and age. Dreary twilight hues peered in through dust-stained window panes, illuminating the linen shrouds that had been haphazardly draped over their distorted frames in a vague attempt to keep them safe from the decadent elements that had long ago overtaken the Parson’s Estate. Paul knew that he needed to get back to his ongoing search for firewood, but found himself rather mystified by the state of disrepair that this particular room had fallen into. Without warning a blinding flash lit the room in a ghastly shade of blue that revealed everything all at once and then left him once more standing in the impenetrable gloom, with only his chamberstick and the meager twilight to push back the darkness. Had Paul ventured forth and dared to peer out one of the second story windows, he might have seen the distant lights of Rockhaven dotting the landscape like so many stars, attempting futilely to light their place in the ebon sea. He was, however, distracted as a random gust of wind blew through the darkened halls, snuffing out his candle, and plunging the youth into utter darkness.
     Petrified by the sudden turn of events that had put him in such a dire position, Paul nervously fumbled with his chamberstick for what seemed like an eternity as he tried to separate the lamp’s vital components that would allow him to re-light the candle or change it out for a fresh one if necessary. His blood chilled over as the toll of the old grandfather clock pealed through the hollow shadows of the old manor, reminding him yet again that he had entered a place where he should have never been. He winced as a sharp pain shot through his fingertips, forcing him to involuntarily jerk his hand back as his searching fingers found the hot glass surface of the chimney, nearly knocking the chamberstick from his grasp in the process. Paul rubbed his tender fingertips together checking for any injury that the unwavering cloak of night would not allow him to see. Though he was thankful that it was nothing serious, he cursed himself inwardly for not having used his lantern for this particular trek. He berated himself for a number of things in that moment- for allowing himself to be side-tracked from his search for the much needed firewood, for having come to this dreadful house where the shadows seemed to roam of their own free will, where clocks that shouldn’t work toll the hour with hollow notes of intoned madness, and melancholy ballads play into the night serenading only those unfortunate enough to be within the sound of their haunting melodies. He even chided himself for getting himself into this god-forsaken mess when he could have been at home with his family, safe, warm, and happy; not thinking about haunted mansions, unruly dares, and dreadful things that lurk in the shadows just beyond sight.
     Once more the soft, sad melody drifted hauntingly down the lonely, shadow consumed corridors of the upper floor, echoing from somewhere behind him. The mournful ballad beckoned to him, it seemed, enticing him, and unnerving him all at once as he kneeled upon the oaken floor of the sitting room. His chamberstick lay nearly dismantled on the floor as Paul struggled blindly to take the lamp apart with only the random flash of lightning from the gathering storm to reveal what was before him. He reached into his pocket and produced one of the candles that he had pilfered from the secretary at the base of the stairs and searched his other pockets to find the box of matches. After what seemed like hours alone in the unyielding cloak of night, Paul managed to light the candle, its tiny yellow flame struggling defiantly to beat back the shadowy folds that had enfolded him so abruptly. He dribbled a bit of hot wax onto the hardwood floor, making a place for him to set the candle while he worked on the chamberstick.
     There was just enough light for the youth to see what he was doing, so Paul worked quickly and had the lamp dismantled, the candle switched out and was back on his feet within moments. Though the dim glow of his chamberstick did little to push back the oppressive shadows that had devoured the second floor, its golden light and the meager illumination that came with it brought a small measure of relief to the teen as he found himself once more skulking back down the upstairs hall in search of the ever elusive song that had lured him into this sanctuary of shadows. Lightning flashed outside, briefly illuminating his area in somber shades of blue that were gone as quickly as they came. The melody led him to a dust-stained oil treated door near the top of the stairs, where he could hear the mournful melody telling the story of a lost love whose broken heart took them to their grave, filtering through the wooden portal. It soon dawned on him why the song was familiar to him as he stood there listening to the notes as they passed through the door. He had heard some of the town’s men and women sing it when their families gathered in the living room or the parlor on a lazy Sunday afternoon.
     Paul reached up, thinking only to knock on the door, but found his hand wrapping around and turning the enameled surface of the doorknob instead. The door groaned open with rheumatic hinges that probably hadn’t been oiled since the last owners lived here, announcing his arrival to anyone who might be inside. The melancholy ballad spilled out of the door and into the night, resonating through the empty halls of Parson’s Manor, and crooning to the somber shadows that forever haunted the old mansion’s abandoned passages.
     “Hello,” Paul inquired as he peered into the room through the small opening, “is anyone there?” He thought he heard someone or something move in the shadowy confines of the room, but when he pushed open the door; the chamber was empty save for a great French Provincial canopy bed that brooded like a lavish cage of wood and linen, between the windows of the far wall. The room, into which the youth found himself gaping, was large and lofty, leaving him a bit awestruck as he peered into its depths. The twilight hues that filtered in through the dirty, plate glass windows did nothing to brighten the somber shadows of the long forgotten room. Lightning lit up the night sky, illuminating the room in ominous shades of pale blue, allowing Paul a vague view of the magnificent room before him. He wandered in, taking in the scene bit by bit as he went. From the various wall sconces that dotted the walls and the ornately crafted fireplace, to the old gramophone that lingered in an all but forgotten corner, the youth was enraptured by the simple elegance of the room despite the years of neglect that had taken its toll upon the place. Dust cloaked the floor and general furnishings in a fine layer, while cobwebs hung from the walls where they met the ceiling and extended to the canopy of the bed like ethereal veils that swayed in the still air like phantoms dancing in the night, and the fusty scent of age and decay lingered in the air like the smell of a tomb which had long been sealed away from the light of day. An itchy dryness nagged at the back of the boy’s throat, threatening to gag him if he didn’t sate its irritating persistence.
     Even with the room’s current state of disarray, there was a sense of welcoming that appealed to Paul as he sauntered along. His chamberstick revealed the tell-tale ruins of a couple of wooden crates, similar to the ones that he had used to start the fire in the drawing room, heaped in a shadowy corner as he made his way across the room. He passed a vanity, that had been haphazardly wrapped in linen as though it were being fitted for a burial shroud rather than shielded from the musty elements of age, and eyed a number of well placed wall sconces that despite the despite the mansion’s long period of abandonment, were still fitted with half used candles. If lit, he pondered as he ambled toward the old gramophone, they would help beat back this perpetual shroud of gloom and make passing this black, stormy night more bearable.
      Lightning lit up the room with its transient glow as he neared a window, stretching his shadow painfully across the floor and against the distant wall, before the insatiable shadows of the house squelched its luminescence once more. Blinking away the images of the master bedroom that had been burned into his eyes, Paul was thrust back into the twilit world of dim, dusky light, and the bleary images of his surroundings, illuminated only when the mere light of his candle fell upon them.
     As the youth passed the nearest window, he peered out through the dust-stained glass to see the shadowy silhouette of the outlying forest as it stretched ever outward until it met the dismal violet of the distant horizon. Lightning streaked the sky with forked tongues like a deadly asp searching out its prey, as it paid homage to the gathering storm. Stiff winds buffeted the resilient hardwoods with the violent ferocity of an angry giant, as though it would uproot the mighty timber for just daring to oppose its unabashed wrath. Paul longed for home, the comfort and safety of his bed, and his family with whom he had weathered many such storms, knowing that when the night was done, the harsh weather would be gone.
     He turned from the window, sparing only one more, quick glance to the world outside, and walked over to the gramophone. A cylindrical tube was mounted in place with the needle resting gently upon its grooved surface. As the youth neared the old record player, he stumbled, jarring its stand. At once the cylinder began to turn, immersing Paul in the haunting rhythm of the melancholy ballad that had been so essential in luring him into the embrace of the shadows that frequented the upper floors of Parsons Manor. It was a pleasant reprieve for him to hear the gramophone playing due to his own inept action, unlike the grandfather clock which seemed to toll its bells for no explicable reason, save for its own vile whim. As if reading his thoughts, the hollow tone of clock chimes echoed through empty halls of the house, taunting the youth from its place among the shadows of the great room. Paul shuddered as an icy chill ran down his spine; he hated the peal of that cyclopean sentinel whose random chimes stole the silence with a sense of wrongness that curdled his very being. He reached out; sweeping the cobwebs and dust from the flower shaped horn and crank, and then gave the handle a few turns. Soon the echo of the lonely, melancholy ballad resonated among the abandoned halls of Parsons Manor, banishing the unquiet silence that had been so commonplace among this sanctuary of shadows, and making it a little easier to accept the twilit veil that had long since cloaked the manse’s once well groomed passages.
      Paul surveyed the room around him- the king-sized canopy bed, the wall sconces with candles that longed to be used, the old gramophone and its sorrowful melody that echoed from its flower-like horn, and the ornately carved fireplace- with a sense of comfort that he had not felt since entering this abandoned abode. “With a little light and some music to pass the time,” thought aloud, if only to hear himself his own voice on the matter, “this is where I could spend most of the night.” With his decision made, he set to work preparing his surroundings for his stay.
     After what seemed like an eternity lost in the oppressive shroud of night, Paul basked in the comforting glow of the wall lamps. To his favor, each of the sconces contained a side-pocket where one or two spare candles were stored, reassuring him that he had enough light to last until morning. Candlelight danced and played among silky, dust covered gossamer as the thick cobwebs moved and swayed from where they draped among the ceiling and walls, casting surreal shadow plays upon their surroundings. Outside, lightning lit up the night, occasionally offering to add its solemn blue highlights to the master chamber as Paul gathered kindling for the fire. The youth prepared the fireplace for use much like he did in the drawing room, using the cinder broom to sweep away dust and cobwebs before stacking the kindling into place. The ebb and flow of the perpetual updraft from the chimney gave him some comfort in the knowledge that he didn’t have to open the flue before starting his new fire. Once he had placed the kindling into the hearth, he pulled out his matches and prepared to light the second fire of the night; however, just as he was about to strike the wooden match, he was interrupted by the echo of someone rapping at the front door. Paul stopped and looked toward the door to the master bedroom, wondering who would be knocking at the door of this abandoned manor, especially at this time of night. Again the knock echoed up the stairs, summoning him to answer its call. As he descended the long staircase, he heard the shuffle of someone or something on the porch, confirming that someone was outside. He figured that one of the townsfolk had seen the light from the master bedroom and had come to see who was staying in the old mansion.
     The entry floor greeted him with a groan of protest as he stepped once more onto its fickle surface. The grumbles and complaints seemed to follow his every step as he walked to the front door. Upon opening the heavy wooden door, he was met with an eerie silence save for the vile hiss of wind through the barren trees. He was both unnerved and relieved to find that, despite the knocks that he had heard and the movement of someone on the front porch, there was no one at the door, save for the grisly old welcome mat that had so violated his extremities earlier that evening. He stepped out, careful to avoid the decrepit old mat, as he glanced around to see if anyone was around. Both alarmed and annoyed at the same time, the thought crossed his mind that Charlie and the Jenkins Brothers might be toying with him, hoping to scare him into leaving so that they could laugh and poke fun at him when they saw him.
     Something shuffled just out of sight amidst the shadowy recesses where the porch met the front parlor; however, Paul didn’t notice that he wasn’t entirely alone on the veranda, for his eyes were fixed on the single most important component that he needed to see the night through. Stacked indiscriminately against the railing near the drawing room was a finely stocked, if well aged, stack of firewood. Lightning brightened the night in a searing flash, burning away the shadows and revealing all secrets hidden within the ebony folds of night. Had Paul looked toward the opposite side of the porch at that moment, his nerves would have become water, and he would have forgotten about the wood, the fire, and even the dare that had put him in such a dire position. Rather, he was beginning to gather what he needed to stock both the drawing room and the master bedroom for the night. Thunder rumbled as the winds picked up with the steady incursion of the storm, letting him know that he didn’t have long to get the wood inside before the whole was drenched with the imminent torrent that would arrive at any minute.
     Paul was met by the rheumatic complaints of the entry hall as he worked quickly to carry firewood to both the drawing room and the master’s chambers. A steady rain had begun to blow in on the veranda, as he fumbled with the final load, letting him know that he had found the necessary supplies none too soon. He took the armful of wood into the drawing room, where he placed it by the hearth so that he could tend to the low burning coals that had just a little while earlier had been a blazing fire full of warm bright flames. Once he had stoked the raw embers back up to a steady blaze, he packed the fireplace with enough firewood to last for several hours, and then placed the bi-fold cinder gates along its perimeter to contain the flames in his absence. The warmth of the fire radiated out, caressing his back gently as he gathered his things and prepared to move his camp up to the master bedroom.
     The light from the upstairs room pulsated menacingly as it cast its dismal glow through the churning shadows of the second floor, with only the melancholy music of the old gramophone to help shake off the chill that pervaded the manor’s dreary upper floors. In many ways, Paul could not believe that he was about to enter that sinister realm of night of his own free will, but with a deep, heavy laden breath, he began to ascend the long stair gradually succumbing to the cold, ethereal embrace of the ever lurking shadows above.
     It didn’t take long before Paul had the fire burning in the master bedroom. As the flame grew large enough to sustain itself, he added a few small logs to the greedy blaze, which accepted his offering with a satisfied crackle as its tongues licked at the dry fuel. Paul basked in the fire’s warm embrace as it drove the moist chill from the air. Thunder rumbled as rain pelted the windows in leaded sheets, announcing that the storm had arrived. Getting up only long enough to crank the old gramophone, he retired before the steadily burning blaze, adding a log or two when it was needed, and listening as the haunting melody as it resonated throughout his newly found safe haven.