The Storyfire

Well, I don’t really know where to begin here. I guess the first thing is that I’m having a hard time trying to succeed as a writer and that the current Tumblr issues (the new policy taking effect on December 17) are going to make that harder. I’ve tried to get a Patreon going but as time progressed, I haven’t really seen much in the way of visitors. I’m pretty much at my wits end here.

I’m asking that a few of you, dear followers, throw some spare change my way so that I can justify having my Patreon. Otherwise, I’m going to have to throw it into a hiatus that I’m unsure will end. The reason I’m making this post is because everytime I look at Patreon, I just become more depressed because it tells me that I have no future in writing and I should just give up. Then, you couple that with the approaching holidays and I feel worse for being unable to get anything for my family.

I don’t know what to do. I put off making this post because I hate begging for money, but I’m desperate enough to force that aside. I feel like the only other way to make the effort of Patreon (I’m getting tired of this word, too) worth it is to become a professional victim and I refuse to do that. So, if anyone has any better ideas of writing this post or getting Patrons, then please tell me.

And here’s the link to the site (I know. How shameless of me): https://www.patreon.com/ivanthestoryteller

I cannot say with any certainty of what I saw, but I can say these are the words of a conversation I had with a close friend. I had called him up to ask if he could meet me right away at my humble abode since I hadn’t seen him in a good while. From there, it was but a few minutes until he had arrived and I was in a large degree of distress, his presence calming me. Now, names are not important here, but instead this is how the conversation had gone.

I seated us before the fire I had built in the place such a thing should be built and made sure the flames were of sufficient height. Here is where the words between friends takes place.

“You called me out here, so what’s the problem?” my friend asked. I stared at the flames while I answered, unable to truly give him any words directly yet.

“I saw an abomination that should have stayed where it came from,” I said. He laughed at my words before proclaiming “It couldn’t have that bad.”

“Ah,” I began, “but it was.” He quieted down, knowing I spoke the truth for what I saw.

“Then what was it?” he asked with grave concern.

“Allow me to start a bit before I can say much,” I began the tale. “I was walking through the woods on this very day and I hadn’t anything to tell the time. Though it was late evening and the sun dipped. From here, I began the trek home, passing by that open area of woods, you know the one? With the field yonder past.” He nodded and I continued. “Well, from there, I saw the sun had retreated to be even further missing from the sky and I thought it queer to have done so. But I traveled on until the same spot was there again.

“Then I noticed the sky wasn’t evening anymore, but rather it was the beginnings of night with the moon coming out.”

“Most strange,” my friend chimed in.

“Indeed. But it became even moreso when I looked into the field again. I saw two figures there, moving about in ways I can’t replicate,” I spoke, the feelings of terror beginning to come back again.

“And?” My friend was starting to think I had begun to overreact, that I had simply imagined a great terror where none had been. I wish he was correct with his assumptions.

“I walked down there to see what I could, the damned curiosity of mine dragging me.” I had begun to stare at the fire even more, unable to look at him. I then noticed the strange silence and pressed on, knowing I could never be at peace until he knew what I did. “I walked through the small brush, still unable to see them until I was a good few yards away.” I grew quiet again.

“What’d you see?” he asked, concerned since I had shown it couldn’t have been a prank.

“I saw that one of the figures was a beast of some sort, with cloven hooves and fitting legs, the top half being closer to that of a man, lacking clothes as well. But this wasn’t as terrifying as the second figure with him.” I could feel the beating of my heart increase, wanting to jump out of my chest desperately. But I pushed on. “The second figure was that of a normal man, completely in the buff. But the word normal here isn’t true in the greatest sense. The second figure I saw was me, giddy and smiling as I was dancing with the Devil in the moonlight.”

My friend wanted to smile and laugh, to call me out for my story, but saw I couldn’t have been joking in the slightest. This still didn’t prevent him from trying to think it was in some degree.

“And then you died,” he said, cracking the weakest smile I had ever seen from him.

“Then how would I be here to tell it to you?” I asked him. He was pale, knowing right then and there I wasn’t joking in the slightest. He became quiet, staring into the fire as well. The air was silent, with neither of us talking one bit until the morning sun rose. I bid him goodbye, but I was still left wondering to myself: why was I dancing with the Devil in the moonlight?

Ivan was taking a stroll through a path that he had traveled down many times before. It was therapeutic, giving him time to be with himself, to enjoy the sights and sounds of the forest all alone. Sure, he had encountered people going down the same path, but he rarely ever chatted with them, usually helping them with directions or if they needed the time. He always made sure to keep it that way and if they wanted to make it take longer, then he would feign his leg acting up and would point to his cane to help him get away from chatting.

It was a bit rude and maybe antisocial, but he didn’t care. After all, why visit when he just wanted peace? Only once did he outright become rude when a woman offered to help him back to civilization and simply wouldn’t leave his side until he flat out told the truth. She was hurt by his words (or was it stunned?) and he felt bad afterward, but that wasn’t his fault, so he moved on rather soon.

He had been walking for hours now, his gnarled cane helping to prop him up and keep him going. He wasn’t in need of it, but it helped in walking, alleviating any aches that could occur after long periods of movement. The round head felt good, letting him truly feel the sturdiness of the device. Yet the thing failed to help in removing the fog that surrounded him. He had checked the reports for the weather and failed to be notified of the sudden onset of such a phenomenon.

Surely I should’ve hit the junction by now, he thought to himself. He was confident that he could walk the path while blind after the amount of time he had committed to it. Yet the junction he needed to be at was nowhere to be found; it was just him walking along the path straight and true without any real curves to it. Plus the fog didn’t allow for him to see very far, with the visibility to be, at best, twenty-five feet. He grumbled, disgusted at the prospect he had become lost.

He failed to measure any amount of time having passed, being unable to see the sun and having no other method to discern such a passage as well. He reckoned that an hour had passed, though he was bad with telling time this way. His grumbling was constant now, continuing up to the point where he saw the opportunity to sit on a bench and rest his weary soles.

He barely registered the crunching of the leaves that had appeared on the ground, simply relishing the thought of sitting. He put himself down on it, hearing a creak and groan, though feeling no give to the seat beneath him. He sighed in relief, his feet finally able to communicate to him that they were in need of desperate rest. His ears simply stopped listening to the world itself and turned inward for the purpose of peace since no one else seemed to be around. His eyes followed suit in that they closed and let him simply rest. These traitorous acts led him to be unable to notice the crunching of leaves approaching him until it was too late.

“May I join you?” called out a voice. It sounded like it belonged to a man of an age far more ancient than that of the world as it was. Ivan looked to confirm if this was the case and indeed it was. The man was walking with his own cane, actively supporting himself by leaning against it. The cane was lightly lacquered and more gnarled than even Ivan’s, with a hook for the handle. The man was sporting a white beard that reached his stomach and had glasses that looked to be centuries old with the glass rather thin. His clothes were plain enough and seemed to match the expectations of a man in his senior years. Then there was the hat, being one of an unknown type to Ivan, though he suspected it was as old as the man himself appeared to be.

“Certainly. I can’t deny you a seat,” Ivan said, scooting over to the end farthest away from the man. The senior tipped his hat and sat. Ivan hoped he wouldn’t have to make small talk or even entertain the man with talk of any kind. Sadly, such hopes were canceled rather soon.

“I hope you have a minute to spare for some conversation,” spoke the wizened man. Ivan internally sighed before his reply so as to avoid being rude.

“I do,” he spoke, driving any irritability out of his voice that he could find.

“Good,” spoke the senior, “I find that weather is usually lightened up with a good talk. Maybe this fog will pass all the sooner for it?”

“Maybe,” Ivan concurred absentmindedly.

“Splendid. Now, I can see you’re leagues above your peers in many respects.” Ivan looked at him, confused.

“What do you mean, good sir?” Despite his usual wants, he had suddenly become very interested in this man’s words and wished to see where it led.

“You seem to be kind when an elder requests a trivial thing and grant it with ease. You also speak in a manner higher than those within your generation or even of a generation before yours. This leads me to assume you had an upbringing with a love for reading as well as being taught how to be kind to others from an early age.” Ivan seemed especially surprised, but hid this rather well.

“All of which I can attribute to my mother,” Ivan said. The senior chuckled a little.

“She sounds like a kind woman,” the senior spoke.

“She still is.”

“And if she taught all of that, then she must also have taught you to enjoy nature, correct?” Ivan was astonished at the man.

“You’re rather perceptive,” he replied to the senior. The old man chuckled again, though there was a different element added to it altogether, one which Ivan could not name.

“With someone in my position, it requires such a skill so as to be prepared for everything,” the senior spoke.

“And may I inquire as to what that position is?”

“You may. But you will fail to know until at a later time. Now, I do believe we have moved past formalities, barring names, yes?”

“I do believe so,” Ivan said. “Which leads me to beg the question: Why are you here alone? Surely there was someone to assist you?”

“Then it will surprise you when I say I had no problem in coming here nor do I have anyone to assist me while here,” the old man said. “Which does lead me to assume that I may ask the same of you.” Ivan thought for a moment.

“I don’t enjoy people. They all seem to be invested in things I have little interest for, things I find annoying and would assume lowers the intelligence of a man should he view it,” Ivan said with brutal honesty. “Plus it clears the head better when I’m not with someone.”

“I can see you have some degree of contempt for your fellow man,” the old man said.

“If they were my fellow man, then they would be more akin in my interests. Otherwise, they are simply there to occupy space,” Ivan said with a laugh. The old man grinned at this.

“And you said it clears the mind. I take it you’re a creative type of man. I’m assuming writer.”

“That’s correct.”

“Figures. A man such as yourself would have picked a more difficult art form,” the old man said with a quick stretch of his arms.

“I found it more to my liking. Never had the skill for a more physical medium. At least, that might be the case if I had ever been given a chance to direct something,” Ivan spoke with a touch of sadness in his voice.

“You have a knack for telling stories at least,” the old man corrected himself.

“And of you?” Ivan asked him.

“All in due time,” the old man said, raising his hand and then lowering it again. “But I feel like there’s a bit more for you to say before I delve into myself to any degree.” Ivan felt frustration rising within himself, pushing it back down. “Now, I take it you have no woman waiting for you at home?”

“You’d be correct,” Ivan replied, unsure of how the man was going to go about the whole subject. The old man cleared his throat.

“This leads me to assume that you’ve had a few major tragedies in your past.”

“Who hasn’t?” Ivan asked, unsure of where the man was heading.

“But yours is of a special quality to this conversation compared to the next man. I take it you had girl break your heart when you were younger and you had no father to help in the later years of your upbringing, thus leading to neglect in the ability to date other girls.” Ivan instantly became suspicious, trying his hardest to keep a face that was stalwart.

“How do you reckon?” His voice was giving him away.

“You have no girl at home waiting for you. You failed to have a woman in your life because at some point a woman broke your heart. This isn’t too much of a problem, but this would mean you managed to find another woman later on. However, since you didn’t, then I am to assume you were rather unversed in finding women easily or with any degree of luck since you had no father to truly help you out with dating. If you had no father to help with that, then there is a chance your father died since your mother is too nice of a woman to divorce him,” the old man said, rattling off everything that was true about Ivan’s life.

“You seem to assume quite often,” Ivan said, unsure if he should feel fear or anger at the accuracy of the man’s claims.

“That’s simply the perception,” the old man said, grinning even wider. “Now, there is the other chance that you have a deeper fear, one that does not seem to simply be afraid of the fairer sex but rather of the self toward them. This can be coupled with the points I have stated earlier and thus the reason why you have no woman at home.”

“And if I say ‘yes’ to all of it, would you then be so kind as to provide some information about yourself?” Ivan asked with impatience. He knew it was all true and was wondering why this senior had taken to examining his life as well as displaying it to any who might be nearby. He saw a shadow dart in the fog beyond the trees and shivered at the sight of it. He couldn’t be where he thought he was to any extent nor was he sure he would see home again.

“I’m rather sorry for making this a one-sided conversation, but since I did drive you to this point, I figure I’ll answer your questions,” the old man began, his grin so wide as to send further chills across Ivan’s body. “You see, I go by many names but I enjoy Lucifer best. You have led an interesting life, one I bore witness to and am glad I did. Now, you might be wondering why I’m here and striking conversation with you. Well, if I’m being honest, it’s because I like to crawl out every once in awhile and talk to those who I deem worthy of meeting me.

“However, many of them don’t ever make it back their homes afterward.” His sentence was punctuated by another shadow darting through the fog. Ivan began to sweat, sure he was going to be dragged to Hell. “You have managed to show me kindness with no real reason. You even entertained the idea of talking with me when many wouldn’t. For this, I have respect for you. And as such,” Ivan dreaded to hear the rest, “I think it only fitting you get to go home.” Lucifer stood and turned to face the man he had talked with. “I think this is where we part ways, but I might have to visit you again sometime. Maybe we’ll have more to talk about then.”

Lucifer cracked a smile at the prospect and began walking past Ivan, telling him to take the same path as he in order to get back home. Ivan heard no more, whether it was the sound of footsteps leaving or the voice of the Devil himself. Ivan was more than pale and if anyone should have passed him by, they would suspect that he was drained entirely of blood. Yet Ivan managed to find his feet and stand, following the direction of Lucifer and walking.

He moved slowly at first, barely a shuffle and then it grew to a walk proper. It was here, though, that he finally stepped free of the fog, greeted by the sight of his house and the walkway that led to up to it. Ivan turned back and saw there was no fog nor was there a pathway to explain how he had managed to find his home. But he still took this good fortune and walked inside, the horror that the Devil knew where he resided never once hitting him, as well as the idea that he was the plaything of the Prince of Hell.

“Come in, dear child,” the woman called to him, still rocking and facing the window. He saw her straight ginger hair bobbing in time with the chair’s movements. He stepped in only a foot, staying within arm’s reach of the door. “Closer, please,” she requested of him, moving a finger try to bring him farther into the room.

“I’m good here,” he politely declined, raising a hand to add to his words. She went silent. The air stilled itself, letting Daniel hear his own heartbeat. It moved at a rhythm that frightened him, making the beat worse.

“Tell me, do you know what this place is?” she asked.

“No, I don’t know anything about the manor,” he said truthfully. He only knew of the place just recently and didn’t try to look up information about the place. He couldn’t see anything of the woman or the chair in the window. She wore an old dress, the color unable to be discerned properly.

“I can see the fear in your face, young one,” she told him. She was at most twice his age and that was being liberal. He shifted, his fear expanding exponentially. He kept a calm mask on, hoping it help convince her otherwise. “No matter. I wish to share a story with you. Would you kindly listen to?” Her voice was full of realizing every bad decision she ever made in her life.

“Please do so,” he told her, eagerly awaiting her tale.

“I lived here many years ago. I met the man who would be my husband at the age of fourteen. If only I knew what he was I would have left him long before. He was a sweet man, considerate and loving. We were arranged to marry and I cared not, for I loved him. He would speak sweet nothings to me as we courted and I would suckle at every word, always left wanting. We married a few short years after we had met. He was still kind and built much of our furniture with his bare hands, love into every ounce of his creations.

“He wanted children, so I gave them to him, wanting to do the good for him he had done for me. I gave him a daughter and he loved her so, enjoying every moment he spent with her. He had wanted to name her Rue, after me, but I convinced him that she should be named otherwise. He agreed and we spent time as a family together. He wanted another child and so I gave him another daughter. He loved her too, but he seemed to change. I wished to have seen the signs sooner. He wanted another child and earned another daughter. He changed more. He no longer shared his sweet words. He was more distressed than ever.

“He wanted another child and he made the request for it to be a boy. He had another daughter. He was developing a temper. I still refused to see the signs, to hurry my family away from him for fear of his anger. He began to become distant. He wanted more children, always wanting a boy. He would only ever know daughters. He began to become agitated, lashing against anyone who disturbed him without sufficient reason. I still refused to believe he was bad and tried to make it so he could be back to his old self again. I prayed and prayed for God to bless him with a son. He had prayed too, but he no longer did so by the end of it all.

“I was foolish in all of my time with him. I had refused the use of the gift of sight to see how much danger we were all in. I can still feel his hands against me. I can still see his anger. At long last, I was pregnant with what would be a final child. I labored and he waited, unable to see what he was going to welcome into the world. He was finally given a son. At long last he had what he wanted. It was true irony when our son came out stillborn. I wept at the loss of our child. He didn’t.

“He left the room, emotionless. I had to be comforted by the midwife who was there, unable to believe I had failed my husband. I lay there, the pain of birth fresh and my child awaiting burial. He came back, hours later, with a gun in his hand. The midwife moved away from him, scared of what he would do. He looked at me, an evil having been painted onto his face. He looked at our son and I could see he had anger in his eyes. He turned back to me and smiled, aiming the gun and killing me. It was after death that I learned the fate of my children. I wept and tried to see why God had bound us here, but I was left without answers. Now, I can only live my regrets.” She finished, her voice calm throughout her story.

“I know you’re out there,” he called to the emptiness. Nothing. “I said show yourselves. It’s not funny.” He waited again. He was losing patience. He yelled a few more choice words of obscene and explicit description, even delving into territory regarding whoever devised the prank and their mother. Nothing. The letter had to be real by this point. He could run out and test that loop he read about but decided against it.

“All these years and this is what I’m left,” he mumbled to himself. I get a manor that just hates me for the reason of coming in. Damn, never thought I’d be this lucky, he thought to himself. More than anything, h–

His stomach rumbled. He looked at the time on his phone, seeing he hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. He got up, leaving the letter on the table along with the will. He ventured back into the kitchen, wary of the other end. He found the larder and started to see what could be made, figuring out what he wanted for dinner. He felt like the fox that had too many choices, unable to choose what sounded good as well as easy. This was compounded with his feelings of how to treat the letter and will. He just grabbed some random bits of food and left, sure that if he was still hungry, he could eat some more.

He finished what he grabbed from the larder, barely a few swigs of water from a case in there as well. He looked at his phone, seeing how far into the evening it was. The time on the phone and the position of the sun were not able to reconcile, with the sun being much lower than it should have been at this time of year. He began to feel a light sleep come over him, the temptations of dreams seducing him. He heard his father’s words in the back of his mind, screaming at him to ignore his desires, to heed the warning. Daniel thought that just few minutes of shut-eye wouldn’t hurt too much. That sounded reasonable enough. Just a few minutes. He went to the couch in the entrance room and promptly slept, greeted warmly with dreams.

He heard a feminine scream, forcing his sleep to end abruptly. He sat up on the ouch, unsure if it was just in his head or if he heard it from somewhere in the mansion. He waited, waited, the time slipping by. He could hear the ticking of a clock coming from somewhere, unable to pinpoint it. He went to rub his eyes, halting when he saw a paper in his hand. The wording on it was simple and written hastily giving it a chill that would be undeserved anywhere else. It read: Don’t go when she beckons. Stay near door. He folded it and went ahead with his first action for his eyes.

He started to check his pockets for his phone, forgetting that he had set everything within on the dining room table. He went to grab his things, hearing what he presumed to be a grandfather clock doling its knowledge of the time. The place was lit, despite him seeing every curtain available closed. He saw the doors closed for the room. He knew they shouldn’t have been closed since he didn’t do it and no one else was here. He could see through the glass doors that his possessions were there, just as he left them. He tried to move the doors, unable to budge either one. He started to panic, knowing he was no longer alone.

He moved away, fear starting to settle in. The contents of the letter came back to the forefront of his mind. He had to face it all. He began looking to see which doors could be opened when he heard a baby’s cry come from the nursery. He moved slowly, the sound of it’s crying faint in his ears. He went up the stairs, the sounds coming from the location he suspected getting louder and louder. He stopped outside the nursery, unprepared to face the contents within. His hand grasped the doorknob. He could feel how cool it was as he held it, unable to bring himself to truly turn it as he worried more and more.

Time to face the music, he thought, willing his hand to crank the knob. He felt it move without issue, the door moving inside without a creak or any effort, almost as if it had a mind of its own. The crying had stopped. He looked inside, seeing a woman facing away from him and toward the open window. There was only darkness as the night had set in, not an ounce of true light in the room save for the open door. The chair she was in rocked back forth, gently swaying with the push of her feet. The chair looked to be in brand new condition, something he hadn’t expected in the slightest. The room had changed. The crib was blue, something he knew couldn’t be since he saw it without any paint. Or was it? he thought to himself.

Satisfied he had taken a sufficient tour of the mansion, he went back to the dining room, setting himself in a chair that was the most plain of the bunch. He set the envelopes on the table, staring at them. He knew the contents of one and the other remained a mystery. He sat there, an air of reverence consuming him as he prepared to read through the open envelope again.

He grabbed the item inside the open envelope, reading through it. It was a will. He couldn’t believe that he now owned the manor. He didn’t know what to do with it. Should he sell it? Should he move in and make it a home? Should it just be left well enough alone? He pondered, unsure of what to do. He put his head into a hand, the will in the other. He stared blankly at it, lost in thought. He set it down and opened the other, following the will’s instructions to open once had arrived.

He hesitated, his fingers failing to make the appropriate gestures needed to retrieve the item hiding inside. He forced his hands to work, pulling it out carefully, as if it were as fragile as some of the items within the building. He still moved painfully slow as he opened it up, unsure if he wanted to see what might very well be the words of his father. He pulled it open to its extreme, starting the journey of discovery within the letter.

My Son Daniel,

If you are reading this, then there is nothing I can do. You were probably told to never open this letter until you had set foot inside the mansion. Crossing that threshold has given you over to the spirits that haunt there. You can never leave. I have tried and found myself in an endless loop, never able to leave the grounds. If you had simply left before moving past the front door, then you would have been fine and that would be that. Now, your fate is most likely the same as mine. There is hope for you yet, however, but listen carefully.

If you survive the night and every encounter, then you can leave, breaking free of the curse that holds you now. You must last from eight in the evening to eight in the morning. Your life depends on this very time-span. I wish I could help you further, but I have little time to do so. Every spirit must be visited in order, within the allotted times of each. Each must be dealt with in varying ways. There are always clues as to how to deal with a spirit and only some are easy to see. Whatever you do, don’t fall asleep. Please, there is so much I want to tell you and can’t. Just remember that I will always love you son.

Godspeed,

George Matthew

Daniel held the letter with trembling hands. For the first time in a long time, he knew not what to do. He wanted to cry, wanted to set the letter down and forget it, wanted to just scream. But he couldn’t do any of that. He set it down, trying to soak in its message. He had questions aplenty and none could be answered at the moment, frustrating him. He rubbed his face, the feeling of being so small in the in the universe coming over him. He looked at the letter, realizing that these were the last words of his father. The final ones and he had to live with that.

He fought back the tears that were forming, sniffling back his running nose. He succeeded, the shock leaving him. He sat in silence, denial of the letter’s contents slowly filling him. Surely his dad didn’t write that in seriousness? Surely, there was a prank going on and he was going to see a crew of people pop out and tell him he was a fool for believing the words at face value. He waited, waited, waited for his suspicions to be right. He could hear a ticking sound from a clock somewhere in the building. His heart beat in rhythm with the sound. Still nothing. He couldn’t stand it anymore.

The desk was of a large size, with only some pens set in a stand and awaiting use, the rest of the desk being vacant, even of papers and a placard. It was made with an expensive looking wood and was left with only treatment. He marveled at the red of the wood, continuing to spread his amazement when took in the back wall. Shelves upon shelves were filled with books of all sizes and colors, differing ages from ancient to fresh f the press. He moved farther in, taking in the sight with a hitch in his breath as he saw the shelves extend even more. The room had chairs spread to certain points, usually in corners or around the one table at the end of the room. Daniel suspected that the length ran to the front of the house. He then saw the that there was a walkway along the top of the room with a ladder reaching it. The amount of books continued to impress in just how many there could be.

Never had he seen a library so large that also happened to be completely private. He wondered how many books were here and how long it would take him if he did nothing else but read them, appropriating their contents for his own. He shook his head violently for a few seconds, pushing the idea of staying to read instead of exploring a bit more out of his mind. He still wanted to see what else there was in the house, leaving with depression in his step. Soon enough, he reassured himself. He closed the doors that he followed in, not wanting to tempt himself while he had places to see.

He turned around, eyeing another door attached to the end of a section of wall that was jutting out from the rest of itself. He went over, uneasy with seeing what lay hidden within. He pulled the door open and saw a set of stairs leading down into darkness. He figured this are to be a cellar or basement, but the mundane name was not fitting for what he thought it felt like: nothingness. The rest of the house was filled with light and could easily be navigated but this room… this room seemed to require a set of high-power lights just to begin piercing the darkness. He closed the door, not wanting to go anywhere near it without at least a crowd of people accompanying him. He pushed it out of his mind, the existence of the room sending shivers across his body.

Now’s a good time to look upstairs, he thought, putting the idea into motion with a single step. He climbed the stairs on the den side of the mansion, the carpet beneath his feet making every step feel soft. It brought comfort to him, if only subconsciously. He saw doors set in a proper placement, spaced evenly around the mansion for the second floor. He checked the door closest to the front of the house on the side of the den, unable to make it budge in any capacity. He threw himself at it, bound and determined to see what was to be kept hidden from him. It didn’t even rattle in it’s frame, steadfast beyond his comprehension. He stopped, hurting his shoulder from the fourth attempt. He cursed the door, checking it’s neighbor.

The door moved much open much more easily. He had been prepared to shoulder the door but the fact that it opened so easily disarmed him and made him begin to question if it was okay to enter. He stood in the doorway, observing that the room had three beds, each spread apart evenly along one wall, the feet facing him. The beds were just as unique as the chairs in the dining room. He wondered if the two were related in some way, brushing it aside as he felt something in the room. There was a presence, but not one that he knew to be from a person occupying the room. He couldn’t put it to words, but it felt comfortable, almost as if it wished no true ill will toward him. He closed the door, wishing not to intrude any further than he had.

He checked the neighbor and also encountered a similar situation. The beds were only set at two, but the properties they had were just as different as the last. Here, the presence seemed to be intrigued by him. He moved on, checking two more doors and seeing that the room beside the last had a similar set up with the design of the beds, though the rooms still varied between two and three beds. The presence he felt in each was just as different, yet they all wished no true evil against him from what he could feel. He came to the last door, unsure of what he would see on the other side. He prepared himself for another bedroom.

He pushed it open and saw… a crib, a rocking chair not too far from it while facing a window. He felt great sadness emanating from the room, putting more and more weight on his shoulders as he looked inward. He stared outside, the sun lower than it had been since his arrival. He could almost hear a baby’s cry from the crib. He took one step in, looking in each corner to find out if the room was truly as barren as it seemed. He saw to his right, hidden in the corner that was itself hiding behind the door, a mobile. It looked ancient, hand-made even, but its age was not reflected in its decay (of which there was none) but instead in its design. The crib was just as affected as the mobile. The rocking chair was a different story altogether. It looked ready to become dust at any second. He left, wishing to never step foot near the room for awhile yet.

The leaves grow and sway but where's daddy?        Hush now, little one,        daddy's gone away. The car horns loudly beep but where's daddy?        Hush now, little one,        daddy's gone to sleep. I looked here and there but where's daddy?        Hush now, little one,        daddy's up the stair. I checked his room again but where's daddy?        Hush now, little one,        the doctors said ten Mommy bawled her eyes out but where's daddy?        Hush now, little one,        daddy's in heaven.

A leather couch stood steadfast in what seemed a comfortable distance from the stonework fireplace, awaiting to accommodate a person or animal wishing to be warm. The fireplace even looked prepared to receive logs for a nice-sized fire without a speck of ash on the ground. Daniel made a mental note to try the fireplace tonight if he felt up to it. The tools used to tend to the area were of a bright polish with a metal he couldn’t believe would be used in it’s construction. Surely the gold was just paint or brass hitting the sunlight just so. This led to the epiphany that few windows were open to the sun and the room stood so bright as to be standing outside in the very day itself. He looked around expecting to not see an ounce of modern electricity, surprising himself when he eyed a light-switch. A flick later and the chandelier in the center of the ceiling lit up.

Might be a generator, he noted, hoping he wouldn’t have to deal with it at some point. The switch resumed the position he found it in for he didn’t want to waste potential fuel. The wallpaper as a whole looked ancient and yet, the stripes of light green and cream with beige tulips scattered about were in far too excellent a condition. The two opposing states of the wallpaper were worthy of ponderment as to their coexistence, but now was not the time. He made his way out of the atrium, peeking into each room to check what lay in store should he visit them later.

He discovered a recreation room, holding only a couple of leather chairs that were stained black with pine legs. The rest of the room was barren barring a flower vase devoid of anything. Next came another such room, dedicated entirely to billiards games. Each cue was in its place, racks hung up with care, balls set on the table in perfect order, but the table itself differed drastically from the rest of it’s neighbors. It looked ready to give out should he even dare to entertain the idea of looking at it. He left, not wishing to intrude on the peace of the room. As he walked, he wondered who originally owned the manor, who would have such deep pockets to build rooms so big and barely having anything inside. He looked back on each room, noticing with hindsight that each was the size of a small apartment, being comfortable enough that you could build three rooms should walls be erected in each.

Then came the kitchen, of glorious size to any needing a place to prepare a feast fit for three kings. He marveled at the size, the feeling of being lost even at the entrance overwhelming all other senses. The tables, stoves, ovens, and all other manner of devices and places made for creating culinary delights looked new enough, even if the models were ones that could date to an earlier time. He couldn’t see past a corner of the room, spotting a table that told him the corner existed to hide an unknown side of this room from his position. He moved in farther, farther, his legs transporting him of their own free will, until he could see around the corner. The hidden side was in deep disrepair, time showing it’s ugly side for hose willing and brave enough to see. He left, making sure no door was on the ugly side so that he may wander in never through what was very well rotted and cold at just the sight alone.

The kitchen done with, he went into the dining room, the table laid out with a cloth glorious in its very design, the stitch-work meticulous and perfect. There were small set pieces spaced evenly across the table, whether they were candelabras, dishes with covers on them, or even pitchers covered in ornate designs. There were thirteen chairs surround the table with one at each end and the rest spread around the table, the odd chair placed on the side opposite of him. Every chair was absolutely unique in its design, each made with a different wood, lacquer, and, in the case of some, paint, than the last. He studied the seats, still in awe of the queerness of the mansion. He moved on, still wishing to see what else awaited him.

He saw a set of doors placed to the east of the dining room. Curiosity got the better of him, drawing him to those doors until he stood before them, hand poised to open them. He paused, unsure of what to expect the second the doors opened. He braced himself for a sight that could sight that was worse than the hidden portion of the kitchen. Inside was a room that had a desk, with a chair behind it and two in front. The one behind was covered in a fabric he knew not, an intricate design sewn into it that he couldn’t begin to describe. The chairs in front were covered in leather, brown and having seen some use, though the leather only seemed to be quite crisp in how good the finish was.

“Memory of Regret”

“Turn left on Prophet Drive in three-hundred feet,” the dead voice of the GPS commanded. Daniel did as instructed, turning down the long road that would lead to his true destination. The sun beat down in nigh evening rays on his face, barely being kept from blinding him due to the large sunglasses resting in front of his brown eyes. The weather was so nice, he couldn’t remember the last time it was so perfect, what with seventy-two degree heat, low humidity, and certainly little wind. A smirk set itself upon his face, leaving when he recalled the reason he was heading there in the first place. The road’s end presented itself in the due time he expected, the GPS chiming its voice to announce that he arrived at the place he intended to reach, redundant in an unintentional way that lay out of the device’s own awareness.

“Thanks for letting my three brain cells know,” he mocked in a barely gruffer than usual voice, keeping the tone down. The building was bigger than he presumed when he first heard of it. He didn’t think that mansions were as massive as they were portrayed and yet it sat before him, prolonging the ideal of gargantuan money made into an equal of stone and brick. The courtyard was small, being what he guessed was a fifteen second jog from the hedges to the front door. The gate stood open, waiting for anyone to wander by should they strike a fancy to. Certainly, if someone were to wander by out here in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by grass and trees, then they deserved to have their fancy rewarded, he reasoned. Then again, if someone should wander by, they couldn’t be the best of company, he concluded and made the first steps out of his car to close the steel beasts. The hinges screamed as they were forced to move into another position from their resting place. The bolt to keep them shut protested as much as those hinges had, refusing to move easily.

With minor security taken care of… he kicked himself mentally for not having bothered to see if there was such a worry elsewhere on the grounds. Too late, he thought to himself, anyone who is here with an ounce of hearing could have heard that. He waited near the gates, not moving from when he had this realization in case had to undo the work. Silence rose with the wind.

“Hello?” he called out, checking further for life other than his own. Not even the birds or the wind answered. He went back to the car and grabbed the two envelopes sitting in the glove-box, reaching into the console after shutting the previous compartment and retrieving his phone as well as the pipe he put in. The phone went in to his pocket soon enough, but the pipe he caressed, soaking in the view of its Ironwood bowl, the stem etched in his father’s own words ‘Never for tobacco and nothing illegal’, ending with a flat bit. This he put in another pocket with a more careful touch to ensure it wouldn’t fall out or break. The envelopes stayed in his hands, with eyes checking that the address was correct with the arch above the doorway.

“Seven twenty-one,” he mumbled, unable to truly accept this was the one he had been given. He checked inside the envelope that was opened, ensuring the key was in there and grabbing it when he glanced at it. The bronze finish felt cold, the dullness matching it. Smoothly did it slide into the lock and just so as it slid out after a small turn. This, too, disappeared into the pocket containing his phone, with as much care for it to match. The marble knob loosed open the door with not a sound and as much trouble in pushing the behemoth. The manor stood empty, much as he had expected it, yet there was no dust or cobwebs, indicating someone still tended the manor and, for all that he knew, may very well still be inside. He called out once more, meeting with prior results. The door closed, he took in the atrium in further detail.

Here’s part of my upcoming novel. I know it’s rough around the edges, but you know what? You can help me out with that. I need an editor, but the editor needs payment and I’m a little short on cash. The same can be said of the cover artist. “So how do I help you with that?” you might be saying. Well, you can head over to my patreon page (still getting tended to, just needs some more work to figure out) and spare some change.