Chapter 1
1063 Words
"Oh, my God!" I gush, swirling around happily amidst packing boxes stacked to knee height.
My pleasure is immense as I take in the sight of the gloriousness that is my new home. The space is small but elegant and has a magical feel to it, prompting the hairs on my skin to rise to attention. After mom's death two months ago, I've been drowning in insurmountable grief; every nook and cranny held memories of her so strong they left me a teary mess.
Getting up and out of that space was a decision both dreadful and relieving. I miss the house; the thought of leaving it behind, alongside all of the beautiful memories it held, and pieces that reminded me of mom made me feel bad, like a traitor of some sort, unwilling to hold on to the beauty she had left behind.
Nevertheless, I enjoy the peace and calm that come with getting as far away from that space as possible. The beautiful memories, although powerful, were tainted. The fresh layer of paint adorning the walls of the living room does nothing to erase the mental picture I have of a red-tainted wall.
Splatters of blood, varying in thickness, covered the walls; the floorboards still held specks of blood despite the rigorous cleaning they had received; and the new curtains were a gentle reminder of the many changes the house has gone through in such a short time. Even the ceilings were not spared from the gruesome event.
The internal battle had been an intense one, one that left me exhausted, both physically and mentally. The decision maker was the ad I saw in a small, inconsequential town—a promise of the haven that I desperately sought.
Grenville is a small town with relatively few inhabitants. It is heralded by lots of greenery, "nature's finest resort," as most of the locals call it.
All traces of skepticism fled me at the detailed beauty of the town. Its simplicity and serenity made it all the more enticing, so much so that I couldn't resist. I rented a cottage; I wanted to be as close to nature as I could be, seeing as it is the earthly representation of heaven's wonders, and that's where mom currently resides.
I needed to be close to her, but in a comforting way, not in the layers of despair I've been wrapped around in. My heart wrenched with the dawn of each day, stepping out from the loneliness of my bedroom to the greater loneliness of mom's eternal absence.
I sniff, pushing back the torrents of unpleasant memories surging through me with the speed of a racing chariot. My eyes had started to pool, sending out flavorless streams of tears on the brink of a downpour. I fight against the palpitations that form, constricting the flow of air through my nostrils and weighing heavily on my already burdened heart.
I acquainted myself with the beauty of my new surroundings, letting it wash away all the negative thoughts I'd been nursing involuntarily.
The house is a wonder, so beautiful that it takes my breath away and leaves my heart racing joyfully within my ribcage. The house my mom and I shared had been gorgeous and grand—too big for just the two of us but perfect regardless.
It had stayed in our family for a long time, moving from generation to generation, until some inexplicable tragedies started to plague the family. It didn't have the feel of a curse, but it was weirdly similar. They started to drop one by one to the most ill-fated, most gruesome murders—all of them in their own smaller homes, and now there's just me.
Until mom, the mansion was considered a safe haven—the only respite from our curse. But now even that space has been invaded, tainted with the tragedy of violent death, in one's own sanctuary.
A shuddery breath leaves me again. I've let myself get sucked up into the void of painful memories once more, memories of blood, gore, life lost, love lost, sadness, pain, and lots and lots of grief.
I gave my head a shake to erase the fog of despair cloaking my frail mind, then start to tour the beautiful confines of my new home, my fingers trailing the brass lined edges of the stairwell railings; enjoying the feel of its coldness against my heated flesh.
I wonder upwards on the stairs, heading in the direction of the bedroom—my new bedroom—battling nostalgia with giddy excitement. I need to let go of the past and come to terms with the fact that I am no longer safe in that house.
If nothing else calms me, the constant, roaming presence of the authorities in our house, trying to link mom's death to that of every other distant relative that had died in neighboring cities and closer, means that I do not get time alone. It's hard to grieve in peace when your house is a crime scene swarming with detectives.
I get to the top of the stairs, turning first to the right, in the direction of what I was told is the library. I make it to the door and stop, tracing the unusual yet compelling patterns drawn along its wooden surface. The symbols heat up under my touch, coercing a shocked gasp out of me. Goodness gracious, this house really is magical. I love it. I absolutely love it.
I push against the heavy frame of the door, using all of my weight to force it open, then smile in joyous contentment at the sight before me. Books—lots of books—lined the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, including paperback editions of some of the best authors. The magicians whose wands bleed ink
I trudge quickly in the direction of the shelf across from the door. Such grandness. My hands run over the well-cared-for sides of the books, arranged in alphabetical order and kept in the best of conditions; not even a speck of dust covered any of it. It is almost like someone comes in to get them cleaned every day. I can't help but wonder what kind of person would care for their books so well only to give it all up to a random stranger.
I wouldn't dare do that if these treasures were mine
- Writer
