Chapter 23The rambling Gothic pile was once the home of the painter. He knew, for hadn’t he passed this way many times. The place was so familiar although he had not actually been inside. It was as if he were drawn to the old house in his dreams
“So this is it?” John Sarony’s gaze was riveted on the house as he stepped out of the car. The manse was even in possession of castellated turrets that rose into the sky like perfectly carved statues or equally, well carved stakes posed in readiness to pierce his heart. He caught himself shivering involuntarily. He had heard certain rumours about the house, initially that it had once belonged to a famous reclusive artist of the Victorian era, by the name of Rossetti or Rossini or something similar. The artist’s wife had committed suicide and now h
