The Manor House

I slammed the rusting iron doorknocker down twice on the heavy doors, and after waiting a moment or two I was not answered. I threw down the doorknocker twice again and sat down on the steps leading up to the door. I began to lose myself in my book, and whilst unaware, had a grinning old man looming over me. I was startled when two bony fingers tapped my right shoulder and I jumped to my feet, spinning round to look up at a ghastly figure; his ears were luminous, his hair was as tangled and as unattended as the manor’s garden, his eyes as white as a tundra, his nose angular and jagged; and his skin was a sickly-pale shade of white.

‘Good evening, sir.’ I said.
Without reply, he pushed the doors open, revealing a dusty hallway; with cobwebs over the candles in the chandelier, creaking wooden doors, and the constant sound of the pitter-patter of tiny mouse feet scavenging below.
‘Might you tell me, where is my room, please?’ I asked.

My only reply this time was a look from him. It felt like I was being seen through or he was struggling to look at something behind me. He gestured towards the stairs and returned to the manor’s smoking room, obviously where he had acquired the scent of his breath; cigars and whiskey. He staggered along, his arched back connected to his body like the letter ‘c’.

I climbed the creaking steps three at a time; maybe I had been a little too excited; and felt along the wall for a light. Instead, all I found was a candle and an ashtray with some smoking ash and a few burnt out matches. I took one and tried lighting it by striking it across my trousers. It left an ebon mark which my mother would disapprove of.
Thankfully, it lit and I leaned in to the candle whilst the match was still burning. Blowing off some cobwebs, I took the candle in its handheld gold plate and followed the way to my room.

Whilst walking towards my room, I was watched by some stuffed animals placed on the mantelpiece. I assumed they were the manor’s original owner’s.
I arrived at my door, holding the candle’s plate in one hand and opening the door with the other. I entered the huge room, and looked around what I would be staying in for a while; till I could find a cheaper place really; as this was close to work and oddly cheap.

Upon entering my room, I was greeted by a portrait of a young man, standing by his horse and carrying a rifle. The man was wearing green clothes, and appeared to be going hunting; as next to his horse stood three huge dogs, barking, with cloths round their muzzles. This explained the stuffed animals in the hall...

Opposite that portrait was another of a beautiful young girl wearing a white satin dress with a cowl that clamped down her hair. The girl in the picture had rosy red cheeks and pearly white eyes. The title was signed, in a scribble, ‘John Morgan, 1851’.
Looking around the house from my window I could see some Gothic black gargoyles that had been drenched in chimney smoke.

My window lead onto the front of the house, so all I could see was the garden in tatters; what I could see when I entered the house earlier on.
There was a watchtower next to the house, overlooking the ragged garden; the withered black roses and the untidy hedgerows; the naked trees with three-fingered prongs.
I unpacked my belongings into various creaking wardrobes and a wobbly chest-of-drawers. I dressed, rather than in my current attire of working clothes, my suit regalia – it might, on some odd condition, prompt the old man that lived here to introduce himself to me.

After reading in my bed for several hours, at eight thirty (according to my pocket watch), there was no call for dinner. I descended the stairs slowly, calling ‘Hello?’ as I walked down them. There was no reply, but I could sense he was there thanks to the sound of a potbelly stove cooking and the sound of gas heating something.

There was also an ominous smell for what I hoped was not our dinner...
I entered the small kitchen and cooking was watery vegetables from the garden (however he grew them), rancid meat and pale potatoes. I tried putting on a massive smile at its chef, but he gave nothing in return.

‘You know, upstairs,’
I would have expected a grunt of acknowledgement from anyone else, but the crooked old man continued to brood over his bubbling concoctions.
‘The heads upstairs, they’re-‘
I would have continued if I hadn’t had known he would ignore me anyway. Upon being ignored, I inspected the kitchens.

I saw a putrid-smelling cat with long whiskers and a black fur coat perched on the tabletop, meowing at the house’s owner in delight at the smell of the broth that was cooking. The owner stroked its chin and tickled it, the cat giving shrieks of delight and the owner grinning insanely. I strolled away; tonight, perhaps, I would have to go hungry; as the grub served tonight wasn’t particularly appetizing.

It was dark, almost pitch black, outside, but I was fantasised that there would be some nice food out there; so I trotted along towards the back of the house.
I found a door and stepped into the garden, onto some decrepit earth. Its smell emanated, filling the air with a dreadful scent. The garden, essentially (spare the odd paper on the ground or stale milk bottle) was the same at the back as it was at the front so far. I wouldn’t have ventured farther into the garden if it wasn’t for what I could hear to be as an owl hooting from that direction.

I stealthily approached it and thought it was better to turn back, as I would have looked a fool if it was a child’s prank, but- still, I could hear the hoot- quite distinctive, as I’m sure I was the only thing alive for a good few yards- so I clambered towards it.
I looked up to where I thought I would see a large hooting owl, but was greeted only by the rustling of leaves. I looked all around the trees, and all laid deathly silent. I saw the shadow of something; a looming figure.

I saw something in front of me – masked, I think- with something that didn’t look human. It had protruding white tusks; its face in terror like those at the old manor house, and it gave a shrill shriek of horror at my face and pushed me backwards at the black earth. I could not feel anything as the beast nuzzled around my belongings, trampling my beloved book and suit into the ground. I could not sense anything as I drifted away.

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 19.12.2011

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