The estate was exceptional in its vastness, considering the state of its barren grounds. Wilted, brittle plants rattled in the cold moor winds, their shriveled branches performing a consonance of decay through the bitter air. Silence consumed the expanse; the birds absent or mute from the pre-conceived sounds of the forest leaving the space empty and hollow. It was early evening when I arrived. The sky was still blue as the setting sun drifted below the horizon, pulling with it the bright autumnal hues it carried. I thought back to the work offer that had taken me here; It was a job as a house worker in an old English castle that sat amidst the country, and it offered 12 pound a month as pay. I wrote and was promptly given the job. I was told only the address of the manor and when to arrive. It struck me as peculiar when I read that I must come after sundown, no earlier. What a strange thing to request of a simple cleaning worker. I shook my head and returned back to admiring the strange elegance of the fallow brush that lined the road. I enjoyed the scenery much better than the streets of Paris. The fellow artists were a positive variable, but the work wasn't there. No one was commissioning portraits any longer since the camera became cheaper, and painters were seen as almost lesser than bums now. I was relieved when I got this job- I could finally end my apprenticeship and escape the city. Not to say I hated the study of art, it was quite the opposite. My mentor was… amoral, to say the least. That's why I liked it out here. Far away from everything that seemed to stalk me. The carriage halted quickly as it drew up to the doors of the Manor, jolting me from my introspection. The face of the building was covered in ivy and moss causing the stone to look mottled and sickly. The large pine doors boasted an aura of opulence long gone, along with the once green gardens I envisioned covering the grounds. Behind the entrance, I could hear the shifting of metal as one of the thick doors was pushed open. Behind it stood a stout old woman dressed in the clothes of a maid. Her fine gray hair was tucked into a linen cover, and her apron bore stains of turpentine polish. She smiled warmly and clasped her hands together in an expression of happiness or relief, I did not know. “There you are! I assume you are Laurent Fils-Aime, the repairman we sent for.”
“Yes, I am indeed so.” I smiled and gave the woman a nod.
“Excellent! I'm the head housekeeper, Mrs. Brighton. I tend to the estate and keep the dust from settling, but one can simply do so much with only one maid, one cook, and one groundskeeper. I sent for the extra help because I just can't keep up with this place.” She had a flicker of sadness cross her watery eyes. “Would you like some help with that,” Mrs. Brighton said as she gestured to my luggage; a couple of small leather Gladstone bags and my box of painting supplies.
“Oh, no, thank you, they aren't that heavy,” I urged, and I scooped them up.
The atmosphere of the estate was strange. The high ceilings of the foyer went on, their cold brown walls casting more shadow than I could think possible. The furniture inside held the same sense of former grandeur as the exterior; The dust covered dressers and chairs sat waiting for the once great manor to emerge again. The whole of this place was lit only with candles and oil lamps, which saturated the walls in an ocherous glow. Silence penetrated each step Mrs. Brighton and I took along the moth-eaten carpets. I could see in the edges of the corridors large patches of cobwebs that strained beneath the dust that covered them. The curtains that hung on the windows were thick, so thick, that any sunlight that tried to pierce this suffocating darkness was immediately extinguished. Where was the Master of the house, I wondered to myself, quietly taking in the surroundings as Mrs. Brighton led me to my room. The room was cold and unwelcoming with its dark furniture and bare fireplace. I set my bags down on the bed and coughed as dust billowed from the disturbance. Mrs. Brighton scowled. “Lord have mercy. I’m so sorry, dearie. Paulette, the other maid, was supposed to come in here and clean the dressings. I guess I'll have to do it then,” she complained and drew up her sleeves. She stood at the other side of the mattress and called at me. “Laurent, dear, may you give me a hand, please?” I took my bags off the bed and helped her fold up the dirty sheets. They had the same grey sheen as everything else in the room but you still could see the careful needlework on the edges of the quilt. We toiled over the bed for what seemed like hours, trying to wrestle the heavy blankets into the linen baskets so they could be washed. Cheerfully, Mrs. Brighton brought me a broom and some dusters. It remained an unspoken agreement that I was to clean my room, then to assist her with the rest of the washing. I dusted the front of the wardrobe and placed my things inside. The interior of it was pristine, the red oak shone from the polish. It looked like it had never been opened since it was placed in this room. Who was this person? This wealthy man who let dust collect on these beautiful baroque masterpieces? I frowned. In my mind, I was envisioning him as a pompous old man, arthritic and bitter to others that didn't retain the same level of wealth. I tied my hair away from my face, as to prevent it from getting any dustier. It was troublesome having curly hair in this house- the debris seemed to cling to the strands. I kept it long, trying to mimic the styles of the old Italian masters I desperately wanted to imitate in my pursuit of art.
I flung open the curtains, breathing in another deep lungful of dust, and after some effort managed to open the window. The frigid air hit my face like an ocean wave, and I shivered. The moon gently shone into the room and bathed the plush carpet with clean light. That silence again. That lack of birds and animals shook me. My heart seemed to know something I did not, could not, know about this place. Then I heard it: the faint female sobbing that was soon to become my hellish nightmare.
All of the windows were closed except for my own, and the thick wooden door to my room had been sealed. The crying grew louder as the beating of bare feet dashed across the floor above. The pumping my chest was almost audible as I followed the sound. I leaned against the wall, bracing myself from falling and I shut my eyes, consuming myself in the safety of my own darkness. The sounds stopped. I slid to the floor, shaking. I lifted my head and froze. There, reflected in the standing mirror, was the window, but now something stood in its outline. The figure of an emaciated woman with long, oily red hair looked to me through the mirror. I gagged at the sight of her hideous face. Her eyes were bloodshot and watery and lacked an iris, so the only color was a black pinhole of a pupil. Her features were angular and thin, and her skin stretched across her face like some sort of disturbing mask, becoming strained, paper thin to the point where her eyelids could no longer close, and her mouth seemed more like a red gash rather than lips. We locked eyes, and she smiled at me, the thin flesh around her mouth splitting in small cuts. The blood welled from the wounds like a thin black ink, and it fell onto the dirty silk sleeping gown she had draped over her skeletal frame. I felt on the edge of death looking at this abomination. Still locking eyes with me, she began to grip the windowsill. Her hands were knobbly, and she had long, gnarled nails that were caked with some sort of dirt. As quickly as she appeared, she darted from the frame. A blood-curdling scream reverberated through my chambers, and then silence. Quickly, I slammed the window shut and drew the curtains. The cold sweat pooled on my brow as my heart continued to pound in my chest. I sat on the bed, fighting my body’s will to fall unconscious. Sleep soon overtook me, and as I fell into a fitful slumber, I could hear that faint, female sobbing.
—————————— This is just the beginning of a gothic style story I’m writing, but this section is pretty decent as a standalone. Any thoughts and suggestions are appreciated!!
Submitted May 06, 2019 at 04:28AM by irresponsiblevertigo http://bit.ly/2Jk0yiK
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