I cross my arms and hug myself to keep warm from the wind and rain as I look up at the gates. This mansion will be worth a fortune once it’s cleaned up, but it has a long way to go. It must’ve been a beautiful house in its day, decades ago. The sprawling grounds, privacy provided by its isolation, and charming character will make it the perfect buy for some rich old couple, or a nuclear family with too much money. It’ll go off the market almost as soon as it’s up; I’m sure of it.
As long as the rumors don’t get out.
Despite myself and the rain, I shiver. I should’ve waited til tomorrow morning to check out the property. It was on my way home, and I thought I’d just take a quick peek around before the weather hit. Of course, that plan backfired a bit when my spare tire blew out. It won’t be towed for an hour or two, and I barely got that call through before my phone died. I always knew I should keep that extra charger in the car.
It’s too late now, and I’m resolved to giving the house a more thorough examination as long as I’m stuck here. So I head inside and lock the door behind me, thinking it was a good thing I brought those keys along after all. As the huge wooden door swings shut with a muffled thump, the noise of the rain and wind outside is cut off, and silence lays thick in the house.
Almost as thick as the dust, I think, stepping inside running a hand along the polished wooden table, leaving a streak in the dust. I sneeze and check my purse for a Benadryl without much hope. Unfortunately, the closest thing to medicine in there is some chapstick. My decision to examine the rest of the house tonight is waning when I hear a door slam.
“Hello?” I call, but I get no answer, except the echo of my own voice. It sounded like it came from upstairs. I consider ignoring the bang (probably nothing more than a loose shutter) and just crash on the couch, but if there’s a squatter here, I’ll need to take care of that before anything else can be done to renovate this place.
I start up the grand wooden staircase slowly, trying not to make much noise, though the old wood beneath me creaks almost every step. The stairs, like everything else here, are beautiful and opulent, and in serious need of cleaning. The furnishings of the house’s previous owner were never moved out, and the house’s previous owner died decades ago. The furniture and decoration of the place are from an era where women wore hoop skirts and had debutante parties. I have to make do with an oil-filled lantern for a light; I haven’t got a flashlight and the house doesn’t have any electric lights. (That’s going to be a huge expense, but absolutely necessary before we can sell the place.) The smell of the burning oil almost covers the scent of mold, but not quite.
I ascend cautiously, gripping the lantern in one hand and a metal pitcher found on the front table in the other, wishing I had a better weapon.
I reach the second floor and pause, listening carefully. In the glow of the lantern, shadows loom, creating unwelcome shapes. As I stand, trying to determine where the noise I’d heard came from, a cold breeze whooshes past me, accompanied by soft rustling noises and tapping that sounds like footsteps, like someone in a long skirt is walking past.
I shudder and spin around, causing the lantern to flicker wildly.
“Who’s there?” I call. No answer. I peer down the hallway and can see a door open at the end. I walk towards it hesitantly, not sure if I should be loud so I can scare an intruder off or quiet so I can surprise them. I end up trying to be quiet, but am actually rather obvious, thanks to the ancient wooden boards that creak at every step.
I pause outside the door, gather my nerve, then quickly push the door open the rest of the way. Sweeping the lantern around, I see nothing out of place. Just ancient, dusty furniture, with no sign anyone’s been staying here recently. Another gust of wind chills me to the bone, but I’m relieved when I notice it’s coming from an open window. I cross the room, set down the light, and pull the window shut. It’s got shutters–that must be where the banging came from earlier.
I pick up my lantern and turn around when something catches my eye. A flash of white, a slender figure, a young woman in a long ivory gown out in the hallway. I’m across the room before I can even think about it, but when I reach the doorway, the hall is empty.
I’m seeing things. The old stories about this house and its occupants are getting to me. But I’m rational, reasonable, and I don’t believe in ghosts. Still, I think I’ll feel better sleeping downstairs. And I would feel better yet if the tow-truck company could be here now. Though it’s dark, it’s hardly six o’clock, and they won’t be here til seven thirty. I’ll just have to suck it up. Besides, though the old house is creaky and dusty, it won’t hurt me. And I don’t believe in ghosts.
Still, I think I’ll wait for the security of daylight before I check out the attic, basement or any further investigation of the bedrooms. Instead, I curl up in an armchair in the living room with a magazine (one thing I do always have in my bag), intending to take my mind off the stories of this house. I don’t mean to, but I fall asleep. The next thing I know, I’m startled awake by a high-pitched scream.
I bolt upright, staring around skittishly. I see nothing out of the ordinary. Could I have imagined the scream? I go to scratch the backs of my hands, which are itchy, and stinging slightly. But my fingers come back sticky and red.
I yelp in surprise and stare down. On the backs of my hands, there are words cut into my skin. Scarlet script is scrawled across my skin, one word on each hand. Trembling, I hold my hands next to each other. Reading from left to right there is a clear message: ‘HELP ME.’
Upstairs, the scream rings out again.
This is the first installment of a short story. Stay tuned for Chapter 2 next week written by a different author!