Parsons Manor is stationed on a cliffside overlooking the Bay with a mile long
driveway stretching through a heavily wooded area. The congregation of trees
separates this house from the rest of the world, making you feel like you're well
and truly alone.
Sometimes, it feels like you're on an entirely different planet, ostracized from
civilization. The whole area has a menacing, sorrowful aura.
And I fucking love it.
The house has begun to decay, but it can be fixed up to look like new again
with a bit of TLC. Hundreds of vines crawl up all sides of the structure, climbing
towards the gargoyles stationed on the roof on either side of the manor. The black
siding is fading to a gray and starting to peel away, and the black paint around the
windows is chipping like cheap nail polish. I'll have to hire someone to give the
large front porch a facelift since it's starting to sag on one side.
The lawn is long overdue for a haircut, the blades of grass nearly as tall as me,
and the three acres of clearing bursting with weeds. I bet plenty of snakes have
settled in nicely since it's last been mowed.
Nana used to offset the manor's dark shade with blooms of colorful flowers
during the spring season. Hyacinths, primroses, violas, and rhododendron.
And in autumn, sunflowers would be crawling up the sides of the house, the
bright yellows and oranges in the petals a beautiful contrast against the black
siding.
I can plant a garden around the front of the house again when the season calls
for it. This time, I'll plant strawberries, lettuce, and herbs as well.
I'm deep in my musings when my eyes snag on movement from above.
Curtains flutter in the lone window at the very top of the house.
The attic.
Last time I checked, there's no central air up there. Nothing should be able to
move those curtains, but yet I don't doubt what I saw.
Coupled with the looming storm in the background, Parsons Manor looks like a
scene out of a horror film. I suck my bottom lip between my teeth, unable to stop
the smile from forming on my face.
I love that.
I can't explain why, but I do.
Fuck what my mother says. I'm living here. I'm a successful writer and have
the freedom to live anywhere. So, what if I decide to live in a place that means a
lot to me? That doesn't make me a lowlife for staying in my hometown. I travel
enough with book tours and conferences; settling down in a house won't change
that. I know what the fuck I want, and I don't give a shit what anyone else thinks
about it.
Especially mommy dearest.
The clouds yawn, and rain spills from their mouths. I grab my purse and step
out of my car, inhaling the scent of fresh rain. It turns from a light sprinkle to a
torrential downpour in a matter of seconds. I bolt up the front porch steps,
flinging drops of water off my arms and shaking my body out like a wet dog.
I love storms—I just don't like to be in them. I'd prefer to cuddle up under the
blankets with a mug of tea and a book while listening to the rain fall.
I slide the key into the lock and turn it. But it's stuck, refusing to give me even
a millimeter. I jimmy the key, wrestling with it until the mechanism finally turns
and I'm able to unlock the door.
Guess I'm gonna have to fix that soon, too.
A chilling draft welcomes me as I open the door. I shiver from the mixture of
freezing rain still wet on my skin and the cold, stale air. The interior of the house
is cast in shadows. Dim light shines through the windows, gradually fading as the
sun disappears behind gray storm clouds.
I feel as if I should start my story with "it was a dark stormy night..."
I look up and smile when I see the black ribbed ceiling, made up of hundreds
of thin, long pieces of wood. A grand chandelier is hanging over my head, golden
steel warped in an intricate design with crystals dangling from the tips. It's always
been Nana's most prized possession.
The black and white checkered floors lead directly to the black grand staircase
—large enough to fit a piano through sideways—and flow off into the living
room. My boots squeak against the tiles as I venture further inside.
This floor is primarily an open concept, making it feel like the monstrosity of
the home could swallow you whole.
The living area is to the left of the staircase. I purse my lips and look around,
nostalgia hitting me straight in the gut. Dust coats every surface, and the smell of
mothballs is overpowering, but it looks exactly how I last saw it, right before
Nana died last year.
A large black stone fireplace is in the center of the living room on the far left
wall, with red velvet couches squared around it. An ornate wooden coffee table
sits in the middle, an empty vase atop the dark wood. Nana used to fill it with
lilies, but now it only collects dust and bug carcasses.
The walls are covered in black paisley wallpaper, offset by heavy golden
curtains.
One of my favorite parts is the large bay window at the front of the house,
providing a beautiful view of the forest beyond Parsons Manor. Placed right in
front of it is a red velvet rocking chair with a matching stool. Nana used to sit
there and watch the rain, and she said her mother would always do the same.