Sometimes I have very dark thoughts about my motherbthoughts no sane
daughter should ever have.
Sometimes, I'm not always sane.
"Addie, you're being ridiculous," Mom says through the speaker on my phone.
I glare at it in response, refusing to argue with her. When I have nothing to say,
she sighs loudly. I wrinkle my nose. It blows my mind that this woman always
called Nana dramatic yet can't see her own flair for the dramatics.
"Just because your grandparentsgave you the house doesn't mean you have to
actually live in it. It's old and would be doing everyone in that city a favor if it
were torn down."
I thump my head against the headrest, rolling my eyes upward and trying to
find patience weaved into the stained roof of my car.
How did I manage to get ketchup up there?
"And just because youdon't like it, doesn't mean I can't live in it," I retort
dryly.
My mother is a bitch. Plain and simple. She's always had a chip on her
shoulder, and for the life of me, I can't figure out why.
"You'll be living an hour from us! That will be incredibly inconvenient for you
to come visit us, won't it?"
Oh, how will I ever survive?
Pretty sure my gynecologist is an hour away, too, but I still make an effort to
see her once a year. And those visits are far more painful.
"Nope," I reply, popping the P. I'm over this conversation. My patience only
lasts an entire sixty seconds talking to my mother. After that, I'm running on
fumes and have no desire to put in any more effort to keep the conversation
moving along.
If it's not one thing, it's the other. She always manages to find something to
complain about.This time, it's my choice to live in the house my grandparents
gave to me. I grew up in Parsons Manor, running alongside the ghosts in the halls
and baking cookies with Nana. I have fond memories here—memories I refuse to
let go of just because Mom didn't get along with Nana.I never understood the tension between them, but as I got older and started to
comprehend Mom's snarkiness and underhanded insults for what they were, it
made sense.
Nana always had a positive, sunny outlook on life, viewing the world through
rose-colored glasses. She was always smiling and humming, while Mom is cursed
with a perpetual scowl on her face and looking at life like her glasses got smashed
when she was plunged out of Nana's vagina. I don't know why her personality
never developedpast that of a porcupine—she was never raised to be a prickly
bitch.
Growing up, my mom and dad had a house only a mile away from Parsons
Manor. She could barely tolerate me, so I spent most of my childhood in this
house. It wasn't until I left for college that Mom moved out of town an hour
away. When I quit college, I moved in with her until I got back on my feet and
my writing career took off.
And when it did, I decided to travel around the country, never really settling in
one place.
Nana died about a year ago, gifting me the house in her will, but my grief
hindered me from moving into Parsons Manor. Until now.
Mom sighs again through the phone. "I just wish you had more ambition in
life, instead of staying in the town you grew up in, sweetie. Dosomething more
with your life than waste away in that house like your grandmother did. I don't
want you to become worthless like her."
A snarl overtakes my face, fury tearing throughout my chest. "Hey, Mom?"
"Yes?"
"Fuck off."
I hang up the phone, angrily smashing my finger into the screenuntil I hear the
telltale chime that the call has ended.
How dare she speak of her own mother that way when she was nothing but
loved and cherished? Nana certainly didn't treat her the way she treats me, that's
for damn sure.
I rip a page from Mom's book and let loose a melodramatic sigh, turning to
look out my side window. Said house stands tall, the tip of the black roof spearing
through the gloomy clouds and looming over the vastly wooded area as if to say
you shall fear me. Peering over my shoulder, the dense thicket of trees are no
more inviting—their shadows crawling from the overgrowth with outstretched
claws.
I shiver, delighting in the ominous feeling radiating from this small portion of
the cliff.It looks exactly as it did from my childhood, and it gives me no less of a
thrill to peer into the infinite blackness.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 themanor. The black
siding is fading to a gray and starting to peel away, and the black paint around the
windows is chipping like cheapnail 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 canplant 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'mliving 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 inshadows. 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 overmy 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 sidewaysand 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 themonstrosity 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.
The checkered tiling extends into the kitchen with beautiful black stained
cabinets and marble countertops. A massive island sits in the middle with blackrstools lining one side. Grandpa and I used to sit there and watch Nana cook,
enjoying her humming to herself as she whipped up delicious meals.
Shaking away the memories, I rush over to a tall lamp by the rocking chair and
flick on the light. I release a sighof relief when a buttery soft glow emits from the
bulb. A few days ago, I had called to get the utilities turned on in my name, but
you can never be too sure when dealing with an old house.
Then I walk over to the thermostat, the number causing another shiver to wrack
my body.
Sixty-two goddamn degrees.
I press my thumb into the up arrow and don't stop until the temperature is set
to seventy-four. I don't mind cooler temperatures, but I'd prefer it if my nipples
didn't cut through all of my clothing.
I turn back around and face a home that's both old and new—a home that's
housed my heart since I could remember, even if my body left for a little while.
And then I smile, basking in the gothic glory of Parsons Manor. It's how my
great-grandparents decorated the house, and the taste has passed down through
the generations. Nana used to say that she liked it best when she was the brightest
thing in the room. Despite that, she still had old people's taste.
I mean, really, why do those white throw pillows have a border of lace around
them and a weird, embroidered bouquet of flowers in the middle? That's not cute.
That's ugly.
I sigh.
"Well, Nana, I came back. Just like you wanted," I whisper to the air silently.
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