And when it did, I decided to travel around the country, never really settling on 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. Do something 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 screen until 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 dramatic sigh, turning to look out my side window. Said house stands tall, the tip of the black roof spearing through the gloomy clouds, looming over the vastly wooded area as if to say you shall fear me. Peering over my shoulder, the dense thicket of trees is no more inviting—its own 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.
Up here, you’re well and truly alone. Parsons Manor is a recluse house stationed on a cliffside overlooking the Bay. My driveway stretches a mile long through a heavily wooded area, the congregation of trees separating this house from the rest of the world.
Sometimes, Parsons Manor makes you feel 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 little TLC. 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 the lawn has last been mowed.
Nana used to have to offset the house’s dark coloring 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 single 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.
That coupled with the looming storm in the background, the house 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. In a matter of seconds, it turns from a light sprinkle to a torrential downpour. 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 watching 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
