When Hinges Creak in Doorless Chambers: A Haunted Mansion Short Story

New Orleans, 1925

Edward Gracey was a smart man, or rather, he would like to think so anyway. He had just graduated Summa cum Laude from Yale University, landed a job at an infamous firm in New Orleans and was finding good prospects for homes nearby. Luck was in his cards, most assuredly. He smiled as he parked his car down the street from the last prospect: a towering three-story Colonial piece with four large pillars gracing its entrance and iron facades framing the wrap-around porches on the first and second floors. Giant juniper trees stood its height along the right side of the house, symmetrical with the brick chimneys on the left. Overgrown shrubs and wax myrtles framed all corners, enveloping the home in a mysterious beauty.

Edward looked at the piece of scribbled paper in his hand. This couldn't be right. The house was beautiful, but no way could it fit in his price range. His hand went up to the iron gate of the entrance, leaning his head so that he might get a closer look. He felt a prick on the outside of his wrist. A vine full of thorns had snaked through all of the bars--he could have sworn they weren't there moments before but figured it a trick of the light--and they now had decorated themselves with drops of his own blood. Edward nervously chuckled, pushing away a small anxiety rising up in his throat. He heard the car door close shut and his trance broke suddenly at the sight of his fiancée in a buttercup yellow dress. Her rosy cheeks and matching lips suited the color, a vision of Spring in this eternal Autumn.

"Edward, is anything the matter?"

He crumpled the paper in his hand, stealing another glance at the thorns. "I'm afraid I've led us in the wrong direction. Or perhaps the clerk in the land sales office may have transposed the address. This can't be the right house. We will return to the office and I shall inquire--" But her eyes had drifted from him and focused their attention on the manor. Her breath caught in her throat and Edward could honestly not tell if she was breathing. Her lace gloves were wound tightly on the iron bars, the vines now nowhere near her. "Darling, best you stay away. We know nothing of these current residents and their temperaments.”  

To his surprise, she turned back and smiled. "Edward, it's beautiful."

He knew that tone. He was all too familiar with it. The vibrato of it shook him, the warm tone of it turned him into mush, the smile that accompanied it made his mind bend to her will. She only used that tone when she had her heart set on something and would do anything to get it. She was tenacious but always a lady; it was always what she didn't say that made Edward jump to her requests. But at this, he would be a broke man in two month's time and with a wedding to plan, it wasn't logical. "Darling, it must be far out of our price range. And who knows if it is even up for sale?"

"But it is for sale," came a voice from the gate.

A relic of a man appeared on the other side. His eyes were sallow and his face skinny; his large nose practically coming at them from the bars. He held an unsightly beagle by a rope leash, his other hand gripping a lantern. Dusk was beginning to fall and the fear on his face indicated dire consequences should the proper street lamps in front of the house were not lit. He stared at Edward and brought an insincere smile to the corner of his lips. As quick as it came, it went--he was unaccustomed to speaking with visitors, Edward guessed. Edward smoothed his waistcoat, stuffing the piece of paper in his pocket. “It is, you say? Unfortunately, I do believe I don’t quite have the means. The sales clerk--”

“If you show an interest, I can bring you up to meet the Mistress. She is preparing for an expedition to the West Indies and would like to sell the home at the earliest, at any price.”

“We would love to see the house,” his beloved blurted, her arm circling and nesting in the crook of his elbow. “Wouldn’t we, Edward?”

He looked into her dark eyes, a glimmer of mischief circling in her irises. It was that tone again. Oh, how she loved to use it and what a fool he was to fall for it. He smiled despite a bead of perspiration dripping down his temple. He looked at the groundskeeper behind the bars--his smile was so forced, it looked painful. There was certainly more than what he was letting on. Edward could swear he heard the whole house creak from where he was standing. Unsettling whispers in the twilight hour settled squarely on his shoulders. His free hand squeezed the piece of paper in his waistcoat pocket. He was a smart man. He’d be foolish to let a good deal go to waste. He swore the groundskeeper gave a subtle shake of the head but ignored it, turning to his fiancee instead. “My dear, sweet Leota, how could I say no?”

The groundskeeper let out a sigh under his breath and unlocked the gate. Vines snapped and Edward thought he heard small screams echoing out from the stems. Caked rust flaked off onto the grass as the groundskeeper held it open for them. “Welcome to Gore Manor.”  

How to Make a Memory

Magic. Of course they were. 

In retrospect, there really wasn't any other option as to what they were.

They were not just rivers. They were not just reflections of oceans. They were not just streams of Aurora Borealis pocketed within panes of glass.

His eyes contained magic. 

Molly bumped into a chair just then, letting cups fall aimlessly across the table she was cleaning. A catastrophic clatter rung in the air and when she looked over at him, he was staring at her with those magic eyes. They could hunt, those eyes, and you'd forgive them. Once she began to rescue the china from the table, she cheated and stole a glance through the gaps in her hair. He was looking back down at his papers, muttering soft words to himself, a trace of a small smile in the crook of his lips. She sighed and dragged her legs back into the small cafe. The winds from the east were picking up and she smelled the autumn leaves before they got a chance to blow in through the large glass doors. There were a thousand reasons why she chose to live in London, but she could not find a single one that could justify his presence. Shortly after she had started the job, he haunted that table and looked at her cautiously every time she crossed his path. 

    "Molly, table 3 please," the owner motioned to her. She wiped the sweat from her brow, her bangs clinging to her skin like nervous hands. Table 3. His table. 

    "You got it," she murmured, grabbing the platter of a large cup of water, tea bags and cream. He liked lemon and ginger in the afternoons. He sat in contemplation, both of his legs bent and fidgeting, his hand to his forehead trying to recall the written words from memory. She swallowed the concrete elephant in her throat and made her way to his table. "Your tea, sir." 

    He looked up from his pages, his eyes greeting hers in the foggy daylight. They were not just lights leading you from the smothering sea, they were magic. "Why, thank you darling, that was most kind. How much...?" 

    She raised her hand to stop him. "It's on the house. You're here everyday, we should treat you every once in awhile." He didn't loosen his gaze on her, but he continued to rub the corner of his pages in thought. Molly jerked her thumb backwards, motioning towards the cafe. "Well, I should get back to work. If you need anything..."

    "I'll surely let you know." A smile erupted from all corners, but he didn't let his teeth show. He was holding himself back. She wasn't an idiot. She knew when she didn't have a chance. But she smiled in return and turned to find some other hard surface to run into. Before she could take a step, she felt his hand grip her wrist. It was delicate but full of masked intention. "Molly," he began. 

    Her eyes widened. "How...?" 

    "Oh," he laughed fully then, then tapped his heart to mimic an imaginary name badge there. She clutched hers like a fool. 

    "Oh, of course. Sorry, what did you need?"

    He stayed quiet, motionless, his eyes searching hers for something behind the curtain. She felt a fear creep in the back of her mind, crawling its way down her spine and into her heart. They were not just daggers in which many women had suffered from, they were magic. It was his turn to swallow, for he could not find any excuse to entertain his overwhelming thought. "I...I won't be here much longer, today,"--he added the last word for what seemed like assurance--"but this will be the last one. Thank you."

    "Sure," she whispered. An inkling of bravery forced its way into her voice.  "See you tomorrow?"

    "Yes, of course. And you are more than welcome to join me anytime." He let her wrist go and she felt both empty and chained to him still.

     "See you then,"  she smiled, not addressing his invitation. She dared not to reveal her true happiness in that fragile moment.

As she walked away, Tom rubbed his fingertips together, her touch lingering like static. He watched her walk away, grabbing platters from forgotten tables and ghost patrons. He felt his eyes glass over and he returned them to his script. "Tom, hello," another female voice 

    "Lo, how are you?" His manager beamed at him, taking off her glasses and she sat across from him. She sniffed at the tea but declined to sneak it to her lips. 

    "Just fine, what do you think of the script so far?"

    "Honestly, too distracted to give you an accurate opinion." 

    Lorraine turned her head to the direction of his gaze, the familiar girl now scrubbing away at a table top. Her sad smile matched his. "Do you think she will eventually remember?"

    "Doctors say that she will. The accident took a lot out of her aside from her memory. But I see it in her, Lo. She's back there somewhere, fighting to get out. The way she saw me today...she knew something, even for the smallest of moments." He finally took his eyes off of her and looked at Lo. He blinked away the fear of her never returning. 

    "She'll come back to you, Tom. It's only a matter of time. She is full of something great, that wife of yours."

    "Yes, unequivocally." And the only word that could come to him in that moment was magic.

   

Child of the Garden

Soundtrack: Falling, The Civil Wars

The barn looked cherry red amongst the pristine white of the newly fallen snow. She hadn't really noticed the brilliance of it before that crisp morning. The cold wasn't bitter, but an incoming storm promised a change in the cold kiss that hit her cheeks. She followed his clean footprints to the edge of the clearing, up and down the small hills that eventually led down to the road. His navy blue coat almost blended in with the tree branches behind him. He turned his head slightly hearing her feet crunch in the snow. As she approached, she noticed his muscles tense, the worry in his eyes becoming more and more apparent. She stopped a couple of paces away from him, observing every little movement. 

She stared at his hair, the longer strands whipping across his forehead in the cold wind. He didn't want to look at her, but she silently begged for that contact one last time. She cautiously walked to him, lifting her hand up to his cheek. He slightly flinched, her warm touch raising his skin. He didn't say a word. She let out a small laugh under her breath and broke the silence. "Do you remember when you first came into my room all those years ago? The little boy from the garden." He didn't say anything, but closed his eyes at the fondness of the memory. It stung each synapse. 

The snow began to fall, blankets forming on their shoulders and hair. He was so still, as if he was frozen in time. She wished with her entire heart that it were true.

"Please..." she finally whispered, fighting back a choking cry. 

"You know that I can't," he finally answered gruffly. "It was stupid of me to come here, to see you. I need to go--the door will be closing soon." 

"That's you in there, don't you realize that?" 

"It's not me. I'm right here, flesh and bone and soul. I'm..." he paused to swallow the regret. "I'm just the boat stuck in your storm." He shook the snow from his hair, clouds of breath escaping his lips. Despite the strong scent of the pine, all she could take in was the scent of his world, a combination of cedar leaves and lightning. 

"I don't know what you want me to say. What do you want from me?" 

He squared his shoulders forward, masking the wound she just inflicted. He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his coat, holding the lapels closer to his chest. He stole a glance of her; her brown hair caught in the wisps of the north wind, her brown eyes glowing and prominent like a wolf tearing his soul apart. "I wanted you, that's all. That was everything." 

He turned away from her and darted into the clearing. She wanted to follow, but knew that she couldn't. Her time in that world had run out.