PARTI1
The night air was frigid and biting as Emma navigated the twisting path to Redwood Manor—a large, empty estate that had long been gossiped upon by the town nearby. Locally, it is believed that it is cursed, a place where the spirits of the long dead roamed waiting for the arrival of a new visitor. For Emma, an investigative journalist secretly interested in unraveling lost histories, the story became too enticing to just let go or leave it unknown. Once Emma approached the estate, the manor towered in front of her like an old time capsule that had been abandoned. The gothic features like the imposing windows and beautifully designed stone carvings almost foreshadowed the greatness of the previous estate and the aura of mystery that came with it. Even the old wrought iron gate creaked open slowly as if it had its own soul warning her to walk away. After only a brief moment of hesitation, Emma stepped into the steepled courtyard as her flashlight sliced through the obscurity. Within the heart of the manor, an intricate maze of crumbling hallways stretched on endlessly. Every footfall seemed to reverberate in the still air, disturbed only by particles of dust, caught in the beam of her bright light, swirling drowsily in the stagnant, stale air. The muted, distant scent of decay combined with the unmistakable smell of an uneasy stillness. Emma was captivated as, breathlessly, she explored room after room, each seemingly preserved from time. From the walls, dispirited-looking portraits of ancestors observed her missing nothing. One very large parlor displayed an upright grand piano, which sat silent, unplayed, the keys stained with yellowed marks; one could imagine tunes wafting through the air of that earmarked room long ago—waiting; regretting; while creaking newness danced. The deeper Emma wandered into the manor the more she sensed frustration. She discovered a quaint and narrow staircase leading her to a stairwell descending into the basement where it became distinctly chillier. Emma had considered the idea of departing as she felt an unsettling twirl—but somehow encouraged herself to suppress the feelings. She could dismiss the strange prickly feeling of being watched, and pressing onward into darkness she descended steadily until she arrived into the basement—larger and cavernous beyond comparision. Surrounded by debris, a Jesus, and the fashionable style of the mullet, were family artifacts indicating a family era serving not only to be remembered, dissected, and judge—it had all been abandoned purposefully and at the will of God. Emma rummaged allowing her mind to overwhelm itself with context and Pietsch household placed unique stamps of legacy imprinting ideas of sadness. In the back corner of the basement, she discovered a weather-worn diary cuffed in worn black leather. She had about given up when she discovered this simple morsel. The diary belonged to a woman, Lillian, who once inhabited and addressed her life with hope sworn off malicious disuse. Encouraged, presumably from her only occasionally nice behavior, revealed the unholy truth, when one reads through Lillian’s matters footnoted like a patient. Edits identified the bottom and top of pages bent with frustrated episodes, occupations smothered from the chaos of whirling derision, despairing madness, locked outside. Emma did not even read a third before she asked herself if the object was more of an indignity than equivalent, visited as if the incomprehensibly odd were taken for their blood. In Lillian’s writings, she depicted a life of anguish, loss and seclusion. As Emma read, she learned about strange happenings at the manor – whispers in the hallways, things moving on their own, and the appearance of a ghostly figure dressed in black who would show up in mirrors. The diary indicated that Lillian believed the manor itself was alive and thrived on the sadness and horror of its people. The last entry stopped suddenly with the words “They are coming…” written rapidly. Emma was jarred from her thoughts by a noise-a light scraping sound from upstairs.
