This story was inspired by this grand house I as well as the neighbourhood kids used to play in. I thought it would make a great short story. It took me quite a while to complete this story thanks to my writing slump but I’m glad I did. It’s better late than never right. I really hope you enjoy reading this story. The featured image is taken from Pinterest.

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The intimidating structure rose from the ground, towering over all the neighbourhood houses. Even after twenty years, the mansion stood tall and proud. Manor house was what we named it, the abandoned mansion at the end of the narrow, cemented street.

“Mum, does anyone still live in Manor House?” I asked, sipping my third mug of coffee as I stared at Manor House from our kitchen window.

“After the Joneses passed away, I’m afraid no one stayed there for long. There was this newly wedded couple that moved in. But within a month, they moved out. They claimed the house rejected them. It’s been empty ever since,” My mother said, glancing at the mansion.

I didn’t understand when she said Manor House rejected the couple. It was the most inviting place on the planet. I spent my childhood frolicking through its grounds. When the Joneses left for work, Manor House would call to us. The massive black gate would swing open with a groan, granting us entry to our haven.    

“Ever since you came home, you’ve been asking questions about Manor House. Instead of focusing on that abandoned house, you should focus on getting your life back on track and finding a man so that you can start a family.”

“Cut me some slack, Mom. It’s not like I haven’t been trying,” I bit back, anger spilling with every word. I was at that age where everywhere I went, people hounded me about marriage. I got enough of it from relatives. The last I wanted to hear from was my mother.

“All I’m saying is you should focus on the future where there is hope. Not on some house that’s already dead.”

But to me, Manor House wasn’t dead, at least not in my memory. It was the place where I felt most alive. When I looked at Manor House, I didn’t see the dilapidated building with flaking paint. I saw the blue and white mansion with its birdbath fountain out in the front and a driveway lined with daylilies. Even though the house was private property, all the neighbourhood kids played in its compound. It was so large we had enough room for bike rides. There was never a day when our laughter failed to echo through Manor House. And the house seemed to come alive with us. Being at Manor House, I always felt like we were being watched. Whenever the chill of someone’s stare crept up my spine, I would turn to Manor House only to see the glass panes shining with sheen, as if it was happy to have us around.

However, unlike the house, the Joneses were never happy to see us loitering around their property. The scowl on their faces never failed to scare us. We would dash for the gate whenever we spotted them. They would chase us out of their property carrying whatever tool they could get their hands on. Usually, it was a stick, but sometimes, they would pick up a pitchfork. Unfortunately for them, that never stopped us from returning. The Joneses were this old, bitter, wealthy Anglo-Indian couple that moved to this side of the country to look after Manor House, their ancestral home.

When the Joneses first moved into Manor House, they were a family of four. But in a year, they lost both their children. Rumour had it that the house claimed them. However, the Joneses stayed back even after experiencing such a tragedy to prevent the house from consuming more innocent souls. Mom always told me not to believe such stories. She said it prevented lost souls from finding eternal peace.

“What are you looking at?” My nephew asked, walking into the kitchen with unkempt hair. Without covering his mouth, he let out a big yawn.

“Max, don’t tell me you just woke up. It’s almost noon,” I said, turning my back on Manor House.

“It doesn’t matter what time he wakes up Lynette. He’s on vacation,” My mother said in her motherly voice as she placed her world-class pancakes and a glass of milk in front of him. I rolled my eyes. My brother always dropped Max off at our mom’s place at the start of every summer break to keep her company for a few days so that they could bond. And my mother was more than happy with Max’s visits.

During his stay, Max became her new obsession. Anything Max wanted, Max got. She was turning him into a spoilt little brat. However, I didn’t complain. After all, she finally had something other than her potted plants to look after.

“Just let me know what you want for lunch, and I’ll make it okay,” She pinched his chubby cheeks before shuffling to his room to make his bed.

“Don’t you have any shame? You’re making your grandma make your bed,” I asked before taking another sip of coffee.

“She’s happy to do it, so who am I to stop her,” Max said with a mouth full of food.

“You’re thirteen Max. Make your bed and clean up after yourself. It’s the least you can do.”

“You sound exactly like mom,” He rolled his eyes before mauling his food.

“Since she knows you get your way with your grandmother, she’s permitted me to ground you when I see fit.”

“This is going to be the worst summer break ever,” Max whined, looking more like a ten-year-old child rather than the thirteen-year-old boy he was.

“Finish up your breakfast we’re going bike riding after this. It’s a much better alternative than you doing nothing all day” I said before finishing the rest of my coffee in one big gulp.

“Where exactly are we going for bike riding?”

“Manor House,” I answered without hesitation.

The blood drained from his face. His usual pink, cherub-like face was as white as a sheet of paper.

“I’m not going back there,” Max said, dropping his fork and knife. “That place is evil. The last time I was there, I swear something tried to pull me inside that house.”

“Max, we’re going. End of discussion.”

The bike ride was my reason for leaving the house. I never thought that at thirty, I would have to return to my childhood home without a job and a roof over my head. The day I stepped in, I never stepped out again. I spent time milling around the house. I sat with my laptop, tweaking my resume and giving a dozen interviews. Unfortunately, they never went through. Nothing humbles a person faster than rejection. The bags underneath my eyes and the dark circles surrounding them made me no better than a zombie. I needed a change of scenery. My body craved the sun and the fresh outdoor air. I waited for Max to change into more presentable clothes before we headed to the garage. We grabbed our bikes and made our way to Manor House.

The rusted gate towered over us ominously. Its black paint flaked away in chunks, exposing the red oxidised metal that resembled burnt flesh. I fiddled with the metal chain until it fell to the ground with a rattling sound. Once more, the gate groaned open, granting us entry into Manor House. I hopped on my bike and headed down the driveway with Max following closely.

Manor House was nothing like how I remembered it. The once well-kept garden was overgrown with weeds and wild grass. The white marble bird bath was green with moss. Cracks crisscrossed over the walls of Manor House like cracked soil thirsting for water. Window panes hung loose from their hinges, while others had broken glasses. However, the thick mahogany door remained firmly shut to the world. My heart squeezed at the sorry state Manor House was in.

I made five to six rounds around the compound, enjoying the warm sun on my skin, when Max’s agitated voice caught my attention.

“I told you we shouldn’t be here, Aunty Lynette,” Max said, gripping his bike handles tighter, his eyes never leaving the front of the house. I turned to look at what had caught his attention.

The heavy mahogany door was wide open as if the house was inviting us in. The sound of laughter echoed through the house. I climbed off my bike and walked towards the sound. I always wondered what Manor House looked like inside. And now I finally had the chance. The laughter grew louder, and as I listened to it, I realised it sounded a lot like me when I was a seven-year-old running through the driveway. I peered through the front door, and instead of seeing the interior, I saw Manor House restored to its former glory.

I saw my childhood friends running and chasing each other with gleeful expressions on their faces. When they saw me standing at the threshold, they ran towards me, holding out their hands. Before I could grab hold of them, someone yanked my shirt. I stumbled back and fell to the ground.

“Aunty Lynette, please let’s get out of here,” Max said, tears streaming down his face, the pungent smell of urine permeating the air. As he helped me get back up, I noticed the stain on his pants. I looked past his shoulder and saw two figures, no older than ten, with hollowed-out eyes standing at the door. A ghastly smile spread across their faces that prickled my skin. Their chalky white hand still outstretched, inviting me in. We turned and fled. My heart raced as I jumped on my bike and rode back home swiftly.

Max and I never spoke about the incident. Some things were better left unspoken and forgotten. A few days after we trespassed, someone replaced the chain around the gate, and no one entered its premises again. Even with a new chain on the gate, I never slept easy. Whenever I woke up to get my midnight snack, the lights from Manor House shone through the kitchen window. I knew its doors would always stay open for me. And as long as I stayed in this neighbourhood, I would never escape the prying eyes of Manor House.