As the light from the headlamps faded, I looked around at what I could still see under the nearly full moon. I took a moment to look around at the trees and brambles and up at the countless stars, brighter than I’d ever seen them. I let out a deep sigh as if I’d been holding my breath for ages. Since lockdown began spent so much time since lockdown began on my own indoors.
With all the frustration in coordinating the move combined with the mind-numbing sameness of each day waking up, repeating the same tasks over and over, from the same studio apartment with the same claustrophobic view of the building next-door, it felt freeing just to be alone in this beautiful clear summer’s night, listening to the crickets (or were those frogs?) chirping.
This was an adventure. For the moment, the internal noise and stress of the pandemic, unemployment, mounting bills all fell silent. I had one task before me: find the house. It was a clear-cut, straightforward goal. Something my nervous system could understand and conquer with its prehistoric stress response.
I began walking slowing down the road away from my car, keeping an eye out for any sign of a connecting drive. It did not take me long to identify it. The signs were obvious on foot, and would have likely been noticeable during the day in the sunlight. Unsure what sort of obstacles I might face, I decided to trace the path on foot. This way I could take note of any obstacles before risking what limited power was left in the car.
It was not immediately clear to me if the drive had once been paved or graveled, or if it’d always been dirt. While hard to see and quite covered with overgrowth, the obstacles were small and would be easy to clear, I thought. It was, however, very long. It felt less like I was walking up a drive to a house and more like I was on a midnight hike in the woods. At first the hoot of an owl or the rustling of undergrowth startled me, stopping me in my tracks, but soon I became at peace with the sounds around me. That, or the increasingly loud sounds of my huffing and puffing kept the wildlife at bay.
After what felt like the longest hike I’d taken in years, I came upon a large iron gate. I stopped to catch my breath, leaning against the bars, resting my arms atop a horizontal bracing bar in the gate. I considered myself in decent shape but clearly smooth sidewalks and treadmills could not compare to rough, woodland terrain.
Looking past the bars, I saw the drive became brick, or perhaps cobblestone, past the gate. Large beech trees lined the drive which gently curved off into the distance. The orderly spacing of the largest birches suggested deliberate, elegant landscaping, creating the effect of a tunnel of silver white branches over the drive. Now, however, grass and weeds grew between the pavers and each tree was irregularly flocked by smaller beech trees and saplings scattered about. One could even see a few ambitious beech shoots poking out from where bricks were missing or had crumbled due to neglect against the forces of lichen and moss.
Perhaps it was the lateness of the hour or the melancholy experienced by living amidst a pandemic, but it occurred to me how much human effort was made futile by forces of nature in a relatively short period. The idea of returning the drive to its former glory seemed a daunting task I was not equal to challenge. Yet again I found myself questioning my life’s choices. At the same time, the scene was so peaceful and somehow picturesque. I decided to step back and snap a photo before continuing onward. Of course the image hardly did justice to what I beheld in real life, but then again perhaps my own perceptions, colored by experience, made what I saw less real than the photograph.
Deciding it was too late to be so philosophical, I pulled on the gate. It did budge. I leaned back with all my weight, throwing my body backwards again and again in an attempt to get the metal monstrosity moving. At once, I felt my body continue to fall back as an earsplitting screech cut through the still night air. Landing on my back on the damp forest floor, I looked up to see the gate had swung fully open. Pulling myself up and brushing off my backside as best I could, I proceeded through the gate, making my way further up the drive.
After crossing into the walled-off grounds, I felt the strong urge to close the gate again behind me. What I wanted to keep out was not clear. It was just this sense that something that had been closed off so long should not be left open. I turned back and grabbed the gate attempting to return it to the closed position. It seemed more stubborn against closing than even it was to opening. With a sigh, I gave up, trying to convince myself I was being silly. With a lingering sense of unease, I reluctantly continued walking up the cobblestone drive.
As I made my way further from the gate I became less concerned by it and more impatient to finally see the house in person. I knew every step brought me closer and closer, although the curve in the driveway shrouded the house from view. Finally, the trees broke, the overgrown drive arched round a large, vine covered fountain surrounded a lawn that was now more weeds than grass. Following the path my eyes gazed up at the massive house. Even from here, I felt dwarfed by the sprawling old manor. How could one family need so much house? What did I need it for that matter? I considered the old tale of the dog who finally caught the mail truck. I stopped now, having reached the portico stepping under the stone arch sheltering the ancient oak double doors. I had no key, I realized. Nor was there a lockbox to retrieve one. I put my hand on the handle and pulled. With a deep groan, the door slowly opened.
I started, nearly dropping the handle as it opened. I hadn’t actually expected it to open. It’s the natural thing to do even when you know for certain the door is locked. Knowing the house had been left unlocked for god-knew-how-long sent my heart into my stomach. My teeth clenched as I walked in, half expecting to find the house in looted shambles, picked clean by ruffians or vandalized by local kids or whatever inevitably happened to houses left alone and unprotected for long periods of time. Instead, all I found was pitch blackness as the door slammed behind me, having newfound haste after opening with such excruciating slowness and struggle.
Groping against the wall, I finally felt what I was looking for. One of the old style push-button switches. The toggle took a surprising amount of effort to fully press, and, as luck would have it, remained pressed in even after I pulled my finger away. Worried this might somehow cause a short circuit, I pushed it again and again moving my finger back and forth to try and pop the switch back up into the depressed position. It finally did so. All this seemed to work out whatever caused the stiffness as it was much more easily pressed; however, nothing appeared to happen.
Pulling out my phone I switched on the flashlight and began searching across the walls with its harsh, icy-silver gaze. I kept the light at chest height along the wall, hoping to find another switch in case the one by the door was somehow faulty. The light glinted upon crystal sconces, the dust infused cobwebs adding a veil of intricate weaving that obscured the metalwork holding them aloft. Tarps hung on the walls, covering paintings, of what, I knew not. Perhaps long gone family members.
There appeared to be large rectangular places upon the wood paneled walls, less tarnished by time, suggesting there were once more paintings until relatively recently. This surprised me as the realtor didn’t mention anything being removed other than the old woman’s bedclothes, mattress and of course, her own person. Perhaps the owner had a change of heart, removing old family portraits which, given the very personal nature of the images, the realtor felt it not worth mentioning. I couldn’t begrudge anyone family heirlooms. Still, I wondered what other last-minute repatriations might have occurred in the meantime. I hoped it truly was for sentimental reasons, for as distasteful the idea was to me at first, I had begun to hope I could find some items of value I could bear parting with, perhaps items not contemporary to the house, that might help offset my rapidly hemorrhaging finances.
A sudden gasp broke from my throat as I became aware of a white figure out of the corner of my eye. I froze, the blood in my veins turned to ice. Even as I felt this, the beam of my phone’s flash turned to illuminate the object fully as if of its own accord. I let out a short nervous laugh. A single syllable that echoed eerily throughout the house. I immediately covered my mouth, regretting making so much noise, as if drawing any attention to myself put me in some sort of danger I could not describe. The figure that had originally startled me was, in fact, just a tarp over a tall, slender piece of furniture. Walking up to it with some relief, I pulled down the tarp revealing the handsome old face of a grandfather clock.
Unable to get the lights working, I left the great hall towards the back of the house, searching for the kitchen. In truth, I had no idea where the kitchen was or even if it were on this floor. Some older houses placed the kitchen on the lower level where servants worked, sending up completed dishes via a dumbwaiter. In my current state of mind, exploring the basement, even were I to find the stairs leading to it, was a non-starter. If the kitchen were on this floor, I felt it was likely towards the back right of the house, this based on nothing but my imagination.
I had requested blueprints of the estate, but was informed none could be found. Given how rushed the sale was, I wondered if I might have better luck inquiring on my own, but hadn’t found the time with all the more immediate pressures in my life leading up to this ill-advised move.
I wandered down the corridors, trying each switch I came upon. Not-a-one turned the power on, and I was forced to conclude the power had either been knocked out, or was switched off by the power company. I unlocked my phone, endeavoring to look up the number for the power company. I typed the company name into the search box. Nothing would load. It was then I noticed with a mix of horror and confusion the small words NO SERVICE in the top-right corner of the screen.
Online when I checked my services coverage, I was pleasantly surprised to see the location bathed in a sea of red indicating not just reception, but full LTE data service as well. I’d even zoomed the map in completely, having been fooled before by a perfectly solid section of map, only to discover dead spots pointed out by an infuriatingly smug sounding support rep when I’d called to complain. I screamed internally. This new discovery forced out what little excitement I still felt for exploring this new place.
I had half a mind to dash my phone against the ancient hardwood floors when, ahead, I noticed the door ahead slightly ajar. Through the partially opened door I could make out small, white and blue ceramic tiles forming a mosaic on the floor. This was a good sign. Picking up my pace, I crossed over the threshold and let out a triumphant sigh as before me stood tall wooden cupboards, a cast-iron stove and other accoutrements indicating I had indeed finally found the kitchen.
