The Haunted Mansion

The Haunted Mansion

The mansion stands at the edge of the lane. Its walls are high and cold, its roof bends with age, and ivy crawls across the stone like veins upon old skin. No birds fly above it. No dogs bark near its gates. The windows are blind. The doors are forever shut. People cross the road rather than walk past, for all know what waits inside.

No one living dares step beyond the threshold. They whisper that the dead walk free there. Some say they hear them at night when the wind turns. The sound is not the wind but the echo of lost voices.

In the hall, cries still rise and fall. Once there were children who lived in those rooms. They were taken by fever, and some were taken by fire. Their small feet still run the stairs. Their laughter carries sharp and sudden, though no one is there. More than one passerby has sworn to hear the patter of steps behind them, though when they turn there is only dust.

The cellar is darker still. It is said a woman weeps there, her sorrow without end. She clawed at the stone with bleeding hands and left marks that remain. Her eyes were hollow in life and hollow in death. Her grief clings to the walls. Some believe she waits for the child she lost, though no child answers her.

Each room holds a secret. Some say the mirrors do not show your own face but the shadow of another who once stood there. Figures move just beyond sight, and when you look again, the room is empty. Clocks tick but not forward. They count in reverse as if time itself recoils from that place.

Candles do not burn long in those halls. They die though no wind blows. Doors slam though no hand reaches for them. Those who lingered too long within were never seen again. Once a pair of men dared each other to spend a night there. They carried food and lanterns and spoke brave words. At dawn the villagers went to the gates to see them return, but the mansion gave nothing back. The lanterns were found cold upon the floor. The food was untouched. The men were gone as if they had stepped into the dark and joined the others.

The mansion waits with patience. Seasons change yet it remains. The ivy thickens and the roof sinks lower, but its heart does not weaken. It belongs to the dead now. It keeps them close. When the moon is full, the windows shine with a dim light though no candle burns inside. Some swear they see faces pressed to the glass, pale and pleading, but no one goes closer.

The bravest of children run past at night, daring each other to touch the gate. Their fingers brush the iron and they flee with shrieks, but even then they feel the chill of a hand not their own upon theirs.

The house breathes. That is what the old folk say. They say you can hear it if you stand still long enough. A slow breath rising and falling, as if the stone itself remembers all who entered and never left.

So the mansion stands. No birds circle it. No flowers grow near it. The earth is heavy there, as if it knows too much. All who live in the town know better than to draw near, for the house belongs not to them. It belongs to the shadows, to the voices that cannot rest, to the footsteps that run without end. It waits for the next soul who dares step inside.