The Secret of K.D. Manor

Jo steps out of the car with an envelope holding the deed to the building before them. Any second now, the orphan expects a camera crew to jump out, flashing pictures of the young adult who thought they had rich relatives they never knew about but the last hour-long conversation had been a complete ruse.

But after standing for a long minute, Jo tries to believe the story enough to approach the front doors. They pluck out the keys only to have the door open and out comes a well aforementioned face, a scraggly scar hugging against the groundskeeper’s smile. “Mx. Barkley?” he asks.

“Mr. Phillips?”

“Yes! Welcome to K. D. Manor; come on in. You must be the miracle child.”

“I’m sorry, “miracle”?”

“Ah, y’know, the lost grandchild? A survivor of the Mr. and Mrs. Durnstein’s last child, wherever she ended up…” He claps his hands. “Well, let me at least show you the kitchen before you begin wandering around, come on.”

Jo frowns slightly but fails to inquire more about it as their gaze catches a statue in the middle of the foyer. It is a statue of a seraph paired with a paintbrush and drawing some black object onto a canvas. Jo walks around it, seeing the painter’s eyes are covered with some kind of cloth, as though even the angel does not dare to see what they are painting.

“Mx. Jo? Are you coming?”

Jo turns and follows him to the kitchen. The two chat idly for a while and, as they do, Jo starts to notice a couple of paintings signed by the letters K.D., Katherine Durnstein if Jo recalls correctly. She had been the surviving owner until they passed away in their sleep, a happy, very loved woman.

It seems there was a connection between her and Jo as the number of paintings around the house multiplies. Some are known such as The Starry Night hanging above a small globe and Christina’s World pitched up in one of the hallways; the rest are made by her. No two are alike in what they portray: from tapestries to people, from tarnished skies to blossoming worlds, seraphs and snickering imps, even well-dressed garbage cans have their own space.

The thought eases Jo as they make their way up the staircase. As they reach the top, the first painting they see is a portrait of Mrs. Durnstein and her husband, whose name is lost to Jo as they stare at the people locked in the frame. Whoever they were had the bright idea of wearing hats that went over their eyes. It made them seem like they were pulled from an Agatha Christie play or even a Sherlock Holmes novel. At least the artist could manufacture the rest of their faces, adding in wrinkles and relaxed features...well, at least the grandmother seemed relaxed. The grandfather’s face seemed troubled as he attempted to smile. Even the way his body was carved made him seem uncomfortable. Why was he depicted that way?

Jo leaves it alone for now and goes to see the other rooms. Aside from one of the doors labeled: “The Children’s Room” being locked, they are mostly the same save for the paintings and a small study which is a bit too ordinary for Jo. No doubt Mr. Durnstein worked there, Jo reasons.

They move on until they find the room where Mrs. Durnstein slept. For the master of master bedrooms, it is surprisingly similar to the other rooms, a larger bed maybe. And a touch of feeling vacant of life. Jo feels their stomach churn and considers leaving the room. There just needs to be something happening, it does not have to be anything big.

Jo glances at a lone statue of a woman in a ballerina outfit and tips it over, causing it to fall with a thump!, dispelling the vacancy. Jo takes a breath, walking further into the room as they peek around the place, much like one may do when exploring a house they hope to purchase. Unlike the rest of the place, the room fails to take on a “homey” aspect. It feels bare despite the photos and small trinkets scattered around the room. Maybe it is the knowledge of someone dying here that makes it off-putting. Jo does not believe in ghosts or spirits but bad juju is not something new, especially when something awful occurred in the space.

They avoid the bed like the plague until they cannot do so. Admittedly, Jo can leave now. Maybe lock the door too but they want to know how it feels to lay in the huge bed. It is not like they will be buying such a bed for themself…

They experimentally sit on the edge of the bed. Finding no ghosts oozing out, they lay down. The ceiling is textured and already Jo is trying to think of what they see within the texture, much like an inkblot. A giant inkblot pressed against the ceiling.

As they turn to try and find another squirrel, they feel something press against them from below and pause. Then, they jump off the bed.

Everything is fine. Jo considers leaving but observes how this could be a Princess and the Pea situation; a play off of a fairy tale maybe?

It is wishful thinking but enough to push them to at least try and see if they can find anything. Up goes part of the mattress and seek goes the grandchild. It is not long until they locate a shoebox. They pluck it out and allow the mattress to fall, deciding now to be a good time to leave the room. They put back the ballerina and leave, heading to one of the adjoining rooms.

It is a green shoebox, fitting into Jo’s wishful thinking as they look inside. The first thing standing out to them is the hundreds of dollars packed away on the right side. “Holy shit,” Jo exhales as they quickly begin to rifle through it, counting it up. It is twenty thousand dollars in total, all in crisp, hundred dollar bills. It had to have been some kind of emergency money, who would keep so much in a shoebox? No less under a mattress.

Jo shakes their head and tries to allocate it within their bag. As they peek into the box once more, they spy a small, black book. A notebook really as they pull it out and see a smaller book with wings carved on the bottom, the initials K.D. underneath etched in silver. Jo opens it up and sees drawings. A sketchbook?

They flip through the pages and start to notice most of the sketches align with the paintings on the walls. Each one has a little explanation paired with them, even the garbage cans with: “I was told to take out the trash but I invited them out to dinner instead. A bit smelly but I suppose that is rude of me to say.” Jo laughs as they flick through, making note to read all of these eventually; treat it like an easter egg hunt.

One sketch comes up that Jo cannot recall seeing. It is a sketch of a young woman but it appears to be half done. There is a small plane in the background along with a pair of tickets, the caption saying: “We will leave tonight.” Was Mrs. Durnstein planning to leave? Is this Jo’s mom? What happened? Where is the painting?

Why did she not leave?

Jo flips through the rest of the pages before pocketing the item. Maybe Mr. Phillips would have an idea of what happened. They close the shoebox and leave it, heading downstairs to look for him. As they reach the ground floor, they pause, turning around and seeing the statue once more, looking closer at the painting. A little, black book…

They walk towards it and turn slightly; it is a gap. They pull out the book and place it inside.

Click!

Jo turns to look at the seraph and sees the blindfold portion popped open. Jo helps it open further and a small key is produced. Now there are more questions but not enough answers.

A knock comes from the side and Jo sees Mr. Phillips. “Mx. Bar—I mean, Mx. Jo. I was coming in to see if you were doing alright—…” He looks over to the statue and back to them. “Er, I know the statue isn’t mine but I’m not sure if Mr. Durnstein would’ve liked to have seen someone break it…”

“Ah, no, it’s; hold on.” They pull out the notebook and close the hatch, stepping down with the assistance of Mr. Phillips. “It was holding this key. I’m not sure where it goes to but—”

“That is the key to Mr. Durnstein’s art studio.” Jo looks over to him and sees his eyes are wide. “I thought the key was gone forever…”

“Wait, Mr. Durnstein’s?”

“Mhm. I’m sure you’ve seen most of the paintings by him in the house. Come on, I’ll show you to the door.” He quickly hobbles toward the stairs before Jo has a chance to ask him anything more.

Once again, they are in the study and he is looking in the bookcase? “Mx. Jo, could you help me? We’re looking for a small keyhole.”

“I’m guessing he wasn’t a fan of pulling out a book?” Jo jests.

He chuckles. “That has been done more than once, “Too predictable” Mr. Kimberly would say. So instead—Ah!” He points to the bottom of a book where a small hole is. “That’s it.”

Jo slides the key inside and turns it, a small pop! echoes around them and a portion of the bookcase goes backward. With a bit of a nudge, the door gives and the two of them are met with a pocket of dust. After coughing much like car exhaust, the dust settles to where the two can see.

Within the space, there are multiple easels in place. Some of the closer ones had the beginnings of art pieces, a few containing small children, others mere infants. Instead of representing any kind of peace, the younger the child, the more shadows seem to mesh into the work. Jo feels Mr. Phillips’ body tense as he approaches the easels, muttering something about “The other kids”. As Jo steps closer to one of the infants, they start to notice other easels behind them marked up in red. Red Xs are scrawled onto them, each one more dug into the canvas than the previous. As they look around further, they see easels that are broken apart, the canvases bashed onto them as well.

They keep searching and searching through the rubble, disbelief taking hold of their features as they try to find the portrait of the woman in the notebook. It’s the only piece that is missing from here, the only one not in shambles.

As they reach the back, they see the far back wall embedded with Xs and attempted words but none of them are legible. All of them surround a single overturned portrait, intact.

Jo reaches out and turns it around to see a portrait of a pregnant young woman, a purpley, sludge-like X fixated over her throat. Mrs. Durnstein holds a plate of nightshade behind her, a calm, healthy smile laying against her features. Dug into the portrait is:

“She killed them.”