Damned Rose of Mine

It left a rose today. A scarlet tone of bloody red dried and withering. Not dead, yet not quite alive either. It has been weeks, almost months since this soul-stirring presence of another being in my home has made itself known. I lift the rose into my hands, the thorns cut and gone as per usual. The petals feel worn out between my fingers, an eerie texture in and of itself, yet I relish the feeling it brings me. My mother's skin was the same; soft and delicate yet indicating signs of old age, a testimony of the death that would soon befall her. I cannot deny the comfort that it brings me, as if he knows I’d feel this way. I let out a shaky breath, the sun once glistening in my soul, now being washed over by heavy rainfall. A sense of dread, of uneasiness, seeps into my veins. I shouldn't find this comforting, not in the least. But I do. My heart finds itself at a crossroads of sorts. A paradox of an existence. 

My mother left me this house, but before that, it was my grandfather’s. I owe the old man for allowing me to live in an old, almost gothic home dripping in old money. When my mother passed away last year, I never imagined this house would be in the will, much less that she'd give it to me. Nevertheless, I was my family's last living member, and therefore, its last hope and successor. I needed a break, an escape from the rush of the urban lifestyle. It was a vital step to stop the feeling of my brain on the verge of exploding. To forever rid me of the desire to yank my eyeballs out of my face and rip my hair out of my scalp. Anything to stop the voices.

The one factor I forgot to consider before moving was the actual condition of the house. The grand and weathered monument of another time had been left forgotten for years. Although the Victorian manor was draped in the kind of elegance that had long since decayed over time, it was uninhabitable. Vines dominated the space even inside the home, a sign of nature reclaiming its territory. The dark wooden walls, once pristine and glamorous, were now faded and peeling, an empty canvas of the grandeur that it once was. Now that I was eyeing the broken art piece of a house, an aura of mystery and curiosity etched onto me like an itch. What was most mysterious of all, most inexplicable, was the ghostly presence roaming the abandoned home. Ever since I’d arrived, a sense of unease sank into my skin like a tattoo. The magnificent chandelier which hung precariously from the ceiling of the main foyer, glistened, darkened in my presence. Ancient portraits lined up against the aged walls, each work gazing out with cold, unyielding eyes that seemed to follow my every step. Doors, windows, and cabinets would open unbeknownst to me and twisted, bloody, messages would be left on the foggy mirror after I finished my shower, twisted and riddle-like complexities. I couldn't tell if it was real or a creation of my mind. A hallucination. Was I taking my pills? 

I’d spent days avoiding any remotely creepy room in the massive manor. One of the places I couldn't avoid though, was my bedroom. My grandfather’s old room had a balcony overlooking the uncanny woods surrounding the house for miles. Quiet. I enjoyed the silence that came with living in a small town. My usual routine consisted of taking my typewriter to the public town library or cafe and working digitally. However, today was different. February 14, on Valentine's Day, a thornless rose was left on my silky white bed sheets, along…with a key.

Questions overwhelmed my mind, working on overdrive. I threw both the rose and key onto my bed, rejecting the newfound items. My palpitating heart didn't seem to stop, didn't seem to calm at the thought of not being alone. Someone was watching me. And that “someone” knew something I did not. My palms made contact with my head, attempting some sense of order in the mental warfare inside my head. I knitted my brows and felt my muscles tense, my body reacting to the anxiety brewing in my soul. With my lips parting, quivering in their movement, I released a much-needed breath, taking a second to gather myself before gazing down at the key. An antique with a crow-like figure carved on the handle. Despite the clock ticking at me, urging me to sink into bed and doze off, I had to find the door the key belonged to. It was as logical as it was foolish, it was what he wanted me to do. I was playing a dangerous game, yet I couldn't bring myself to care. Not when I needed to know what it was. What he was. My thin fingers shuddered at the cold feel of the key against my skin. Discomfort soared to record high levels, wood creaking for a single moment and my body went stiff. The following silence was deafening, killing me with its symphony of loneliness, and here I believed I treasured it. Something twisted, something darker was hiding in this house, as if the place itself was in mourning, alive with memories that whispered and sighed and purred a song of mystery. That single sound altered me so much that my heart began pounding against my ribs. Was it possible to rip my own heart out of my chest? This house spoke to me in ways no one ever had; sounds of doors closing and opening, windows creaking, and wind blowing loudly against the thick foliage outside. Eyes that glared with no shame. A language incomprehensible to anyone but myself. There was no time to sit around and wait for whatever eyes I could feel boring into my head to appear.

The rhythm of my feet was uncontrollable, urgent in its maneuver between the twists and turns of the Victorian manor. It was watching me right now, I could feel it as I roamed the halls with purpose. The vintage paintings also stalked my steps, further trapping me in a wave of fear and anxiety. Their eyes bulged and faces stretched out of the canvas, making my head spin. Focus, Beatrice. The red carpeted floors masked the sound of my stride. If someone else was indeed residing in my grandfather's home, tracking them down would be near impossible. A magnetic pulse was emanating from the key at hold, a rope dragging me to where I assumed I was supposed to go. A heavy fog seized my mind, taking it hostage and orchestrating my movements until they were no longer my own. 

At long last, there stood the door tall and proud. The wood was chipped and worn out, yet the structure was alluring, divine even. The one room I couldn't access since the day I walked into this home, was now at the tip of my fingers. My grandfather’s study. The intimidating door was right in front of my very eyes, the one room I’d steered clear of. The hand that held the key made itself closer to the keyhole, out of my control. Before I realized it, I’d turned it, and with a click, the door unlocked. A gasp escaped my lips, my body jumping at the simultaneous sound of a whisper. “Inside” It purred. “Go inside” the voice muttered repeatedly. My choice was set in stone, grounded and chained to this very house, and nothing nor no one would scare me away. The lights dimmed as the door creaked and the room was left open and free for me to discern.

The space lay in disarray, rows of leather-bound books scattered across in a variety of states of decay. Some were stacked in precarious towers, others lay reposing on the soiled ground. My throat repressed a cough from the filth and my eyes narrowed, scrutinizing the study in all its dusty glory. The heavy, gothic arches closed in around the bookshelves, adorned with crumbling plasterwork, twisted angels, and gargoyles, peering down in knowing expressions. I sucked in a breath, tasting malaise in the floating air. Besides the room being breathtaking, what drew me in was the huge desk near the large stained window. A faint, pale light peered into the room, reflecting the overwhelming presence of the full moon above. My steps were so precise as if they were foretold, as if this moment was impending. Prophetic. My pupils dilated on the various stacks of books on my grandfather's desk, as if he left them behind not knowing death was on the way. My head, tilted down and focused on the books, couldn't look away at the sight. Out of the blue, a gravelly whisper spoke into my ear, whatever it said, incomprehensible to the ear. My skin prickled at the close contact of me and the mysterious being behind me. My heartbeat vibrated, extending to every corner of my figure. He was here. His voice was barely a murmur, yet so deep and captivating, words that slipped from his tongue like a silky wine. A piece of music my ears envied. Roses. I smelled roses. My chest heaved, warmth spreading in my insides and at long last, I turned my head.

Nothing. There was no man, no presence in the room. Could it be the voices again? My hands, now turned cold from the odd temperature of the expanse, clenched tightly, digging half-moons into my palms. The moment was as beautiful as it was fleeting, terrifying yet invigorating. I took a moment to gather myself before averting my eyes toward my grandfather's desk again. Palming the knob of the chiffonier and revealing the contents, a brow raised at the intrigue of my grandfather’s possessions. A small collection of reservoir pens lay inside and small trinkets such as old family photos and a pair of glasses. It all seemed oddly normal. Ordinary. Except it wasn't. A fake layer of wood sat underneath the objects, masking whatever resided deep down. What could you be hiding Grandpa? I inhaled a deep breath in preparation, refreshing my insides before shoving the objects away, clearing my path toward one of the possible secrets within this manor. My fingertips hovered the material, gently lifting the wooden piece in a gentle motion. Subconsciously, I tightened my throat, and my lips, yearning to know what was inside. What I didn’t expect though, was a single simplistic journal. I took it into my hands, blowing the dust away from the surface. It was now or never, and so I bared the pages for my eye to see, opening the black leather cover and commencing with the first page. My breath hitched at my throat, bile building up to the surface of my mouth, the taste lingering for longer than I’d prefer. My eyes magnified, body still and tense and strained and discomposing. My slim fingers agitated as they held the journal. I was baffled at what I’d uncovered, immediately regretting it. Regretting ever taking the key, ever paying any mind to him. A chill ran down my spine, my body slowly shaking and trembling more by the second. My grandfather was a killer, and all the evidence was in these very pages. 

February 14, 1932,

Today I felt it again. That incomprehensible itch I simply cannot scratch away. It gnaws at me, mocking me, urging me to just do it. And I just might, because I cannot endure it any longer. This is what I am meant to do, a prognostication I am bound to deliver. I try to reassure myself that I am safe from the shadow within me, but today, I am powerless against it. I know who. I know who has to go. It is all planned already, how I’ll take his last breath away. He shouldn't be in my home. He was a mistake of my witless endeavors, living evidence of what I tried to bury. He has to go. He has to be erased along with my infidelity. After all, he’s not one of my own…

My body trembled uncontrollably as my grandfather described his sins. Disgustingly grotesque language as he described the slow and painful death of his victim. His so-called salvation to whatever was corrupting him. A picture slipped from the pages as I stood breathless. The image was a family photo in the garden, the one in this very manor. A rose garden. My grandfather was standing on the right side, his arms wrapped around a beautiful woman with luscious black hair. His mistress. But beside the woman was someone else. My eyes narrowed to get a better look at the name scribbled at the bottom. Dorian Thorne. He was as strikingly beautiful as he was unnerving. High, angular cheekbones complimented his angular features and a defined jawline that lent him an almost sculpted, statuesque look. His skin was pale and his gaze was predatory, with ethereally gorgeous eyes complementing his tall-looking stature. One eye was icy blue, the kind to cause a snowstorm, freezing anything in his path. The other one was brown, a deep, chestnut tone of a twisted warmth. The mistress’s son. It all made sense now.

A thump brought me back to reality, snapping me out of my intense observation before a pair of eyes absorbed my being, and I knew they were colored blue and brown. Roses. My nostrils flared at the sweet scent, practically seeping into my pores. I gulped, my jaw tensing at the feel of his stare boring into my head, so profoundly, that I thought my brain was going to detonate. “Beatrice,” He finally uttered. My name alone coming from his lips left me heaving, so breathless that I dropped the items at hand and went still. My only motion came from my eyes, slowly shifting to the window, narrowing at the reflection. Standing in front of the glass, of the moonlight, I could see it all so clearly. The smell grew more intense, more prominent as I saw him come closer. His frame was directly behind mine, magnificent eyes challenging my own to an insidious game as they met on the reflection. On the spur of the moment, my feet twirled, forcing my body to face his, to be daring for the first time since entering this house. “Dorian” I whispered, my voice shaky and quiet, in a way, afraid of what he may do. 

My skin crawled as he brought his hand up and over my shoulder, his eyes narrowed and unwavering. His gaze was unshakable in the way he eyed me as if he wanted to eat me alive. Any word I tried to speak built up on my tongue, stuck and lost, faded forever. “You…” I tried to anyway, my mind flooded with questions, with unyielding curiosity. Fluffy, almost disheveled pitch black hair lingered over his eyes. His touch was cold and bitter as his thick fingers wrapped around my skin as if he treasured it. His full lips parted, looking dry with hues of blue, and at long last, he spoke. “You're nothing like him” he muttered, a deep, husky voice speaking out to me. It was so proper, unlike anything I’d ever heard, from another century. “Pardon?” My voice trembled, a victim to his intimidation, of his control over my soul. “Your grandfather” He cleared. What could I even say right now? What if he was a hallucination? “I had no idea” I whispered, daring to speak to this man. A ghost, forever destined to roam this abandoned home, bound by the punishment of my grandfather's sins. His eyes flared ever so slightly, intrigued by my words and he pulled out a rose, thornless as always, and offered it out to me. It was dry, old, and rotted unlike him, who seemed young, possibly my age. A stature the gods resented and hunter-like eyes that could gaze miles inside my mind. His skin was pale and ethereal, contradicting the years he’d been standing on this earth. 

I remained still as his hand traced down my arm, pleasuring in the feel. I couldn't admit that it felt inviting, cold yet gentle. His hands wrapped around the back of my neck. A shuddered breath escaped his lips as if he was restraining himself. His scrutiny darkened, and I could do nothing but stare back, admiring him. Dorian Thorne. A hidden mystery, standing right before me. “I’ve waited far too long” He muttered, my heart pumping at full speed and the blood in my veins rushing at every corner. He admired me, glancing down at my lips, only for a millisecond, then back up to my eyes. “So allow me…” Unanticipatedly, his head tilted downwards, getting closer to my face. My lips. I bit the inside of my cheek at the sensation of being watched. At that moment, I felt the magnitude of my position, and what he wanted. His eyes flared in a dark and sinister delusion, one that took my mind hostage, like the vines of this home, absorbing the structure no matter the grandity. On this very day, my grandfather had killed him, and now, he was killing me with his touch. His lips hovered over mine, his breath blowing on mine, teasing me. At long last, his lips pressed against mine, ravishing my soul, interweaving our fates in perpetuity, yet I did not push away. Did not reject it. “My damned rose” He uttered against my lips, tickling my heart with his almost erotic act. I did not know what he wanted, but it was crystal clear that it bordered between vengeance and obsession. To me, it did not matter, for I knew that he was real, and we were bound in ways beyond conventional. My haunting ghost, and his damned rose.