The Manor

The Manor is a foreboding place, three stories of dark grey brick choked with vines and age. It sits on a hill just outside of Willsborough and has been left abandoned for over a hundred years. Yet somehow the only clear signs of its age are the plants that threaten to overcome it and the outdated architecture. It is not crumbling or damaged. It stands proud and strong, with rows of darkened windows, not a single one showing a crack. It is inviting, almost. Enticing wandering souls to enter. One might wonder who lived there once, what caused them to leave, and if they ever really did. 

The townsfolk never dare to come near it. It is plagued by memories best left forgotten. It has a cursed legacy and stepping foot in it brings that curse onto yourself. But of course, a bird cares for no such things, seemingly it cannot feel dread. Neither care nor understand superstition and rumour. A bird is free to do what it wants. And so it does. 

One such bird, searching for food to bring back to her nest, perched on the edge of one of the chimneys curiously peering down into its depths. It was a cold day and the house’s tall walls reached up, blending seamlessly into the stormy grey blanket which coated the sky. The bird hopped forward once, then twice. Then she was swooping down through the dark and the century-old ash and then- woosh. In a flurry of feathers, the bird burst into a wider space, a room. It was untouched by wind or rain. Not a single leaf littered the floor which should have been impossible with an open chimney but the bird could not have known that. The room seemed to be some sort of parlour. Comfortable blue couches sat arranged around the fireplace. On the mantle sat a clock, above it a large gold-rimmed mirror as clean as the day it was made yet somehow it didn’t reflect a thing. It was simply an empty sheen of glass. The wallpaper was lined with paintings. One of which was large, hanging prominently at the end of the room. It was of a family. A father, who had a stern yet kind face. A mother who's eyes betrayed how much she smiled, and three children. Daughters. The eldest looked as though she could bear the weight of the world, and would if asked to. The middle child looked proud, with a wild, inquisitive look in her bright eyes. The youngest however wasn’t smiling as she stared silently ahead. She seemed confused almost. As if she didn’t know why she was there. As if she shouldn’t be there. 

The bird hopped forward eagerly searching the wooden floor for seeds or bugs but ultimately was out of luck. She gave a chirp and took off into the air again to continue her search. She had no trouble finding the door, which was unusual for a bird, and strangely not a single door was closed to her as she flew through the house. Though no matter how hard she tried she could find no food, nor exit. She flittered about, forlorn, occasionally landing to inspect the objects which remained in the house. Nothing was missing, nor stolen it seemed. Nothing at all. Not that the bird could know.

The manor was silent as the bird flew. As if it was holding its breath. More paintings lined the walls of the halls and rooms and as the bird flew deeper into the house they became more and more… broken. Damaged. Coming to the end of a hall the bird landed on a dresser and looked across the hall at five paintings hanging on the wall. They were five portraits of the same family. But something was wrong. The father sat alone staring ahead at nothing. His eyes had an intense wild look in them. Hungry. The mother’s eyes were still warm but there was a jagged cut tearing through the canvas where her throat should be. The eldest daughter’s eyes were tired, and the colour of the painting had been drained away so that she was a shadow of her former self. The middle daughters painting was burned beyond recognition but the youngest daughters, her painting was entirely undamaged. It showed her sitting alone on a chair smiling at nothing, without any eyes. The bird chirped, puffing up her feathers before taking off again, leaving the portraits behind her. 

Eventually, after searching the quiet house for a very long time, the bird came to a door. The first one that was closed to her. She landed and cocked her head as she looked up at it transfixed. Silently the door swung open revealing an empty room. It was the first one to have nothing in it and the bird hopped forward curiously to inspect it. Perhaps here, she would find some food. 

Something stained the air of the room, something sharp and metallic. In the middle of the floor was something dark and the bird hopped forward hopefully only to discover it to be an unfamiliar liquid. A small puddle of something sticky and dark. It rolled and rippled as if something was pouring into it but it never got any larger. It stayed in its place. The room seemed smaller than it had before or maybe the shadows had just gotten darker. 

With a chirp, the bird took off into the air to find her way out of the room but couldn’t find her escape. The door she had come through remained wide open but she flitted around searching the windowless wallpaper for her way out completely oblivious to the freedom right in front of her. The edges of the room were swamped with shadow and the bird, tired, landed next to the puddle to rest. 

Seemingly, a bird cannot feel dread. Cannot comprehend certain types of danger. If a person had been in the bird’s position perhaps they would have known. They would have been able to tell that the stain in the middle of the room was blood. Perhaps they would have also seen the small shape of a young girl, lingering in the corner. Smiling. I do not believe it would have made any difference. It always ends the same. 

The bird cocked its head, puffing up its feathers. The shadows crept closer. The bird chirped. And then there was no bird at all. Just a room in an old house sitting on a hill outside the small town of Willsborough. 

Waiting for another soul to enter.