Messages in an Old Manor House

I am the founder and leader of a group of writers. There is a steady membership of 10 of us. Every other Monday we have a meeting in which people read and hand out copies of short stories they have written since the previous meeting. One of the pleasures of being part of this writers group is the different approaches and styles that each of us takes: the beginning of one romance after another, supernatural stories with plenty of portals and contacts with the dead, comedic tales, semi-autobiographical/heroic, and the continuing adventures of someone growing up in a military town.

Every once in a while we do something special. Someone finds a ‘place dense with atmosphere’, and we sit for three hours and write short stories there. Somehow with all of us doing the same thing at the same time, writer’s block has not yet been a problem. It is not considered ‘cheating’ to have ideas for a story prior to going to the atmospheric place.

This night we have a great spot for our writing. It is an old manor house a short distance outside of town. It definitely looks its age, about 150 years old. No one has lived there for years. The current owner is a developer who says that he has future plans for the place (more the land than the house), but never says what those plans may be. 

There is a definite air of creepiness to the place. Teenage boys in town dare each other to spend the night there, like in the movies, but as far as I know, no one has taken up on the dare.

We have all heard stories about the place, the alleged ‘hauntings’ of sight and sound said to have driven the curious teenage visitors out of the place.  Tonight we will add our own tales, inspired by being there in the darkness of evening.

At the Old Manor House

We look very much like a funeral procession coming home, as we drive down the tree-lined narrow lane that leads to the old manor house. What contributed mightily to putting that image in my head was when we passed the family cemetery about halfway down the path. It put a suitable picture to the word ‘gloomy’. The six-foot or more stone walls that surround the house add to that feeling. And they make you feel that if the gate were closed, you would not be able to escape.

Once we arrived and parked around the circle that the lane became in front of the old manor house, we got out of our vehicles, and took the lawn chairs out of our cars. 

We had really prepared extensively for this writing event. I had talked to the developer and he let us have a set of keys to the house. We all brought with us not only the lawn chairs, but large pads of paper upon which we could write our stories, with the pads on our laps. No one brought a laptop. There was no electricity in the place. The developer had shut it off. So we brought with us candles as well, so that we could see what we were writing. Once inside we placed our chairs in a rough circle and lit the candles in the centre. There wasn’t much light, just enough. It also contributed to the general spookiness of the place, and our experience.

A story came quick to my mind. And from the scratching-on-paper sounds coming from the others, I felt that this was a great choice for an atmospheric venue. When I looked up from my pad, I saw that everyone was busy writing. 

My story was about a young woman named Cheryl Deville, a name I had heard was once linked to the old manor house. I imagined a situation in which domineering parents had arranged a marriage for her that she refused. The man was rich and a decade and a half older than she was.  Being the nasty people that they were, her parents locked her in the house, hoping that that would force her to agree to the marriage. She was denied access to the family car, and the stone walls that confined the front and back yar were next to impossible to climb.  There was not much she could do to escape. But she did not give in.  She spent the next 35 years of her life in the house under the rigid control of her parents. She died shortly before they did, and was buried in the family cemetery that had so impressed me with its gloominess on the drive down the lane.

Her only rebellion other than not agreeing to the marriage, was to keep and hide a diary that was in the attic (a bit of a cliché that, but it still works I think). She had no other option. Her parents were rich and powerful, and were feared and respected for their wealth and power. The Deville library was named after them, strange as they rarely read. Then there was the Deville Conference Room where the town council met. Cheryl’s parents could be said to have at least partially ‘owned’ a few councillors.. In a small town, there is little that you can do to fight such moneyed power.

The Readings

After less than two hours, everyone put their hand up as the signal that they had finished writing their story. The first reader of her story was Karen, famous in the group for her romantic tales. Early on I could tell that she had written almost exactly the same story as I had. And the two of us were not the only ones. There were stunned faces all around, with comments of ‘That is the story that I wrote.’. It wasn’t long before we realized that all of us had told the same tale. That was truly strange and a little frightening.. The writer who favoured writing about the supernatural said, “We’ve been contacted.”

           I was the first to suggest that perhaps we should take a little trip upstairs to the attic. All members were in agreement. Then I led a candle-lit procession up two flights of stairs. The attic door was locked. Fortunately, one of our members was a burly police officer. With a quick, “Let me handle this,” he ran up to the door and shoulder-checked it open. There were applause when he succeeded.  Then we all trooped in, and scattered in search of the diary. The obvious places – chests, drawers, possible false bottoms in drawers, were investigated, but with no luck. We all stood still. Then the word ‘bookshelf’ appeared in my mind, and I spoke it out loud. The others looked at me without a spoken word. I walked over to the bookshelf by the west wall. Before long I saw a tall slender book among the generally shorter volumes. Sure enough, it was Cheryl’s diary.

           One of our members works for a local publishing house as an accountant. I typed up the manuscript, adding suitable footnote and introduction, and it was published. It sold well in town, local gossip. Several copies were donated to the Deville Library. In addition, I dropped one off at the council meeting room. Cheryl’s story would be told. And local people come to visit the old manor house. I am thinking about giving tours.