An Unexpected Guest

The room reeked of desolation and loneliness. Thin, dusty rays of sunlight filtered through the gossamer curtains and fell gently on the dated carpet, a sea of faded ivory. Light coloured baseboards held strong and flat against the wall. Faded damask wallpaper peeled away from sections of the white plaster walls, the previous owner’s attempt at further decorating the space. The paintings had been removed and placed on the floor, leaning against the wall and covered in sheets. Ornate crown moulding encircled the ceiling, hand carved olive branches and ribbons with gold filigree. Plaster carvings radiated from the chandelier’s base as well, reaching outward in a perfect circle. The light fixture itself was a marvel: wrought iron with gold plating, a yellow stained glass globe hung beneath elegant golden arms that caressed the candle holders. Or what were candles, it had been modified and wired. A shame.

Stained white sheets covered the furniture; nothing had been taken. A large armoire, writing desk, what appeared to be a dressing table, and several chairs. Only the base of the armoire was visible. Carved and stained oak feet with small splinters, an antique that will need restoring. Ornaments and bowls created soft lumps in the blanket covering the dressing table. Tall side tables guarded the oversized canopy bed, the shape of oil lamps morphing the sheet. The red curtains hung dismally, still tied to their posts. The bed was hidden by a sheet as well, but corners of the remaining quilt hung low. No one stripped the sheets before closing the room.

Kyle leaned on the doorway and stared in awe, dumbfounded that the owner would let the room rot so terribly. Dust and cobwebs smothered every surface, hiding its beauty. As his eyes swept the room he noticed the east wall had bubbled outward, a discouraging omen. He slid a dust mask over his mouth and entered the room, dragging a sledgehammer behind him. A gloved hand hesitantly touched the plaster wall and cursed as the damaged mud flaked beneath his touch. The dilapidated house has left yet another nasty surprise for him: black mold. He removed a scraper from his belt and began chipping away when he noticed something odd. The wall started cracking and crumbling, falling apart into small chips. Kyle stepped back and reassessed the wall, watching the spider web of cracks spread further. He lifted the sledgehammer and pushed against the wall. It gave way, large pieces falling around his boots. A gust of stale air pushed the dust towards his face; it carried a foul smell of decay and rot.

A narrow doorway had been plastered over haphazardly, no studs or bricks to fully support it. The odor emitting from the dark opening was overwhelming, nauseating. Hidden rooms and passages in older houses were fairly common, especially ones large enough to house full time servants. Odd smells were expected as well, but Kyle had never encountered something so fetid. He retched once, composed himself, and held his breath as he flicked his headlamp on.

The room was a large closet, as ornately decorated as the bedroom itself. The furniture here had been left uncovered and exposed to moisture. Another dressing table, ottomans, and other antique pieces were scattered across the floor in disarray. The walls were lined with silk dresses and finery, moth-eaten and neglected. But the centerpiece of the room is what solved the mystery. Why the house had sold for so little, why the owner was eager to sell, and why the room had been neglected. A woman hung from the iron chandelier, her faded nightgown in tatters and clinging to her skeletal frame. Dry leathery skin stretched across her cheekbones and spiders had made nests inside of her eye cavities. Her hands and feet were bound with frayed rope. 

Kyle shrieked in horror and stumbled backwards into the dressing table. Small glass trinkets shattered under his shaking hands. A small journal slid out from under the sheet and landed softly on the carpet, irritating the thick dust. He glanced down at the journal, snatched it from the floor and raced out of the room. He desperately dug for the key in his sweater pocket, slammed the door shut and locked it. Still gasping for air, Kyle wandered into the parlor room and sank into an armchair. He stared blankly at the book, a plain leather bound diary. Finally regaining his composure, Kyle opened the book and gently leafed through the aged parchment. Delicate handwriting lined each page, a date accompanying every entry. The passages ended halfway through the journal, the script slanting and hastily scrawled.

December Sixth

I live in fear. The house is shrouded in secrets and shadows, the staff whisper and stare. Mother and Father have not returned, Uncle William assures me of their well being but my suspicions have grown. His eyes linger and betray his intentions. How do I end this familiarity?

December Tenth

My fears have grown. I found Uncle William rifling through my wardrobe, taking particular interest in my undergarments. Upon discovery, he accused me of stealing Mother’s rings, insisting he was searching for them. I defended my innocence and begged him to leave my quarters. He continued to wrongfully berate me and snatched my wrist. Fortunately Lydia entered with my tea, interrupting his ill intent. I am so grateful for her intervention, but I worry that I will not be so fortuitous again. 

December Twelfth

I have purchased a train ticket and will leave tonight. His intentions are no longer disguised through wandering eyes. I must go lest I suffer a terrible fate. If he

The final entry ended in a long ink trail stretching across the page. A shiver crept up Kyle’s spine as he searched the page’s for the owner’s name, an identity he could attach to the tortured woman. When no name was found, he pulled his cellphone from his belt and called the real estate agent. She answered in her overly polite sales voice, but her tone quickly changed after Kyle stuttered through his discovery. She admitted the true history of the original owners, somberly describing the mysterious disappearance of Anna Fulford, John Fulford’s youngest daughter. It was assumed that she’d run away, being the most rebellious of the children. Kyle had stumbled on to the county’s oldest cold cases.