The Manson Mansion

Kenophobia. The irrational fear of large spaces. A classic fear my mother hollered before her psychotic breakdown which resulted in a heavy and desolating funeral. I never knew the fear would linger. Until I let her in. After my mother’s passing my dad took “took me for his own” to a whole new level and un enrolled me out of middle school. He sold our small city home and moved into an ancient looking mansion, built in the 1800s by some weird guy called Urleck Manson.

Safe to say I never really saw anyone after we moved except my tutor and nanny. Dad decided to home school me, and shape my mind into fearing the outside. But my mind was stubborn. I latched onto the thought of the outside, and my mind couldn’t be shaped, like cold and solidified concrete.

The following weekend dad had to leave North Carolina to a different state. Some type of state called Colorado. For some fancy building work. Whatever, not like I could care. He was never here to look after me anyway. Funnily enough that day the Nanny unexpectedly chickened out on her day job here. She’s been missing from her shifts ever since Thursday 28th of September. Two days ago. Cassidy never misses a shift.

“Do not leave this property or I swear I’ll hunt you down. Also, be aware, the post man should be here between Friday and Sunday for my packages so make sure to pick them up. Cassidy for some reason isn’t coming so stay here until she does so.” Dad sternly warned.

“Or maybe order a new nanny? Like I get I’m twelve but I can’t exactly work the heating or cook a decent meal.” I replied. Dad shook his head in judgement and slammed the door behind him. The scraping sound of his engine dusted away as he left the driveway.

I wish I could contact Joshua. I haven’t been able to hear from him ever since I left. My dad doesn’t believe in service phones; only he‘s aloud a work phone that he overuses, to the point I’m not aloud to say or do anything if he’s present in a room and talking with his work friends. He never spends an ounce of money on me. The only remaining clothes I have left are my late mother’s and mine. The fridge was empty. Dad doesn’t do the shopping either. It’s the nanny that does everything. My stomach mad a low baritone grumble. I wish Cassidy was here to bake those sugar buns I love so much. I grabbed a wrinkled peach and sunk my teeth into it. Despite its grubby appearance enough to make me gag, the honey golden juice ran like thick glossy sap and the flavour was enough to make me want more.

*ding dong*

Was that Cassidy? I paused mid eating with thick sticky juice painted all over my mouth and dripping on the waxed floors. I wasn’t really tall enough to reach the peep hole so I just opened the door.

“Excuse me dear, I can’t find my carriage. Could you please let me in?” The silent shivery voice of a middle aged women filled the large blank hallways with a frightening feeling. She didn’t look like she belonged in the right century. Her voluptuous large black Lacey gown weathered on the entire doorstep. I tried to make out what she looked like but it was masked by a black veil. Her small black umbrella and hand gloves fit into some sort of Victorian era story. I got really sketchy vibes from this woman. But some sort of force was demanding me to let her in. Was this the missing cassidy? Did someone die?

The woman sat on the white leather couch and weeped silently into a satin handerkcheif. “Can I get you anything ma’am?” I asked politely. The woman continued weeping, as if my presence went unknown. I guess I should leave her to cry it out. The pixelating pow wows of my old game boy wasn’t enough to drown out her miserable crying.

By the time the clocks struck six, a foul deathly smell arose even to the highest point in the house and the growling and churning of my stomach had returned to perpetrate my evening. Maybe that strange woman downstairs knew how to cook. I sprinted downstairs back to the huge living room strung with many carefully carved chandeliers. But to my surprise, she was gone. But I could still hear an echo of whispers and cries. I slid across the marble floors in my brown stained white socks and turned round every winding corridor and hallway of this unsettling labyrinth. Every guest room and marvellous bathroom and mystery rooms with latches and trap doors that I didn’t even knew existed, all found to be empty. Yet the cries still managed to reverberate. The only place I didn’t check was the attic. The last and least used place in this house and yet it still has its own set of stairs that Cassidy tends to. Except her absence for the past couple of days has allowed little colonies of dust to ally together.

The doors condition was really bad. Enough to give you splinters on all your hands and feet. Dry paint peeled off like baked oranges and yet somehow the door was peaceful. It did not greet me with thrashing loud creaks like someone dragging nails on a chalkboard, rather it was eerily quiet. The place was dark. The dark seemed like an endless abyss. A singular lightbulb was all that was given to this place and yet its light didn’t reach further than arms length. Underneath the dangling bulb were stacks of boxes, labelled in beautiful font writing, “Manson.” Curiousity ate me like hungry parasites. I couldn’t help but interpret my childish mind and dragged the boxes back downstairs onto the second floor and into my bedroom. Stacks of dust fell like feathers to the floor and air I was sharing with. The box was filled with many different artefacts; books, blueprints, photo frames and a singular locket. The books and journals were all signed in the same font, except with a full name, “Urleck Manson.” This must be the guy that built this house. 1857, 1888, all of these span until the very last journal, with splattered ink, as if he had stopped all of a sudden. 1894. Ugh the stench of death was coming back, but it felt closer to me than before. I peered out my window, facing ahead the singular isolated grave stone, carved in massive letters, “MANSON. 1845-1872.” I was right. This is his grave. I grabbed the journal with the earliest entry dated 1857, and the passage read,

I spite Gabriella. Her weeping emotions fill me with such hatred. She shall regret it one day. I’m building her a house a beautiful begotten house, with wood and marble all the way from where I came from. England. All with my bare hands. Marvellous! Frederick just came in with the plans for the Manson Mansion. I’m glad she took my second name, or else this project wouldn’t work. And I can’t have her ruin everything. Or there will be consequences.

Urleck.

First entry was a little strange but as I read on I realised a gut wrenching plot twist. Thursday 28th of September 1872. The change of tone in his writing towards her made it a slight bit unsettling.

My love. I gave you the opportunity to remarry. To forget your sorrows. I have built you a house. I have given you my name. I have given you places to breath in death. Where no one will find them. And yet you continue to weep like a sad sparrow. You took a victim today that would impact someone more than the events of the Burke and Hare murders. She was a carer Gabriella. I’m afraid there won’t be much more of me. Since our darling little Ella isn’t here anymore, I must bring out the quest to rejoice with her in the heavens with our lord and saviour. Poor little sunshine. May you and our little Jonathan live on happily together. Goodbye Gabriella.

Urleck.

This cannot be the end of Manson, could it? The final passage. Dated 28th of September 1894.

Father,

I understand your no longer here with us. Some part of me is hoping you will read this message. Mother has gone mad. The rising suspicion of witchcraft is slowly creeping upon her ever since I found Mrs Samson in the cellar when I went to get our finest wine. Luckily the accusation died since all the trials a little under two hundred years ago. The town have been looking everywhere for her. But I’m glad to say I believe the doctor said something about her female problems that were causing the psychosis. Women right. I’ve tried everything. But I think it made her all the more angry. I think I hear someone upstairs, if you see this father, hu-

Then the passage ended. What happened? Was this Jonathan? And what did Manson mean when he built places for Gabriella? And that no one will find them? Who’s them? I placed the journal on my bed and gently picked up some really dated photos. A picture of a woman. The same woman in my door earlier. Tall, dressed in black laced mourning clothing. Alright I may be dense, but I think I saw the ghost of Gabriella Manson in my house today. And I think I’m sleeping in the same house as her victims.

But as I was studying the photos through thoughtful glances, a cold bony hand wrapped around my ankle, crackling and contorted. I stood paralysed in fear and the cries of the woman got louder. The anorexic feel of the hand grasped tighter around me as slivers and bolts of fear shot up my spine. Somehow I managed to break out my frozen state and as I tried to run, the arm stopped me and I collapsed to the cold hard floor. As I impacted the ground, the shuddering gasp of horror arose to my face as the head of a foul looking woman peered out from under my bed, her half skeletal hand reached out around my ankle. Her teeth were rotten, and her skin was a decomposed shade of yellow. Her makeup looked smudged and the nest on her head added all to my fear. The weeps and whispers grew louder. I shook my leg trying to liberate myself, but the panting and panicked breathing of my useless body made it all the more difficult. I let out a blood curdling scream until my throat was dry and scratchy but the mammoth house captivated my screams, and passed them down the hallways before silencing me.

Gabriella let out a high shrill screech and started retrieving her hand, bringing me with it.