I looked at the long black key and then at the tall, windowless door before us.
I couldn’t believe that only a few years earlier the house stood condemned, a burned shell waiting for the forest and the lake to reclaim it. I knew little of Kerry Manor, though Sam had filled me in on the basics. A century before a fire claimed the lives of the entire Kerry Family. A handful of urban myths surrounded the creepy mansion - but having grown up in Cadillac, more than an hour drive from here, I knew few of the stories.
“Forget about the next great American novel, Corrie. This house is for writing horror. Mua-ah-ah,” he cackled, jumping onto the porch rail with his teeth bared and hands raised like claws.
I laughed and shuddered at the same time. I did not share Sammy’s fascination with the darker side of life. A therapist once told me that children of addicts tended to the extremes, and I veered toward the warm and fuzzy. I liked Disney movies and romance novels. Sammy often laughed at my insatiable appetite for happy endings, which he found unrealistic and downright boring. My love for Sammy had me endlessly dabbling in horror, but I would happily never watch Jason staking young blondes in his hockey mask, ever again.
“I thought it would be more… homey,” I admitted.
“Homely?” he called, pushing open the door. “It is kind of homely, right? A house only a mother could love.”
“A house only a monster could love,” I grumbled. “And I said homey.”
The foyer yawned. I strained upward to see the shadowy ceiling. A sharp, medieval chandelier hung above us, illuminating the dark interior, but only barely.
A broad wooden staircase curved toward a landing with a tall stained glass window. Oil paintings hung along the stairwell. Images of families, their faces grim, stared out from drab maroon and brown backdrops.
“Are we looking at the Kerry family?” I asked, gesturing at the paintings.
“No.” Sammy shook his head. “Dane bought most of the paintings in Paris. He considered recreating images of the family, but thought that might be macabre.”
“Because they all died here?”
“Mmm-hmmm.” Sammy wandered away, and I paused to look at a black wall sconce with spear-like arms pointing in several directions.
“Looks like a toddler death trap,” I mumbled, making sure Sammy did not hear me.
I didn’t want to ruin Sammy’s excitement over our winter rental, and in all honesty, I felt it too. What a wild experience to spend a winter in a restored Gothic mansion. And yet… I rubbed my arms and smoothed over goosebumps beneath my fingers.
“Look at this fireplace, Gorey,” Sammy called, using his preferred pet name for me.
I walked into the great room to more soaring ceilings and dark wood-paneled walls.
The fireplace mantel stood as tall as me, thick and ornate. In its center a pagan figurehead stared out, its face a whorl of groves, a sadistic smile stretched on its voluptuous lips.
I grimaced and touched my fingers to its partially open mouth.
“Is this in line with the original house?”
Sammy shrugged.
“Who knows? Though I’d imagine not. I’m guessing the Kerry family was Protestant. That was the prevailing religion of the time in these parts. A heathen mantel would not have pleased visitors.”
“Are you a heathen?” I asked the wooden face.
“I’m not sure about him, but I’m experiencing some heathen tendencies right about now.” Sammy picked me up and growled in my ear. “Let’s go christen our room.”
I laughed and shook my head, kissing his mouth and struggling out of his arms.
“After the tour.”
High arched doorways and floor-length windows made each room appear impossibly tall.
A long, rectangular dining room was lit by a chandelier illuminating richly textured black wallpaper.
“Are those actual candles?” I asked, standing on tiptoe to peer into the fixture.
“No, but they sure look the part.” Sammy ran his hands over the gleaming wood table. “Imagine all the laundry we can pile on this thing.”
I laughed and slipped through another doorway, into an alcove with inset shelves filled with antique dishes.
“Does the owner realize we have a two-year-old?” I asked Sammy, admiring the silver-flecked china and wondering how I would keep Isis from turning the room into a pile of porcelain rubble.
We explored the study, home to another cavernous fireplace. Sammy pulled open the drapes and let light filter into the room, washing the gleaming wood floor and garish furniture in gold.
Leather-bound classics lined the shelves, black iron lions butting the books together.
“I may have to claim this room,” Sammy announced, settling into a high-backed chair, surely hand-carved, with intricate whorls and spirals. He rested his hands on the desk, palms down. “In this room, you shall call me Lord Samuel of Kerry Manor.”
I half-smiled, distracted by a mural of mossy trees and lush foliage that covered one wall. The image looked too real; as if I could step through and feel the spongy earth beneath me, smell the dank plants, overripe and sagging.
“Excuse me,” Sammy cleared his voice loudly. “Lord Samuel of Kerry Manor is displeased with your lack of ardor.”
I looked at him and grinned.
“Lord Samuel will have to take his complaints to the Queen. Oh, wait, that’s me. Complaints are dismissed.”
I laughed and danced from the room.
Down another hallway, I found a bathroom with a black claw-footed tub set in a deep arch. Above the black sink, a long medieval-looking gold and black mirror reflected my face. I stared at the woman in the mirror: freckled nose, creamy brown curls brushing the turned-up collar of my white coat.
I remembered a game one of my girlfriends insisted we play as children.
Stare into the glass and say Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary, and then turn off the lights and wait.
According to my friend, the ghost of a woman who wandered the streets searching for her dead child would appear behind me.
I tried it one time when I was ten years old. When the lights went out, panic seized me as if a monster had slithered from the bathtub drain and caught me around the throat.
I shuddered at the memory, glimpsing Sammy slipping into the bathroom behind me.
“Don’t even think about scaring me,” I told him, turning around.
“What, babe?” Sammy called from somewhere deeper in the house, maybe even walking up the stairs.
I blinked into the room. There were no windows, so it could not have been a trick of the light. I pulled the door back - nothing. I turned back to the mirror and stared into it a second time, entertaining a brief fantasy of a magic portal. What existed within the mirror was separate from my world. On the opposite side of the mirror, the Corrie of another dimension stood.
I studied the dark wallpaper, the bureau stacked with colorful bottles of perfumes and cologne - even those reminiscent of a time long passed.
Nothing moved in the mirror.
I ENDED my tour on the back porch and surveyed the endless gray water of Lake Michigan. The house stood at the tip of the Leelanau Peninsula in an isolated stretch of forest and stony beach. Our closest neighbors were a half-mile away. The Upper Peninsula lay across the watery divide, Beaver Island nestled somewhere between. You’d drown long before you ever caught a glimpse of either.
“What do you think?” Sammy asked, stepping behind me and snaking his strong arms beneath my own. He pressed his forearms into my ribs and rested his chin on top of my head.