If it’s not one thing, it’s the other. She always manages to find something to complain about. This time, it’s my choice to live in the house my grandparents gave to me. I grew up in Parsons Manor, running alongside the ghosts in the halls and baking cookies with Nana. I have fond memories here—memories I refuse to let go of just because Mom didn’t get along with Nana.
I never understood the tension between them, but as I got older and started to comprehend Mom’s snarkiness and underhanded insults for what they were, it made sense.
Nana always had a positive, sunny outlook on life, viewing the world through rose-colored glasses. She was always smiling and humming, while Mom is cursed with a perpetual scowl on her face and looking at life like her glasses got smashed when she was plunged out of Nana’s vagina. I don’t know why her personality never developed past that of a porcupine—she was never raised to be a prickly bitch.
Growing up, my mom and dad had a house only a mile away from Parsons Manor. She could barely tolerate me, so I spent most of my childhood in this house. It wasn’t until I left for college that Mom moved out of town an hour away. When I quit college, I moved in with her until I got back on my feet and my writing career took off.
And when it did, I decided to travel around the country, never really settling in one place.
Nana died about a year ago, gifting me the house in her will, but my grief hindered me from moving into Parsons Manor. Until now.
Mom sighs again through the phone. “I just wish you had more ambition in life, instead of staying in the town you grew up in, sweetie. Do something more with your life than waste away in that house like your grandmother did. I don’t want you to become worthless like her.”
A snarl overtakes my face, fury tearing throughout my chest. “Hey, Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Fuck off.”
I hang up the phone, angrily smashing my finger into the screen until I hear the telltale chime that the call has ended.
How dare she speak of her own mother that way when she was nothing but loved and cherished? Nana certainly didn’t treat her the way she treats me, that’s for damn sure.
I rip a page from Mom’s book and let loose a melodramatic sigh, turning to look out my side window. Said house stands tall, the tip of the black roof spearing through the gloomy clouds and looming over the vastly wooded area as if to say you shall fear me. Peering over my shoulder, the dense thicket of trees are no more inviting—their shadows crawling from the overgrowth with outstretched claws.
I shiver, delighting in the ominous feeling radiating from this small portion of the cliff. It looks exactly as it did from my childhood, and it gives me no less of a thrill to peer into the infinite blackness.
Parsons Manor is stationed on a cliffside overlooking the Bay with a mile long driveway stretching through a heavily wooded area. The congregation of trees separates this house from the rest of the world, making you feel like you’re well and truly alone.
Sometimes, it feels like you’re on an entirely different planet, ostracized from civilization. The whole area has a menacing, sorrowful aura.
And I fucking love it.
The house has begun to decay, but it can be fixed up to look like new again with a bit of TLC. Hundreds of vines crawl up all sides of the structure, climbing towards the gargoyles stationed on the roof on either side of the manor. The black siding is fading to a gray and starting to peel away, and the black paint around the windows is chipping like cheap nail polish. I’ll have to hire someone to give the large front porch a facelift since it’s starting to sag on one side.
The lawn is long overdue for a haircut, the blades of grass nearly as tall as me, and the three acres of clearing bursting with weeds. I bet plenty of snakes have settled in nicely since it’s last been mowed.
Nana used to offset the manor’s dark shade with blooms of colorful flowers during the spring season. Hyacinths, primroses, violas, and rhododendron.
And in autumn, sunflowers would be crawling up the sides of the house, the bright yellows and oranges in the petals a beautiful contrast against the black siding.
I can plant a garden around the front of the house again when the season calls for it. This time, I’ll plant strawberries, lettuce, and herbs as well.
I’m deep in my musings when my eyes snag on movement from above. Curtains flutter in the lone window at the very top of the house.
The attic.
Last time I checked, there’s no central air up there. Nothing should be able to move those curtains, but yet I don’t doubt what I saw.
Coupled with the looming storm in the background, Parsons Manor looks like a scene out of a horror film. I suck my bottom lip between my teeth, unable to stop the smile from forming on my face.
I love that.
I can’t explain why, but I do.
Fuck what my mother says. I’m living here. I’m a successful writer and have the freedom to live anywhere. So, what if I decide to live in a place that means a lot to me? That doesn’t make me a lowlife for staying in my hometown. I travel enough with book tours and conferences; settling down in a house won’t change that. I know what the fuck I want, and I don’t give a shit what anyone else thinks about it.
Especially mommy dearest.
The clouds yawn, and rain spills from their mouths. I grab my purse and step out of my car, inhaling the scent of fresh rain. It turns from a light sprinkle to a torrential downpour in a matter of seconds. I bolt up the front porch steps, flinging drops of water off my arms and shaking my body out like a wet dog.
I love storms—I just don’t like to be in them. I’d prefer to cuddle up under the blankets with a mug of tea and a book while listening to the rain fall.
I slide the key into the lock and turn it. But it’s stuck, refusing to give me even a millimeter. I jimmy the key, wrestling with it until the mechanism finally turns and I’m able to unlock the door.
Guess I’m gonna have to fix that soon, too.
A chilling draft welcomes me as I open the door. I shiver from the mixture of freezing rain still wet on my skin and the cold, stale air. The interior of the house is cast in shadows. Dim light shines through the windows, gradually fading as the sun disappears behind gray storm clouds.
I feel as if I should start my story with “it was a dark stormy night...”
I look up and smile when I see the black ribbed ceiling, made up of hundreds of thin, long pieces of wood. A grand chandelier is hanging over my head, golden steel warped in an intricate design with crystals dangling from the tips. It’s always been Nana’s most prized possession.
The black and white checkered floors lead directly to the black grand staircase—large enough to fit a piano through sideways—and flow off into the living room. My boots squeak against the tiles as I venture further inside.
This floor is primarily an open concept, making it feel like the monstrosity of the home could swallow you whole.
The living area is to the left of the staircase. I purse my lips and look around, nostalgia hitting me straight in the gut. Dust coats every surface, and the smell of mothballs is overpowering, but it looks exactly how I last saw it, right before Nana died last year.
A large black stone fireplace is in the center of the living room on the far left wall, with red velvet couches squared around it. An ornate wooden coffee table sits in the middle, an empty vase atop the dark wood. Nana used to fill it with lilies, but now it only collects dust and bug carcasses.