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.
The walls are covered in black paisley wallpaper, offset by heavy golden curtains.
One of my favorite parts is the large bay window at the front of the house, providing a beautiful view of the forest beyond Parsons Manor. Placed right in front of it is a red velvet rocking chair with a matching stool. Nana used to sit there and watch the rain, and she said her mother would always do the same.
The checkered tiling extends into the kitchen with beautiful black stained cabinets and marble countertops. A massive island sits in the middle with black barstools lining one side. Grandpa and I used to sit there and watch Nana cook, enjoying her humming to herself as she whipped up delicious meals.
Shaking away the memories, I rush over to a tall lamp by the rocking chair and flick on the light. I release a sigh of relief when a buttery soft glow emits from the bulb. A few days ago, I had called to get the utilities turned on in my name, but you can never be too sure when dealing with an old house.
Then I walk over to the thermostat, the number causing another shiver to wrack my body.
Sixty-two goddamn degrees.
I press my thumb into the up arrow and don’t stop until the temperature is set to seventy-four. I don’t mind cooler temperatures, but I’d prefer it if my nipples didn’t cut through all of my clothing.
I turn back around and face a home that’s both old and new-a home that’s housed my heart since I could remember, even if my body left for a little while.
And then I smile, basking in the gothic glory of Parsons Manor. It’s how my great-grandparents decorated the house, and the taste has passed down through the generations. Nana used to say that she liked it best when she was the brightest thing in the room. Despite that, she still had old people’s taste.
I mean, really, why do those white throw pillows have a border of lace around them and a weird, embroidered bouquet of flowers in the middle? That’s not cute. That’s ugly.
I sigh.
“Well, Nana, I came back. Just like you wanted,” I whisper to the dead air.
“Are you ready?” my personal assistant asks from beside me. I glance over at Marietta, noting how she’s absently holding out the mic to me, her attention ensnared on the people still filtering into the small building. This local bookstore wasn’t built for a large number of people, but somehow, they’re making it work anyway.
Hordes of people are piling into the cramped space, converging in a uniform line, and waiting for the signing to start. My eyes rove over the crowd, silently counting in my head. I lose count after thirty.
“Yep,” I say. I grab the mic, and after catching everyone’s attention, the murmurs fade to silence. Dozens of eyeballs bore into me, creating a flush all the way to my cheeks. It makes my skin crawl, but I love my readers, so I power through it.
“Before we start, I just wanted to take a quick second to thank you all for coming. I appreciate each and every one of you, and I’m incredibly excited to meet you all. Everyone ready?!” I ask, forcing excitement into my tone.
It’s not that I’m not excited, I just tend to get incredibly awkward during book signings. I’m not a natural when it comes to social interactions. I’m the type to stare dead into your face with a frozen smile after being asked a question while my brain processes the fact that I didn’t even hear the question. It’s usually because my heart is thumping too loud in my ears.
I settle down in my chair and ready my sharpie. Marietta runs off to handle other matters, shooting me a quick good luck. She’s witnessed my mishaps with readers and has the tendency to get secondhand embarrassment with me. Guess it’s one of the downfalls of representing a social pariah.
Come back, Marietta. It’s so much more fun when I’m not the only one getting embarrassed.
The first reader approaches me, my book
The Wanderer, in her hands with a beaming smile on her freckled face.
“Oh my god, it’s so awesome to meet you!” she exclaims, nearly shoving the book in my face. Totally a me move.
New Book: Back Home to Marry Off Myself
Loredana’s father left the family for his mistress, leaving them to fend for themselves abroad. When life was at its toughest, her father showed up with “good news” after 8 years of absence: To marry off Loredana to a paralyzed son of the wealthy Mendelsohn family.