Feels Like Home

Lost and Found.

A girl climbed through the small gap in the fence curiosity getting the better of her as she pushed her mother's warnings to stay away out of her head. The garden was overgrown, a jungle-like tangle of tall grass and weeds. Any flowers that had once lived here had been choked by the carpet of bindweed that wove its way around her feet.

She felt like an explorer of old, the world around her disappearing and becoming that of the Amazon Rainforest as she traversed the space before her. Every so often a bird call would startle her, or a bee would come and say hello - curious that someone had decided to enter the space after so long.

A large, sturdy tree stood tall and proud in the centre of the garden and the girl was delighted to find a swing still tied to one of the branches. She gave it an experimental tug before sitting on it gingerly just swinging back and forth on her toes. When nothing seemed to be amiss she lifted her legs, enjoying the feeling of weightlessness and tipped her head back to stare up at the sky through the leaves.

Leaping off mid-swing she tucked herself into a ball and rolled as she hit the ground so as not to hurt herself.

Unbeknownst to the girl, nine faces watched on from the window. Wondering how the girl had found their home after so long.

The girl tried to shake off the feeling of being watched, pretending again, that she was an intrepid explorer and was being stalked by a tiger. Imagining the stripes showing through the grass as it moved ever so slightly with the cat's movements. She crept closer to the house, the garden no longer enough to satiate her need for adventure. She hoped a door or window would be open for her to climb through. She needed to see the inside of the house for some reason. She felt it was crucial that she see what lay inside, that whatever it was would be important in some way.

Finding a window unlocked she carefully pushed it open wide enough to get her skinny frame inside, wincing as the swollen wood squealed loudly in protest.

She'd found herself in a study of sorts, bookshelves lining the walls and an imposing desk in the centre. It was surprisingly clean for a house that had supposedly been abandoned seventy years ago. It looked as though it had been cleaned recently, very recently. She could smell polish in the air as well as the slightly musty smell of the old books and a clean soap-like scent underlying it all.

Curiouser and curiouser she thought as she ran her fingertips softly over the spines of some of the books. She paused at one tome, pulling it from the shelf as she read the title with interest.

'Blackbourne Manor, a history of the house and it's inhabitants 1873-1947' Opening the book carefully so as not to damage it she scanned the contents, enjoying the paintings and photographs that accompanied the history. One particular photograph caught her eye, it was one of the last owner surrounded by eight other young men. The caption read; Owen Blackbourne and companions. Taken March 1946. This was the owner then? This stern faced handsome young man. She wondered what happened to him and his friends. They had simply disappeared one day and were never seen again. The photo must be one of the last ever taken of the heir to the Blackbourne fortune and his eight friends that lived in the Manor.

She ran a delicate hand over the photo, lingering on their faces. They seemed familiar somehow but she wasn't sure why or how that could be.

Replacing the book to its original spot the girl moved on into the house proper. There was a wide sweeping staircase off the foyer that made her think of princesses sweeping down them in elegant ballgowns and the kitchen smelled oddly like pancakes and vanilla though the stove was stone cold and the room empty. There was a library, similarly decorated to the study she had entered through though instead of the imposing desk there was a wide, comfortable looking sofa and the smell of spice hung in the air. The feeling of deja-vu was almost frightening as she explored the bottom floor of the house. Determined to find out what it was that made this place seem so very familiar she decided to brave the upstairs too, equal parts nervous and excited as to what she would find.

Using the grand staircase she detected a hint of berries and a forest-y smell that made her think of moss. Paintings of the house's previous owners lined the walls, the most recent being at the top. She paused for a moment to take in the handsome faces of the young men that had once lived here.

The stairs led to a long corridor, with rooms either side of it. She counted twelve doors in all and wondered what was behind them. She was drawn inexplicably towards the farthest door on the right hand side of the stairs. Cautiously nudging the door open she was relieved to find it devoid of axe murderers and stepped inside. The room was obviously decorated to female tastes. A large bed took up most of the space with a pretty wardrobe and dressing table set being the other large items of furniture. It was predominantly white and pale pink but the closer she looked the more she started to notice small splashes of colour here and there. A purple blanket lay folded at the foot of the bed. An orange glass bottle shone in the late afternoon sunlight from its spot on the dressing table. A small blue boat brightened up the windowsill along with a small black globe depicting the constellations. A red glass rested empty on the bedside table. The room felt like home for some reason she couldn't understand. It felt familiar and all at once completely foreign to her.

She sat on the bed and stared blankly at the wall as her brain tried to come up with a reasonable explanation for all this. A voice, loaded with feeling and Southern refinement startled her out of her thoughts and she looked up to find herself looking at the impossible.

"Miss Sorenson. Welcome home."