Eleanor & other stories

The People within the Walls: Part I

"Andy my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

Shall be lifted -- nevermore!"

"The Raven" by Edgar Allan Poe

It was the spring of 1976 and Tales of Mystery and Imagination by The Alan Parsons Project was all everybody below the age of thirty-six talked about. For a while those forty minutes of pure whimsical art rock bliss on vinyl controlled not only the cover pages of progressive rock magazines as well as some rather excessive analyses by independent radio stations but made a whole generation transcend the boundaries of time and space from this world into the romanticized fairyland of goth.

Records had been my mother's passion. She had been the one to bring them home into our tiny Richmond apartment from underground second hand stores and make me listen – really listen – to every strum, every beat, every scream. She had been the one to teach me how to behold an open spirit for everything new and unconventional. She had also been the one to teach me how to cherish the social graces, the traditions and all the small things in life that are so often overseen in the haste of this modern world. The past winter had been her last on this gruesomely huge planet. Cancer had taken her with it and left me in the aftermath of two dead parents.

My father had died a decade ago as a soldier in war. I could barely remember him. His face was blurry to my memory, his eyes only shimmered as if they were a simple reflection in a mirror and his voice – the voice my mother had fallen in love with – was lost to me. I could not remember it and all I feared was, that this would happen to the memory of my mother's voice as well. The mere possibility filled my heart with anxiety and terror.

It was only then, that I began to truly listen to my mother's records. I imagined her tender voice singing along and at times her spirit would stay with me a little longer even after the music had stopped and the needle of the record player had lifted from the vinyl. The warmth of her presence – however imaginary it might have been – provided me with the much needed love and kindness that I so desperately craved to ease my grief and whimpering, to animate my depressed heart and to lead me through those trying times of change.

My aunt and uncle on my father's side had accepted to house me for the remaining two years, which were left until I would reach adulthood and could be made responsible for my own viability. Uncle Richard was as affluent as one could be in those times, imperious and bald. Aunt Margaret was as wide as she was small, snappish and naturally envious. They had a little dog. A black bulldog, who barely got enough air to breath and slobbered endlessly. I felt very lonely.

My mothers old record player was my only company and all I took from our apartment when the strangers from the youth welfare office had told me to take everything I wanted to keep so that they could sell the rest of our personal belongings. They had also told my aunt and uncle to take me someplace quiet and peaceful so that my traumatized mind and heart would ease. With a syrupy smile my aunt had nodded to that.

Only a short number of days later a taxi drove the three of us and a trunk full of expensive garments, jewelry, footwear as well as my dear record player up north all the way into the woods of the Appalachian Mountains where they inherited an old mansion.

It was on the cusp of sunset when the mansion finally manifested between the mellow green of the trees and the liquid gold of the sky. The architecture was magnificent. Nevertheless, it felt enormous and gave me an eerie shiver due to its sheer magnitude. As we came closer this bothersome emotion grew larger within my chest. Even though the trees did not shield the estate from the sun, every stone, every parapet, every wall seemed to lie in a sort of shadow. It felt as if the mansion was wrapped in its very own vibrant darkness. I had to avert my gaze so as not to burden my sensitive spirit with even more fear. Since nether my relatives nor the handsome taxi driver seemed to share my sudden sense of intuitive reluctance I blamed my general situation for this overstimulation of my mind.

As we came to a stop at the front entrance and my aunt and uncle went to inform the staff of their arrival the young driver held me back with a look of his ebony eyes.

"What's the name, miss?", he asked.

"Beth."

"Beautiful name. Here, take this.", he said and handed me a piece of paper through the open window of his car. "It's my number. This estate is quite high up in the mountains. There have been peculiar rumors going around and I –"

"What rumors?", my heart skipped a beat at this information.

"No time.", he said and glanced at my aunt and uncle returning with two other people. "Just call, if you are in need of some safe company. I'll be there."

At this he drove of and left me circled by luxurious handbags and suitcases and strangers I didn't yet know and may not even want to get to know to closely. Except maybe for the bulldog alone.

As I was informed not so much later the staff consisted solely of two middle aged attendants, who lived in my relatives historical residence all year long so that it would be at its best maintenance at every given point in time. Thomas – mainly responsible for the culinary pleasures – was a tall, thin man with piano black hair. Rachel – apparently accountable to serve every other need of the landlord and lady – was an always smiling, blond haired woman. Both were impertinently handsome.

The maid lead me immediately to my rooms which were in total three splendid apartments consisting of a personal reception room, a luxurious bedroom and a humongous bathroom. On the way there I stared with blatant dismay at the palatial interior of the estate. Where the setting sun could no longer shed its light on the inner walls of the mansion the dark halls and corridors had been lit with fire. The candles threw a vivid shadowy light on the eccentric decor and the sublime and romantic paintings and tapestries. If I had had the time, I could have lost my very being in those paintings, which more often then not spoke to me with their incredible sorrow and loneliness; reflecting the gloom of my grief. It felt so peculiar that the horrific and ancient atmosphere of this place resonated so much more with my current emotions than the picturesque scenery of the Appalachian Mountains. I felt a tinge of horror at this revelation and the remains of my youthful lighthearted spirit began to tremble.

To bother my mind with thoughts of a more mundane fashion I searched for an outlet to play some soothing tunes on my record player. However – after having looked twice in every room and even lifted the curtains in front of the windows as well as having dragged the bed from the wall to look behind – I had to accept that there appeared to be no electricity. I hoped that this would not reveal itself as so for the entire mansion. At least an emergency telephone would have been installed at some point in the last few decades. So I told myself...