Every night is the same, I enter my house and I feel it. It’s a strong sense of foreboding, like I’m unwanted, like I don’t belong, like the house wants me to leave, or perhaps it’s the occasional visitors that would rather I left. I’d hate to leave though, despite the fear I feel, it is after all the house I’ve worked so hard to afford and I had spent many happy years in it before anything strange started to happen. I can pin-point the exact moment when I realised there was something not quite right about the house, it was something that will stay with me forever, unfortunately if I tell you about that now, dear reader, I’d be jumping ahead a bit. I have much more to tell you.
The house is old as I mentioned to you before, it has all its original features, something I’m sure an estate agent would have a field day with if I was ever to sell the house. It is beautiful inside and out. There are four bedrooms, three of which remain empty most of the time, after all I never had any children to permanently reside within them, I’m old now so I’m sure that will always be the case. That’s a pity because I love children, I’m sure my non-existent children would have loved the house too if it wasn’t for its night-time visitors.
Like I said, there are four bedrooms, all of which are quite large, in fact all of the rooms are, even the bathrooms, of which I have three. There’s a living room, a dining room and a spacious kitchen complete with a very old antique oven that was here when I moved in. There’s a drawing room, numerous empty rooms, a games room, an indoor swimming pool that I believe has been in need of repair for the past century, at least, and a green house. The greenhouse unfortunately suffers from the same curse as the gardens, I can’t make a damn thing grow in there! There is also a basement, although its so full of clutter that I have never really ventured down there, it gives me the creeps, and now I know what secrets reside within the house, I know I’d never dare step foot down there!
My favourite room in the house has got to be my bedroom, it’s a red room, if I was to describe it to you then I guess it would sound similar to the Red Room in the novel Jane Eyre, except my bedroom is comforting, it’s a place I can go when I don’t want to think about anything at all. I love it there, or at least I used to, lately though its become a place I would rather avoid, at least at night.
At first glance you wouldn’t know there was anything wrong with the house, it looks perfectly fine, it’s a grand house, but as soon as the night comes a long it changes, it becomes something different, it becomes a home to things that would make your very skin crawl if I were to describe them to you, and I will dear reader, I will, just give me time.
Of course the strange events that happen in the house never happen from the second I come home at the end of a long day, or when I wake up on a lazy Sunday morning, no, they wait, they wait until I’m just about ready to go to sleep. I often try to ignore the happenings, I try to ignore them and go off to sleep, but most of the time I can’t, thankfully sometimes I can of course just close my eyes and drift off to sleep but that’s only on very rare occasions. Most of the time I’m completely at the mercy of the house.
I’ve managed to get ahead of myself dear reader, and for that I apologise. My house is the house at the end of Kedavara Way. Kedavara Way being a street that has been recently developed, it sits at the edge of a new housing estate and the push for new houses has meant that all the other houses on the street have made way for new, less attractive ones. My house remains though, my house has remained untouched, it will probably always remain that way, or perhaps, god willing, one day the developers will come a-knocking on my front door, just like the admirers that come to tell me just how nice they wrongfully believe the house is.
Dear reader I do believe its time to let you know the secrets that this house holds. I want to start from the beginning, after all that is always the best way, at least I think so. It all started one chilling November night, I believe it was the 23rd, I was laying in bed staring at the ceiling waiting to be gripped by slumber, when I heard a noise below that made me rise from my comfortable bed. The noise surprised me, for I had never heard a noise at night in the house since I had moved in many years before, as a result I was chilled to the bone and desperate to investigate. I crept slowly down the stairs, I was careful not to make a lot of noise, after all I didn’t want to alarm whatever or whoever had made the noise. As I reached the ground floor of the house I could no longer hear any sound or see anything out of the ordinary. You must be made aware, dear reader, that in this house the rooms are laid out in this most peculiar way, so much so that it is impossible to see what is going on in any one room while standing in another.
So on that November night I crept from room to room, searching for my intruder. I was unarmed, I hadn’t thought for one second that I would need to defend myself, after all I’m not a violent person, to be a bit cliché I would say that above all I’m a lover, not a fighter. I digress again. As I crept from room to room I started hearing noises once more, noises I knew were coming from my sitting room. There was someone there I was sure of it.
I stood in front of the closed door that led to my sitting room, I could see the glow of a candle coming from beneath the door, or perhaps it was the glow of a torch, at the time I neither knew or cared what the source of the light actually was. All I cared about was that at some point I was going to have to open that door, and I was absolutely terrified by that prospect.
I finally mustered up all that I needed to open the door , I twisted the once shiny brass door knob until the door clicked and swung open. At last I could see the source of the noise that had taken away any chance I had of slumber. What I saw surprised me, I’m sure it would have surprised any person with any grasp on reality, for sitting on my sofa, quite at home with a book on his lap was none other than William Shakespeare.