The Approach

I watch you approach. 

You step up the gravel drive and gawk at the house. It stretches upward before you, grand. Proud. The very picture of a gothic mansion. It has scrolling trim, eaves and gables by the dozens, a slate roof that must rattle like ghosts in the attic during a storm. The windows are, by and large, shuttered. You somehow expected the place to be falling apart. There’s definitely an air of decay surrounding the building, but it’s more like a dignified withering away than the moldering money pit you thought you’d see.

You glance up to the top, to the rose window in the front eave. Squinting, you still can’t make out the peculiar design in the stained glass. For a moment, you see a shadow loom behind the glass, but when you blink, it’s no longer there.

A cloud must have passed overhead.

Clutched in your hand is the note. The note that brought you here. You reread it, your lips twitching minutely as you form the words without speaking them aloud. Then you lower it and shove it back into your pocket. You make a small circle where you stand, feeling the gravel of the drive crunch beneath the worn sole of your shoes. There’s a pathway to the back gardens. Off to the side is a garage. Or perhaps it’s a stable? With an estate this grand, it could be either. Then, of course, there’s the main doors to the mansion lying ahead of you.