A most elegant property, this is. How old? I’m not quite sure, I’m afraid. Bits of it have been rebuilt and added on and knocked down as the years went by, but it is in excellent condition, with all the amenities.
Here is the porch, a fine wraparound complete with a Victorian porch swing. What, it’s rocking on its own, you say? Yes, it does that quite often, and it’s done so since forty-seven years ago.
What happened? I know a bit of the story, I’m privileged to say – I’ve a hobby of local history, you see. Forty-seven years, five months, and eight days ago, John Scollops proposed to Catherine Hibbert upon this very swing. When she spurned him, for John was the town fool as she was its beauty, they say that he sprung to his feet and clapped a hand to his breast in sorrow, then fell, dead, upon her, staining her white dress with red blood. They found a nail in his heart, head clutched between his fingers, and it was the marvel of all that John Scollops, the man who had only learned to tie his shoes three years ago, at the age of sixteen, had managed to slip such a short and sturdy instrument between his ribs to prick his heart most exactly. He’d practiced upon cats, it was revealed later. A little kitty graveyard right outside the window of his home.
So sorry, I get carried away sometimes. May you go inside? Of course! Silly of me to keep you waiting here. Mind the door, good sir, and don’t touch the knocker – it sometimes bites, and we can’t let the risk of it tasting fresh blood; not after last time.
Here is the entry-room, and you’ll find it serves well. A tidy little hall, with the living-room upon your right through that door, and the kitchen dead ahead. To your left is the staircase up, as I’m sure you can see. There’s a small, stout stove in here to keep the drafts warmed when the wind wails, but I must caution you: do not, under any circumstances, place the wood of the pine in it, especially black pine, or your flues will moan at midnight.
Step over here and view the living-room. It’s got solid oak paneling, and I can promise you that these walls will outlive your great-great-grandchildren by many, many years. What’s wrong with them? Nothing’s wrong with them at all, my good man. Surely you do not think I would leave any faults unsaid to my clients! No, the only thing to worry about within this room is perhaps this wooden chair. A grand thing it is, a bit like a throne, but it’s ghastly chill to sit within, and you can count on terrific pins-and-needles for days afterwards, combined with a rather unpleasant hissing in your ears. A bit like having water in them, I say.
Now, if you twist this knob on the fireplace’s mantelpiece, the bookcase over there will slide to one side and reveal the secret passageway, so be sure to keep that section of wall clear of paintings and the like. Why are you so surprised, good sir? Surely you’ve seen the like elsewhere – no? How sorrowful I am on your behalf, sir, that you have been restricted to houses so staunchly dull!
It’s a bit of an exaggeration to call this a passageway; it’s a bit more like a hidden entrance. Past it, as you can see clearly, is the den. The walls may be hidden behind these grand old bookshelves, sir, but I assure you they are every bit as elegantly-paneled as those of the living room. Be warned, however, of the bookcase in the corner, the looming structure of yew that seems to sink roots deep into the floor. No book should be taken from it, much less read, unless you are willing to risk madness and far worse. Oh, and I found a skull in that armchair when I first discovered this place. But fear not – it has been disinfected.
As we step back into the living room – just twist the knob again, and the den shall be hidden once more, sir – I must inform you of something that I have only just recalled. The eyes of the painting upon this wall (a fine portrait of an unknown lady; note the dignity in her bearing, if it pleases you) may move now and then, but pay them no heed, as it is harmless to any but those who harm the house’s children. If you must punish any of your offspring, should you have any, you should do so out of sight of this room, or the alternatives will torment your dreams for many nights.
Kindly step through here, sir, and you behold the dining room. A fine long walnut table, fit for any meal from a lone breakfast to a holiday’s banquet, but I caution you to never, ever, under any circumstances, extinguish the white-candlestick-in-the-black-candleholder in the center of the table, or I cannot say what might happen. Do not shrink with worry, my good man, for it cannot be unlit save by the tarnished silver candle snuffer that lies mounted upon that wall.
From here you can see the backyard, with its lovely sculptures of things monstrous and beautiful, with their names inscribed beneath them in letters of no alphabet I know. They were carved by a man from far away, with ebony eyes and blue lips, who left after taking as payment for many month’s labors a single, addled crow’s egg, and none know what to call the stone he shaped them from. Sometimes they move when no-one is looking, but they never venture far.
The sundial they surround is much older, and its pedigree less mysterious. It was the keystone of a great bridge, once, until one day it vanished, and let a thousand tons of stone tumble down with many a life, unchecked by its restraining power. I know not how it got here, good sir, or who scratched the sundial-markings upon it, but I do know that you can only see its shadow in the dark hours.
The kitchen is handily adjacent to the dining room, as you can see. It is beautifully harmonized, with microwave, stove, and faucets old-and-new, a melding of antique and modern that anyone of any age can appreciate. There are but two things to keep in mind of here: firstly, the microwave’s “start” button is a bit sticky, and you may need to push it a few times to make it work. Secondly, there is a brownie that lives under the sink, and who must be left milk every evening. Just a small bowlful, sir, less than you would put in cereal, and he will be kept more than happy. If you forget once in a great while he will forgive you, especially if you leave a small sweet with his next meal by way of apology, but if you stint him whenever you feel you can’t be bothered, you’ve gone out of your way to create mischief, and so will he. And he’s better at it than you are, sir.
Oh, and the front-left burner on the stove – the big one – may be a might stubborn about turning on now and then. Be patient, leave it to igniting for a moment, and it will light properly and without undue fuss.
The cellar, sir, is next, through this door right here, set fine in the wall, with a latch out of the reach of a child’s fingers – the stairs are dark and steep and dank, and we can’t be having little ones slipping on them to hurt themselves. There’s an old gas-light down here that you may flip on and off as you come and go to provide illumination, salvaged from the wreck of a ship whose name most have forgotten and some try to forget, a pirate’s vessel whose crew knew nothing of mercy and too little of life’s value. It foundered upon something dreadful in the dark hours of the night, and the seashore town nearby was kept awake all night by the most terrible sounds before finding all sorts of flotsam and jetsam in the morning, some of which they couldn’t bring themselves too look at too closely, else they should recognize it. Don’t stare at the shadows it leaves for too long, sir, or you may see something unpleasant, and the more attention you pay to it, the uglier it will become.
This cellar, good sir, is the most ancient part of the house, walled in stone blocks that hold tight with no mortar, creaking and groaning under the weight of the home. Behind that barred door, sir, the stones give way to untouched rock, and a tunnel drills deeply into the earth that leads into a domain walled with slime, crowned in decay, and dwelt in by things that croak and squelch, far below the feet of all that is good. I would not go that way, sir, whether alone or in company.
The furnace is a magnificent beast, as you can see: set in its glory in the center of the floor, bolted there to prevent its own power from budging it. I hear tell that a man lived here once who threw his own son into it, in an attempt to earn the favor of something with more syllables than slime, and too slimy to be sane. He vanished afterwards with naught but a scorch-mark and a smoky, meaty smell to hint at his fate, but the furnace is still here. Leave small presents down here on Christmas, and in the morning they will be gone. I recommend that it be done, sir. It will function without complaint regardless of this kindness occurring or not, but it really is something that needs to be undertaken, just the same. Thank you, sir; I knew you would understand.
The closet right here holds all manner of tools: pliers, hedge clippers, hammers, nails, a small vacuum cleaner, a lightning rod, and a saw set consisting of regular, hack, jig, and bone. That is all for the basement, sir. If you’ll follow me back up, please, we can resume our tour upon the second story.
As we ascend the stairs to the second floor, sir, examine the intricate detail of the carpeting. Oh? Yes, I suppose it does squirm under the eye a little, if stared at, but perhaps it thinks staring is rude. No, I’m afraid I don’t know the story behind that. It’s quite pretty, though, isn’t it?
The upstairs hall is small and neat, as you can see, with the same carpeting as the stairs themselves. The paintings here sometimes roam about, so if you should awaken to find a landscape positioned above your headboard, do not be alarmed. They’re quite harmless.
The master bedroom, sir, is well-furnished with a luxurious four-poster bed flanked by maple reading tables. Leave your novels and stories of nighttime perusal lying upon them, by all means, but if you leave them overnight in one of the drawers, every single one of their pages will be overwritten with the frantically-inked words “OVER AND OVER” by dawn.
The chest-of-drawers here is a venerable antique, and the padlocked bottom drawer should never be opened – if you can find the key. Instead, if you should find it (a thin, skeletal thing of iron), bury it six inches deep at a crossroads, then burn a sprig of holly in a golden dish above it.
The bathroom is not only accessible from the hall, good sir, but, as you can see, is attached to the master bedroom through this door, for convenience. Now and then writing in blood will appear upon the mirror above the bathroom sink, but it comes off easily enough with a damp sponge, which is precisely why one is kept in this tray here. You may want to replace it every once in a while, like a toothbrush, and for similar reasons of hygiene. I recommend something that rinses well; the blood is much more stain-prone than you’d imagine.
The bathtub is both deep and wide, but I caution you: filling it over the depth indicated by this scratch is dangerous. The farther over it the water rises, the deeper and wider the tub entire becomes, until drowning oneself becomes quite easy. Keep it below the marking, sir, and you’ll suffer naught but a pleasurable bathing experience of the highest quality.
Leaving the master bedroom, examine the guest’s room right here, which can be freely and easily altered to serve as a storage-room, permanent bedroom for a family member, or entertainment center or somesuch. The closet, however, should be kept closed tightly after dusk, and meat (cooked or otherwise) should never be brought into the room proper. The full-length mirror, also, is somewhat treacherous. Ignore anything you see in its depths – in fact, if you must use a mirror, use the one in the bathroom. All that this one will achieve is to unsettle you, which is quite bothersome.
Adjacent is the children’s room, with a bunk-bed so that, if you are possessed of multiple offspring that are marginally tolerant of one another, you may sleep them two-to-a-room, and catch any overflow in the guest’s room. However, you should caution them most carefully to never poke about under the bed (there’s far more space under there than there appears to be, and they could get lost or stuck), and if they leave any belongings lying about upon the floor, un-cleaned-up, they might be tossed about or missing come morning; though that appears to be more of a parental aid than anything.
Back into the upstairs hall, and we will be on our way to the attic through this door, good sir. The staircase is nigh-as-dark as that of the cellar, and much, much steeper – why, it’s almost a ladder! Again, as with the cellar’s door, if you should have children, I recommend keeping a lock on it.
Here is where it begins to be very different from the cellar: an electric light is available, sir, and without the rather gruesome history of the gas-light. Simply flick the switch at the top of the stairs, and light is yours, although a decent amount leaks through the twin porthole windows up here, as you can see, facing both west and east, so that at most times a goodly amount of daylight will be available. This place should be left empty once the sun goes down at all times.
The books in this chest, sir, are writ in a language unknown to any, but luckily enough a complicated treatise on the tongue itself is contained within a small, sturdily-bound traveler’s log set into a bracket upon the interior of the trunk’s lid. Many of the books are doubtless dangerous to read, but some could be wholesome enough. I wouldn’t know, for I haven’t attempted to decipher them myself. Nevertheless, better safe than sorry, eh?
Much of the remaining paraphernalia up here was taken from an old country estate, such as these stuffed animals, symbols of wolf, bear, moose, and more than had fallen to the landlord of the place. If you hear footsteps echoing about upon the eve of a full moon, sleep well, for the stairs are too steep for their clumsy feet of cotton balls and woodwork to navigate.
The telescope set up at the west window should not be peered through during rain or snow, lest lightning fall upon you in fury.
Well, that is the house, good sir. What do you think of it – ah, you’re sure you wish to buy of it? So soon? Whyso, if I may ask?
Ah, of course, sir, how wise of you (oh, here’s a pen). I’m gratified and ennobled by your trusting my knowledge and honor so deeply, and I find your logic indisputable. After all, why should you or any other buy a home whose faults you do not know?