The Mansion of Mystery

Sunlight filled the room and gently marched across the bedspread as the ticking clock on the mantle sounded its beat. My eyes opened to the clean, bright antiques-filled bedroom I had paid to sleep in last night. The blue sky visible through the window panes made my adventure at the house on the hill seem more like a dream, more impossible. What sinister intent could there be in a world of sunshine and blue skies?

I tossed back the covers, took a deep breath, and readied myself for the day.

Two hours later I was on my way to the mansion once more. My backpack was full of cleaning supplies and some food, and I used my new broom as a walking stick. My car, according to the very young looking freckle-faced mechanic at the garage, would be ready for me tomorrow. “Good as new” he promised. As I kick at gravel on the roadside I find myself smiling at the thought of not having to walk up the hill anymore. At least the stone staircase would be well lit in today’s clear weather.

At the house, slightly out of breath, I shrug out of my backpack and rest it next to the door beneath the carport’s feeble shelter. Once again I turn my key and once again I’m surprised that the lock still turns. I pick up my backpack and walk into the house.

This time, in daylight, I dare to go upstairs. I rest my backpack against the banister at the foot of the staircase, and I use the broom as I walk to sweep down cobwebs. At the top of the stairs I choose to turn right and walk down the corridor trying doors as I go and peering into rooms that seem to reluctantly grant me access.

At the end of the hall I open the heavy velvet curtains to let in some light and to ward off my fear of being in a spooky old house alone. I walk back up the hallway and down the other direction from the stairs, continuing to brush down cobwebs and check doors, and open curtains as I go.

At the top of the stairs I again look up and down the hallway and notice that the heavy velvet curtains at the end of the hallway are closed. I walk back down and open them, making sure to fasten the tiebacks. At the top of the stairway, satisfied that I’ve done what I could with the broom for the moment I decide to retrieve the cleaning supplies from my backpack and go through the bedrooms.

At the foot of the staircase I do not see my backpack. Didn’t I set it down right here against the banister? I thought I did. I shrug and walk through the downstairs, retracing my steps to see if I left it somewhere along the way. I find it in the kitchen. I open it on the old dusty kitchen table and set out the cleaning supplies I’ve brought. Then I feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I get goosebumps on my arms and down my back as I realize I haven’t been in the kitchen today until just now. How did my backpack get in here?

As I’m about to shrug it off to my preoccupation (and possible early senility) I hear a shout from upstairs and my hand will no longer hold the can of cleanser. It thunks to the floor with a metallic ting! and white powder spills out onto the floor. My heart races and before I can recover there is a small feminine voice coming from upstairs.

“VICTOR!!!!”