The Secret Of Elm Manor

The Secret Of 'Elm Manor' Nervously Steven glanced from the window, he
noticed what seemed to be a hooded shape outlined against the gently
rustling branches of the tall elms that stood about 100 yards from the
converted manor. It was a reasonably bright evening; the lawn and tree
line were bathed in an eerie light. A three quarter moon hung like a
tethered balloon in the sky. He turned from the window just as the hall
clock struck the quarter; the aged gears whirred and clunked wearily
towards striking its solemn quartertone. Steven checked his watch, it
was 9.13pm, and the carved monstrosity of a Grandfather clock he had
known all his life was as always, two minutes fast. Glancing again
towards the wood, the figure had disappeared. It's always difficult to
see from a lighted room into the night, the mind and eyes play strange
tricks. It was almost three days now since Steven had moved back into
the large family manor; the recent death of his parents in a horrific
road accident had made him now the sole owner of 'Elm Manor'. From now
on the manor was his responsibility, his only sister lived in Canada
and owing to her disabilities and almost long forgotten family rifts
was unable or unwilling to attend the funeral or the reading of the
will. Veronica, his sister had been willed a large amount of their
parent's financial estate. Steven had been willed the manor and several
outbuildings along with a medium sized allowance. Moving away from the
window Steven strode over towards the dying embers of the log fire and
settled into the voluptuous red leather armchair that languished to one
side of the hearth, his whiskey now warm in its glass on the coffee
table within arms reach. It was the caretaker's night off so he was
completely alone except for the low tones of classical music drifting
from the old radio in the gloomy recess of the oak panelled drawing
room. He lay back and tried to visualise his plans for the coming
months, his mind drifted with the aid of the exceptionally good malt
whiskey he'd found in the bureau an hour before. Without warning a
draught of cold air scurried around the room making him shiver and
bringing him back to reality. A creaking, scraping noise seemed to come
from every corner of the room making the very air tremble. Steven rose
with a start, his eyes and ears searching for the root of the unwanted
intrusion of sound. Now a rasping echoed through the room setting his
teeth on edge and making him screw up his eyes to try and blot out this
strange alien sound. He strode quickly towards the radio thinking it
may have gone off station, but no, it still placidly droned out its
melancholy programme of evening classics. Walking over to the large
French windows he checked to see if they were properly closed, they
were, secured at the top and bottom by large brass slide bolts. A
rhythmic throbbing now took over from the strange sounds that assailed
Stevens's ears; this too seemed to come from all around, as if the
cottage was alive and this was its heartbeat. Slowly apprehension of
the unknown gnawed its psychological tendrils into Stevens mind, a bead
of cold sweat eased its way from the pores on his forehead and ran down
the side of his nose, he brushed it aside. Another loud screech now
touched a secret spot inside him, no longer irritating but now verging
on the boundaries of fear. An uncontrollable wave of shivering passed
through him as again a creaking and regular throbbing engulfed the
whole room, penetrating his mind and the hidden recesses where the
unexplained turned reason into panic. The radio churned out its
continual soothing tones, now completely ignored by the room's only
visible occupant, Steven. Uncontrollable shaking had now taken over his
whole body as if an external being had entered into him, his eyes
rolled searching every nook and cranny in the large dimly lit room,
searching for the hidden tormentor of his mind. The large clock sounded
off the hour, it was 3am and the terrified crumpled figure cowered in a
tight foetal position besides the fireplace. Tears, perspiration and
frothy mucus covered his pale face, his eyes agape, his breathing rapid
and irregular. In another realm, a radio softly played the sullen yet
beautiful opening bars to 'The Danse Macabre'. After the funeral the
caretaker and a handful of Stevens's village friends retired to the
local pub for a very subdued wake. The police from the nearest big town
were baffled by the mysterious death at 'Elm Manor', their only
assumption was that the tenant had died of fear, in this modern day not
a satisfactory conclusion but the only one conceived. Several months
later I was called to make an assessment of the property and its
contents, a long and tiring day. The sky was overcast and a bright moon
was shining as I came to the end of my stint of cataloguing the manor
and its contents, a chill breeze wafted through the trees. I locked the
door and walked around the sad windowed building checking it was
secure. Above me the weather vane creaked and screeched as it rotated,
caught by the breeze. Across the large lawn silhouetted against the
trees a hooded figure appeared then vanished then appeared again. For a
moment my blood ran cold. I glanced upwards; the figure of 'Father
Time' surmounted the weather vane. Hooded and with his hourglass and
scythe he was bathed in moonlight, projecting his image against the
tall elms across the lawn. (C) Terry Sorby - 2005