The Secret of Elm Manor
by Terry Sorby
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. She 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 paneled drawing room. He lay back and tried to visualize 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 searched for the root of the unwanted intrusion of sound. Now a rasping echoed through the room setting his teeth on edge. He screwed up his eyes, trying to 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.
3am: The large clock sounded off the hour. Steven’s terrified crumpled figure cowered in a tight foetal position besides the fireplace. Tears, perspiration and frothy mucus covered his pale face. His eyes were 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. Ahill 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 on its long ungreased bearings, 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.
© Terry Sorby. First published by Forward Press 2004