I can plant a garden around the front of the house again when the season calls for it. This time, I’ll plant strawberries, lettuce, and herbs as well.
I’m deep in my musings when my eyes snag on movement from above. Curtains flutter in the single window at the very top of the house.
The attic.
Last time I checked, there’s no central air up there. Nothing should be able to move those curtains, but yet I don’t doubt what I saw.
That coupled with the looming storm in the background, the house looks like a scene out of a horror film. I suck my bottom lip between my teeth, unable to stop the smile from forming on my face.
I love that.
I can’t explain why, but I do.
Fuck what my mother says. I’m living here. I’m a successful writer and have the freedom to live anywhere. So, what if I decide to live in a place that means a lot to me? That doesn’t make me a lowlife for staying in my hometown. I travel enough with book tours and conferences; settling down in a house won’t change that. I know what the fuck I want, and I don’t give a shit what anyone else thinks about it.
Especially mommy dearest.
The clouds yawn, and rain spills from their mouths. I grab my purse and step out of my car, inhaling the scent of fresh rain. In a matter of seconds, it turns from a light sprinkle to a torrential downpour. I bolt up the front porch steps, flinging drops of water off my arms and shaking my body out like a wet dog.
I love storms—I just don’t like to be in them. I’d prefer to cuddle up under the blankets with a mug of tea and a book while watching the rain fall.
I slide the key into the lock and turn it. But it’s stuck, refusing to give me even a millimeter. I jimmy the key, wrestling with it until the mechanism finally turns and I’m able to unlock the door.
Guess I’m gonna have to fix that soon, too.
A chilling draft welcomes me as I open the door. I shiver from the mixture of freezing rain still wet on my skin and the cold, stale air. The interior of the house is cast in shadows. Dim light shines through the windows, gradually fading as the sun disappears behind gray storm clouds.
I feel as if I should start my story with “it was a dark stormy night...”
I look up and smile when I see the black ribbed ceiling, made up of hundreds of thin, long pieces of wood. A grand chandelier is hanging over my head, golden steel warped in an intricate design with crystals dangling from the tips. It’s always been Nana’s most prized possession.
The black and white checkered floors lead directly into the black grand staircase—large enough to fit a piano through sideways—and flow off into the living room. My boots squeak against the tiles as I venture further into the dark house.
This floor is primarily an open concept, making it feel like the monstrosity of the home could swallow you whole.
The living area is to the left of the staircase. I purse my lips and look around, nostalgia hitting me straight in the gut. Dust coats every surface and the smell of mothballs is overpowering, but it looks exactly how I last saw it, right before Nana died last year.
A large black stone fireplace is the center of the living room on the far left wall, with red velvet couches squared around it. An ornate wooden coffee table sits in the middle, an empty vase atop the dark wood. Nana used to fill it with lilies, but now it only collects dust and bug carcasses.
The walls are covered in black paisley wallpaper, offset by heavy golden curtains. It’s going to take forever to get the dust out of those.
One of my favorite parts is the large bay window at the front of the house, giving a beautiful view of the forest stretched beyond Parsons Manor. Placed right in front of it is a red velvet rocking chair with a matching stool. Nana used to sit there and watch the rain, and she said her mother would always do the same.
The checkered tiling extends into the kitchen with beautiful black stained cabinets, and marble countertops. A massive island sits in the middle with black barstools lining one side. Grandpa and I used to sit there and watch Nana cook, enjoying her humming to herself as she whipped up delicious meals.
Shaking away the memories, I rush over to a tall lamp by the rocking chair and flick on the light. I release a sigh of relief when a buttery soft glow emits from the bulb. I had called a few days ago to get the utilities turned on in my name, but you can never be too sure when dealing with an old house.
Then I walk over to the thermostat, the number causing another shiver to wrack my body.
Sixty-two goddamn degrees.
I press my thumb into the up arrow and don’t stop until the temperature is set to seventy-four. I don’t mind cooler temperatures, but I’d prefer it if my nipples didn’t cut through all of my clothing.
I turn back around and face a home that’s both old and new—a home that’s housed my heart since I could remember, even if my body left for a little while.
And then I smile, basking in the gothic glory of Parsons Manor. It’s how my great-grandparents decorated the house, and the taste has passed down through the generations. Nana used to say that she liked it best when she was the brightest thing in the room. Despite that, she still had old people’s taste.
I mean, really, why do those white throw pillows have a border of lace around them and a weird, embroidered bouquet of flowers in the middle? That’s not cute. That’s ugly.