The road to Asgerald Hill wound
through the desolate countryside, veiled in morning mist and forever trapped in
silence. Towering trees of varying sizes, some uprooted and others as old as
the snow-capped mountains, loomed on either side of it. Truth be told, I had
not expected the chill to settle in so early in the season, nor for the clouds
to hang so low over the mountains, pressing down as though the sky itself
wished to hide this godforsaken place.
I slowed the car as
the gravel path gradually became uneven, the crunch beneath the tyres giving
way to the hush of dew-covered earth. Not long afterwards, the denseness cleared,
the rolls of mists perished, and the trees thinned – and there it stood
again.
Time had not been
kind to the guesthouse, nor had it tried to be. Its skeletal frame sagged and
the once-vibrant paint I recalled so vividly from my childhood peeled in long,
curling strips. Even the boarded-up windows blinked solemnly in the overcast
light, as if they too had been lost to the passage of time, while ivy along the
western flank pulsed in a sinister tune to the mournful cadence of the breeze.
But it was not the
dilapidated exterior, nor the wretched memories threatening to consume me, that
broke me and kept me rooted in place like a puppet pulled by invisible strings.
What truly consumed me was flower, the hauntingly beautiful rose before
me. There, nestled beneath the low wall that marked the boundary of the garden,
it bloomed hauntingly. It should not have survived the jaws of winter, least of
all in this infertile soil.
I stepped out of the
car, advancing towards it as if my feet had a mind of their own. It drew me in,
pulled me closer as if it once were my companion in the darkness, the only
beacon helping me out from within the abyss. I crouched, close enough to feel
its sorrow deep in the marrow of my bones and took a deep breath in, feeling
the crisp air stir every fibre of my being. A tightness wrapped itself around me
at that moment, a sudden ache blooming in my chest and catching me off-guard. I
dared not touch it, for reasons I could not understand, but something about it betrayed
a past encounter – and that thought alone made me recoil.
In a way, the rose
seemed to know me. It had witnessed my birth and childhood, seen every part of
my existence, even those I could no longer recall. But not only that. Its
drooping petals mocked my resolve, telling me I had no business here. Whatever
I had forgotten of the past should remain forgotten it whispered, that the
secrets of this place were too great for my mind to bear.
But I did not heed
its warning. I had come here to find the truth, to find the peace I had never
known. The never-ending nightmares had already taken their toll, leaving me
unable to discern reality from imagination. What if those nightmares were
fragments of the past, clawing their way back? The only way to stop them was to
face my demons, cruel or dangerous as they might be! I had been sick for far
too long, afflicted and broken. I deserved peace of mind, the ability to fall
asleep without fear! I was… only human, skin and bones. Why must I endure this
pain when the solution lay before me?
I rose back to my
feet and let my gaze settle on the goodly structure. Not even a single warmth shone
through at that moment, not even the false comfort of nostalgia. The only thing
I felt was a shiver shooting up my spine and an innate dread of someone – or
something – watching me from the other side.
The wind picked up,
rustling the dry blades of grass like whispers in an unfamiliar tongue. My gaze
lingered on the house’s entrance still, where the warped gate swung subtly to
the cadence, singing a most macabre and wretched tune. Right then, without
warning, a memory pressed against the edge of my mind and a voice called me by
a name I no longer used. I blinked it all away; I had to, for my own sanity. It
was too soon, too soon for those memories to resurface.
I walked the path
towards the garden wall, each step heavy and suffocatingly loud in the
stillness. The flowerbeds were overrun, yet there was a strange symmetry to the
disarray, with the hedgerows curved in gentle arcs and the gravel holding the
imprint of old footsteps. The shed stood to the side, its roof barely holding
under years of rain and neglect; the door had collapsed inwards, exposing a dark
hollow, filled with tools too rusted to identify.
My feet moved before
my thoughts caught up; I crossed the garden one step at a time, the weight of
the air deepening with each laboured breath. The guesthouse loomed closer still,
its breathless silence wrapping around me like an old friend. I stopped at the
porch and the wind stilled. I looked back once more, back at the rose, its
petals now trembling as if bracing for something inevitable, telling me to not
to take another step.
But I did not listen,
why would I?
The rotting
floorboards groaned beneath my weight, and the stench of damp, decaying wood
filled my lungs, making them burn and sting, and the door gave way under my
light touch, as if it had anticipated my visit all along.
The first thing that
arrested me was the floating dust that had fought its way through the boarded
windows, and the way the light seemed to arch unnaturally, leaving the corners
especially dark and the strands of light unusually bright. Then I felt it deep
inside: this was no welcome, no blessing. Every shadow, every speck of dust,
every string of light was a witness to the past, or rather, my past.
It would be a lie to
say I did not wish to return to my car, that I did not fear what awaited me in
that choking silence, but curiosity and the need for closure weighed heavier
still, and so I stepped through the doorway, and the once-swinging door came to
a slow stop, cloaking the entire guesthouse in pitch darkness.
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