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MANSION OF NIGHTMARES, A GHOST STORY

Mansion of Nightmares was accepted for publication in the print anthology, Spellbound, by Mélange Books in June 2011.

             MANSION OF NIGHTMARES

My name is Patrick Brodie, and I fear I am going mad.  Let me change that; I am going mad with the fear of my death.  I have lived all my twenty years in a small town in southeast Pennsylvania, and located in the boundaries of this town is where my problem began.  I fear this shadow hanging over my life may never end, or perhaps it is over.  I shall never know for sure.

I fear sleep, more specifically, dreaming.  I am in dread of what might happen during a dream – my destruction.  I know I can escape the horror in my dream, but what if some day, I can’t.

Ever since I was quite young, I was intrigued by an old, abandoned mansion not far from my home.  I would ask my dad, as we drove by the forlorn estate, “Dad, what is that place?”

“Patrick,” he would answer, “I don’t know.  I’ve heard stories about it, but they make little sense.  Tell you the truth, I’ve often wondered about the true story of that place myself.  Someday, when you’re older, why don’t you trace the property’s history?  It shouldn’t be that difficult.  Maybe the local historical society would be a good place to start.”

If I had only taken my dad’s advice before I decided to investigate the mansion with my friend, Brian, I might have discovered the legend and Brian might still be alive.  But what’s done is done.  There is no going back.  If I am unfortunate to return to the mansion in my dreams, I may join Brian in what, I fear, is a never – ending hell.

The mansion that is the center of this horror sat at the intersection of two major thoroughfares at the edge of the small hometown.  The place was far removed from either road by maybe a thousand feet.  For those who drive by it is practically invisible, hidden by towering trees and overgrown with vines.  The entrance to the deteriorating road leading to the house was framed by two brick columns with peeling plaster, between the columns hung a heavy chain blocking the entrance.

The mansion was enormous, the largest construction in the area, and surely one of the oldest.  The exterior, which once was white, had turned a mottled gray.  The two-storied structure contained many additions.  Several gables occupied the roof, along with four massive chimneys. The roof was now sagging, a testament of neglect, as columns still supported the entrance with its massive doors.

The property was enormous; I had no idea how large.  The area had experienced a rapid increase in construction, yet no Mc Mansions sprung up like mushrooms as they did these days in almost every empty tract of land.

I wanted to explore this fascinating structure, but not alone.

It was a fall sunny Saturday, when I approached my friend, Brian Jacobs, to join me on my adventure.  I said to Brian, “You know that old house?”  And then I went on to describe it.

“Sure, Pat, that place gives me the creeps every time I pass it.  I guess every town has a haunted house, if there’s one in this town, that’s it.”

“Brian, I want you to go with me and explore it.”

“Are you nuts?”  He answered.  “We’ve both lived here for eighteen years and how many times have you heard of someone talk about going into that creepy place?”

“Well,” I said, “never.”

“Right.  So maybe there’s a reason.”  

“Like what?” I asked.

Brian answered, “Like you might not come out.  I don’t know.”

“Exactly,” I answered, “you don’t know.  We could be the first.  Where’s your spirit of adventure?  What could happen?”

I could not put into words because I was drawn to explore the old mansion, I just was.  After I made many derogatory remarks about his manhood, Brian reluctantly agreed.  He’s, my buddy.

“Okay genius, how do we get in with no one seeing us?” he asked.

I had already thought about how we would approach the mansion, “Some Saturday we’ll walk over.  We only live about a fifteen-minute walk away.  I’ll meet you about noon and we’ll go explore.”

“Oh, now I see,” Brian said.  “We just stroll past the ‘Do Not Trespass’ signs, duck under the chain keeping everyone out, while we are on a major busy street in the area, and casually saunter up the long drive.  Sounds like fool-proof plan to me, fool”.

“That’s not what we’re going to do smart-ass.  We’ll approach it from the rear.  I’m sure we’ll be able to get in with nobody seeing us.”

                    * * *

A month or so later we finally had a Saturday when we would both be free for the afternoon.  We met and walked through the wild area of trees and brambles to approach the mansion from the rear.  As we walked closer to the structure, I was overwhelmed by a feeling of uncertainty.  Seeing the building up close lent an entirely new perspective than when viewed at distance from the road.  It certainly had the air of neglect, but it still radiated the feeling of a strength not found in this day and age.

Like commandos, we stealthily made our way to the front entrance.  This wasn’t necessary for the tall oak trees that surrounded the mansion, to say nothing of the massive number of vines the covered not only the trees, but the house itself, hid any view of the entrance from the road. 

As we approached the entrance, I found what I expected; the huge doors were chained and secured with a massive padlock.

“Okay, what do we do now?” Brian asked.

I answered, “No problem.  Didn’t you notice all the tall broken windows that we walked past on the first floor?  We just break them a little more, and we’re in.”

I could read a great deal of apprehension in Brian.  I felt the same, but I was also the one who started this whole thing, and I was determined to see it through.  Looking back, you might say good sense was replaced by pride.

We walked around the structure, and before long, found a window destroyed by a fallen branch.  We cleared the debris away from the window, and there was our entrance.

The gloom was overpowering, even though it was day.  A feeling of dread overcame me, but I had to go on, I was the one that initiated this adventure.  Dust lay heavy on the floor and every other surface. 

Brian whispered, as if he were in a church or a library, “Pat, this just doesn’t feel right.  I don’t think we should be here.”

I answered, “Brian, it’s the middle of the day.  Bad things happen only at night, and that’s in the movies.  This is real.  Let’s go explore.”

We had entered through the dining room, and soon found a massive wooden staircase, decrepit but for the most part intact, leading to the upper levels.  Along the way we left our tracks in the dust.  It was obvious that no one had been in this house for a very long time.  I’m not sure if this allayed or enforced our feeling of discomfort upon entering the structure.

We carefully crept up the staircase, singularly, testing each step before applying our full weight.  Surprisingly, the stairs were in good condition, having no trouble accepting our tread, which seemed unusual at the time, but later the reason would become crystal clear.

The landing on the second floor was also intact, along with the long hallway containing six closed doors.  Upon trying the doors, we discovered the bedrooms beyond were just a mass of rotten floors and collapsed ceilings.  It was evident, also, that many of the gabled rooms and roofs had completely deteriorated, collapsed onto the bedrooms, yet mysteriously, the structure maintained some integrity.  As I mentioned earlier the first five bedrooms, we examined were all but destroyed with the above gabled rooms and roof collapsing in on them and becoming victims of the elements.  Then we opened the door to the sixth bedroom, and much to our surprise, found the room to be dust covered but intact.

Somehow, the last bedroom we entered had escaped the ravages of time.  The walls, although lined with rotting bookcases, appeared strong as well as the floor.  This room must have contained a massive library.  I could only imagine the magnificent books these now decrepit shelves must have contained.  The wall opposite the window contained a massive fireplace, still appeared to be able to welcome a warming fire.  Dust was heavy on the floor, but the room was unusually sound.  Neither one of us could understand how this room had survived while the others had become decayed. 

Brian said, “This place gives me the creeps.  Why is this room okay?  What is that all about?  Let’s get the hell out of here, I’ve seen enough.”

“Okay, Brian, I guess we’ve seen enough up here.  Let’s go back downstairs and explore the first floor.  That should be much safer and less scary.”

We made our way down and began to explore, I must say, with a great deal more confidence.  The only room we had examined so far was what we thought to be the dining room, which when we exited, allowed a view of the staircase.  Directly off from the dining room, we entered a large room that must have been the kitchen.  A wing off the dining room contained a room lined with decaying bookshelves, which we assumed was a library or study.  Another door of the dining room led toward the front of the mansion.  That was where we found a massive room, which we imagined must have been the living room where a multitude of guests could be entertained.  It was also there that we made a discovery that will haunt me all the days of my life, and I’m sure, cost Brian his.

Brian whispered, although there was no need to, “I’m getting out of here.  This place is way beyond creepy.”

I assured Brian we would leave soon, but for some reason, I wanted to explore this room.  The room, of course, was empty upon first inspection.  Then we noticed a massive fireplace that nearly filled one wall, and above the mantle was a portrait.  This was the only remnant of decoration or furniture that remained. 

Above the fireplace was the portrait of a young woman.  She appeared to be in her early twenties and of rare beauty.  She had raven hair made-up in an extreme hairdo of bygone times.  Severe was her dress, a dress buttoned high up to her slim neck, but none of these trappings could conceal her beauty.  We were both drawn to the painting.

In the painting, the girl stood to the left, while to the right, in the distance, was the very mansion we were now in as it appeared in its glory days.  Between the girl and the mansion was a great looming storm.  Massive grey clouds swirled through the sky, yet the girl appeared unconcerned.  The storm gave the painting an ominous feeling.

Brian said, “She must have been so hot.  Who do you think she was?”

I studied the painting, and said, “I’m sure she was important to the owner.”

As we made a closer inspection of the painting, we found that it was not hung over the fireplace, but rather, attached to the wall.  We both tried to move it without success.

Brian again whispered, “Shit man, this is beyond creepy.  This place has been gutted, for who knows how long, of everything but this picture.  What’s that about?”

I answered, but not with a valid explanation, “For the obvious reason, asshole.  You can’t get it off the wall.  The important question is: why can’t we get it off the wall?”

We left the mansion the same way we entered.  But the image of that beautiful girl was hauntingly burned into my mind.  Later, I would find she had also made a lasting impression on Brian.

I went home thinking of the mansion and the beautiful girl I had seen in the painting.  Perhaps I thought about her a bit too much.  For that night, I had a dream that would become the nightmare of my life.

In my dream, I returned to the mansion, but it appeared as it had existed in the past.  The structure was gleaming white and not overgrown with vines.  The roof was intact and not crumbling in on itself. It was solid and secure. There was a large fence made of iron stances separating the property from a dirt road.  The massive expanse between the house and the road was a magnificent green.  Then before my eyes night rapidly fell.  The mansion was dark with the exception of one room on the second floor, one of the bedrooms.  I knew from the location of the light that it was the very room that Brian and I found to be somehow preserved.  I soon discovered the reason it was so immaculately intact, but not why.

I suddenly found myself in the bedroom I observed light from the lawn.  The fireplace contained a welcoming fire.  All around the room candles were lit, offering a mellow glow and the feeling of peace.  Opposite the fireplace was a large, canopied bed with the covers turned down.  The remainder of the room was filled with what I considered antique furniture.  But what do I know. 

From a door to the right of the canopied bed, a door slowly opened.  I cannot describe the fear I felt at that moment, even though it was just a dream.

From the opened door stepped the young woman from the portrait hanging below.  She was barefoot and wore a diaphanous nightgown.  Her raven hair was down around her shoulders.  Clear were her beautiful breasts and rose-red nipples.  My eyes traveled down the gossamer fabric to the black thatch of hair between her legs.

She beckoned me with lovely, outstretched arms and an alluring smile.  I felt myself become hard and could not wait to enter those welcoming arms.

As I stepped forward eagerly, my feet tangled, and I fell to the carpeted floor.  That act of clumsiness saved my life, but for how long I don’t know.

Before my eyes, the air around the beautiful girl wavered; before my eyes stood a monster backed by time.  If there is a hell, this demon was one of its residents.  Her delicate hands grew talons, and her body became an obscene visage.  I backpedaled out of the room, and once clear of the door, ran for my life.

That was when the dream ended.

I awoke the next morning with a start, tangled in my sheets, fully remembering the wonderful dream that soon became a nightmare.  The welcoming sight of my bedroom offered the feeling of safety and security.  Those sensations were fleeting, for I immediately knew something was terribly wrong.  My feet ached.

Upon inspection, I found that they were blackened, bruised and cut.  A cold chill went through my body as I realized the dream was perhaps not a dream.  I knew what I had to do.

                    * * *

I dressed and had a quick breakfast, and then set out for the local historical society.  Our town isn’t very large, and the mansion stood on such a large piece of property that I was certain there some knowledge of the place’s history must be recorded.

As I entered the research section, I was approached by a woman who appeared to be in her thirties.  Otherwise, the area was empty.  She said, “I’m Marjorie Factor, head of research for the most part, I am research.  How can I help you?”

I told her about the mansion.  “I’m curious about the history of the place.  And why the property was never sold.”  To my surprise, she knew exactly the piece of property I was talking about.

“You’re talking about the old Brewster place.  We do have information on the history of the place.  It was quite a magnificent piece of property, in its time.  I’ll show you where to find the documents, but after you have studied them and want more information, I suggest you return them tomorrow.  That’s when our volunteer, Elizabeth McConnell, will be working here.  She is in her late eighties and knows more about the area than anyone I’ve met around here.  She can fill you in about the Brewster Manor legend.  She was told about the legend by her mother, who lived into her nineties.  Her mother, Florence, worked as a maid for Nathaniel Brewster.  Florence was present when the seeds of the legend were sown.

“I’ll show you what records we have, but if you’re interested, I strongly suggest you come back tomorrow and speak to Elizabeth.  Depending on how much detail you want, she can tell you things that have never been recorded.”

Marjorie led me to a basement room lined with file cabinets.  She said, “Our material is referenced by year and subject.  I suggest you begin with the name, Brewster.  Enjoy your research.”  She then left me to my work.

I quickly found a heavy file with the heading, Brewster.  I brought the file to one of the tables provided, sat down with my pad and pen, and began reading.

Nathaniel Brewster made a fortune in building railroads.  There was a long article about his background published in 1869, when he moved to this area.  He was then in his forties and a bachelor.  Brewster said, in an interview, that he was married to his work.  But the next article indicated that was about to change.  The article was an engagement announcement of Mr. Nathaniel Brewster to Miss Amy Douglas. The article was accompanied by a picture of the couple.

Brewster looked like a man who was accustomed to being the one in control.  He appeared intense, with piercing eyes, not one you would want to cross.  Amy was a beauty.  She had black hair and looked to be in her early twenties.  She strongly resembled the girl in the portrait we discovered in the mansion.  Could she be the same woman in the painting? 

Further article described Brewster’s business success.  Then, in an article dated 1871, there was a piece talking about the beginning of construction on Brewster Manor, designed by a famous architect.  The building of Brewster Manor was apparently a major point of interest in the community.

I soon came to nearly the end of the file when I discovered a shocking piece of information about the Brewsters.  At the back of the file were three small articles, folded, that could easily be missed.  One was a birth announcement, and one an obituary filed on the same day.  Amy had died giving birth to her daughter, Sarah.

The final article was the obituary of Nathaniel Brewster.  He lived more than twenty years after his wife, Amy, died.  His wife was mentioned in the obit, but there was no mention of a daughter.  I felt this was very strange and was certain I would return tomorrow to learn the Legend of Brewster Manor and try to make some sense of my mysterious dream.

After gathering my notes and returning the Brewster file, I went to find Marjorie.  She was stationed at her desk; she looked up and asked, “Did you find what you wanted?”

I answered, “Yes and no.  I would really like to talk to your volunteer about the legend of the mansion.  When will she be in?”

“Come tomorrow after ten.  I’ll let her know if you want to talk to her.  I’ll tell you; I think she would be anxious to talk to you about the residence.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” I said.  “Thanks for your help.”

                                                           * * *

The next morning, while I sat eating breakfast, my mom received a phone call.  She turned to me while she held the phone, “Its Brian’s father.  Brian’s parents are frantic.  He went to sleep last night, and everything appeared normal.  Now he’s gone.  They haven’t a clue as to where he may have gone. 

“Do you know anything about where he may have gone?  Did he say anything?”

“I haven’t seen Brian for a few days,” I answered.  “And the last time I did see him he was fine.”  But as I talked to my mother, I could not help but wonder if Brian had had the same dream.  What had I set in motion with my curiosity?

My mother was still on the phone when I left for the historical society.  It was not ten yet, I just needed to leave the house and be alone with my thoughts.  I thought about prospects that were unbelievable, unthinkable, that couldn’t possibly happen.

I entered the historical society a little after ten and proceeded to Marjorie’s desk.  Sitting next to Marjorie was a frail old woman, whom, I was sure, was the volunteer that would answer my many questions.

As I came closer, I heard Marjorie say, “This is the young man I was telling you about, Elizabeth.  He was researching the old Brewster place, and I told him you could give him more detail, and about the legend.”

The old woman stood and came around the desk to shake my hand.  At first sight, she appeared frail, but that was deceiving, for she had a firm grip and pale blue eyes that twinkled as those of a younger woman.  With a determined walk she led me down to the research area.

As we walked, she said, “It’s most unusual that anyone is still interested in Brewster Manor, especially such a young man as you.  May I ask why you want to know about the place?”

“Well,” I said, “I’ve noticed the place since I was a small kid.  I just wanted to know more about it.”

Elizabeth suddenly stopped.  “You haven’t been in there have you, son?”

My silence answered the question.

“Oh dear,” Elizabeth said, “This is not good.  This is trouble.  I’m probably the only one who knows the legend of Brewster Manor, and surely the only one that knows it is more than a legend.”

We approached a reference table and sat opposite each other.  The concern on the old lady’s face sent a chill down my spine.  She began speaking quietly and would eventfully answer my questions and confirm my worst fears.

“As I’m sure you know, Brewster Manor was built by Nathaniel Brewster.  He was a wealthy man and somewhat of a loner, that is, until he met his future wife, Amy. 

“The local papers were full of their marriage and then the building of the mansion.  Once the mansion was built, they hired a small army of servants, one of which was my mother.  My mother’s name was Florence, and she was there when talk of the legend began.  She, however, knew that at least some of it was not legend, but truth.

“Nathaniel and Amy moved into the manor.  They were so happy.  Nathaniel worshiped his wife.  My mother overheard him tell Amy over and over how much she had changed his life and made him more human.  In a short time, Amy became pregnant, and the couple could not be happier.  Nathaniel looked forward to filling the mansion with children and having heirs to pass on his wealth.  Those were the happiest days poor Nathaniel would ever have.

“Amy was a petite woman, and the baby grew to be quite large.  This was the 1870’s and medical knowledge was not it is today.  Amy died giving birth to her daughter, Sarah.

“Nathaniel Brewster was devastated, to say the least.  A dark curtain settled over the entire household; one that would never lift.

“I don’t know if Nathaniel ever held his daughter.  Her care was left to the servants.  Nathaniel Brewster once again sought refuge in work, and as my mother told me, at nights in drink.  He appeared, to my mother, to hate the baby.  He held the infant responsible for his wife’s death.

Nathaniel kept the child a virtual prisoner in the mansion.  She was not allowed to leave unless supervised.  And it came to a point that she was not allowed to leave at all.  Her teachers were brought in.  They became her only window to the world.  She became an avid reader and devoured books.”

“I found rotting bookshelves in what must have been her bedroom.”

 After a nod, Elizabeth continued, “Baby Sarah went from infant, to toddler, to child with little input from her father.  Then a strange change occurred.  As Sarah reached her teenage years, Nathaniel took a sudden interest in his daughter, for she became the image of her mother.  Nathaniel developed a love-hate relationship with her.  In his twisted mind, he hated Sarah because she had robbed him of his wife, but he loved the image of his wife that Sarah had become.

“As Sarah approached her late teens, the resemblance she had to her mother was more than remarkable; it was eerie.  Nathaniel had his daughter sit for a portrait.  That painting was hung over the mantle in the main room.

“Then one night, things went horribly wrong.  My mother said that Nathaniel was up late one night drinking, as was usually the case.  She watched him stagger upstairs, and instead of going to his bedroom, he entered his daughter’s. 

“No one knows exactly what happened that fateful night, but a terrible scream was heard throughout the house.  In a few moments, Sarah came running down the stairs, her clothes in disarray.  She ran out the front door and into the forest as Nathaniel Brewster shouted, ‘Damn you to hell.  You took my wife and now offer me no pleasure.’

“Sarah was never seen again.”

I shifted uncomfortably in my chair.  This story was beyond horrible.  So that’s whose portrait hung over the fireplace.  “But that doesn’t seem to be much of a legend,” I said.  “It’s just a horrible truth.”

“There you are right, young man; now the facts become legend.  Nathaniel Brewster became a man existing on the border of insanity.  He lived for two years after the incident with his daughter.  His decline was rapid after those two years, alcohol was the most likely culprit.  As finally he lay dying, the servants gathered around him.  He had no close family. 

“My mother was present when he shouted with his dying breath, “Sarah, protect my home.”

“Suddenly my mother, and all the rest of the servants, heard a loud thud that shook the entire mansion.  No one could imagine what had happened.  The next morning it was discovered that the portrait of Sarah Brewster no longer hung over the mantle but was attached to the wall.  No matter how hard the servants tried, it was impossible to move.

“Distant relatives were located.  They ordered the contents and the property sold.  The only item remaining in the mansion was the portrait of Sarah Brewster.  No one wanted to damage the wall while the mansion was for sale, and so it remained.  I am told that it remains there to this day.”

The old woman was silent, looking at me intently.  Finally, I answered, “It still does.”

Elizabeth shook her head, and said, “I was afraid it was still there, and that you saw it.  This is where the legend begins.

“Many buyers expressed an interest to purchase the mansion, primarily for the property.  The house had fallen into disrepair the twenty odd years since Amy’s death.  Nathaniel showed no interest in preserving it while he lived there.  The building was not worth the asking price, but the property was of great value.  But the property was never sold.

“All the serious buyers just disappeared.”

Elizabeth sat quietly, and then said, “They all disappeared after examining the mansion, and the portrait of Sarah Brewster over the fireplace.  The legend developed that somehow the mansion did not want to be sold; that Sarah protected it.  Some of the locals think that it had something to do with the portrait and Nathaniel beckoning his daughter to protect his property.  Eventually, buyers no longer came forward and all the locals in the area stayed clear of the mansion.  The legend of the portrait was forgotten, and then you came along.  I should mention that some have reported seeing a light in the upper floor.  But that was surely a reflection of headlights, or the moon.

“Anything strange happen to you since you went exploring, son?”

I remained silent, and then told her about my dream and Brian’s disappearance.

Now it was Elizabeth’s turn to remain silent.  She finally said, “I don’t know what you’ve started or where your friend is, but I don’t think you will see him again.”

She rose and made her way out of the room leaving me with my thoughts and fears.

                    * * *

Full of terror and doubts of the unknown I left for home. 

It took me some time to muster my strength, but I decided that I must return to the mansion.  No matter what the danger, I had to see the portrait of Sarah Brewster one more time.

Taking the same route as before, I once again stood gazing at the painting. I stared at the same lovely face in the foreground, but sudden movement drew my attention to the left of the figure.  The gray storm clouds between the woman and the mansion to the right in the background began to stir.

I rubbed my eyes, hoping to remove the moving image, yet the clouds continued to swirl.  Before my horrified eyes, images began to take shape within the clouds.  Gray faces began to emerge.  The closest to Sarah, over her left shoulder, was that of Brian.  His visage was one of intense horror.  Slowly, other faces were revealed in ever decreasing size leading to the mansion.  Could these be the potential buyers that disappeared? 

I shook my head in disbelief, and then noticed yet another change.  Now Sarah was smiling, a smile that possessed an intense evil.

How could I ever explain what happened to Brian?  Who would believe that he now resided in this torturous painting?  I ran from the mansion knowing that in my dream, if I had not stumbled, my horrified image would be there too.

                  * * *

It’s been years now since I decided to explore that horrible structure.  We’ve had heavy snow of late, and the weight of the snow has caved in the mansion’s roof.  The mansion is dying.  Perhaps once it is gone, those poor souls trapped will be freed.  In the meantime, I fear my dreams.

                                                     THE END

January 4, 2024 at 3:27 pm Leave a comment