The House of Poor Regard (A Flash Story)

The House of Poor Regard

The first few hours went by pleasantly, providing scenic views of wide-open countryside dotted with the occasional farmhouse. By nightfall though, I had grown restless and breathed a sigh of relief when the train slowed and came to a stop next to the brick platform.

Baggage in hand, I looked around as the train pulled away and saw I was the only person in the immediate vicinity. Off in distance, I spotted a grouping of faint lights belonging to the village where I intended to stay the night. While a carriage would have been greatly appreciated, I realized I would have to make the journey on foot with only the moonlight as my companion.

"Not from around these parts?" the barman asked after I had closed the heavy wood-paneled door behind me and entered the public house.

"Out of towner," I responded, shaking the nighttime chill from my bones as I removed my scarf and coat and placed them on the nearby rack. "I'm hoping to stay for the night then on to Thorn House tomorrow."

The barman stopped drying the mug he was holding and fixed a stare that made me want to crawl out of my skin and hide under the nearby table.

"That place..." the barman began. "Why would you be wanting to go there, sir?"

"Taxes," I responded as a matter of fact. "The Exchequer in London requires a record update for Thorn House. I've been sent to perform an assessment of the estate."

"Hmm..." the barman began, "folks around here hold that place in poor regard, sir."

"May I ask why?"

"Because of the deaths."

"Deaths?"

"The family that owned Thorn House died years ago." The barman paused for a moment before continuing. "The husband and lord of the manner drowned in the lake, an accident by the likes of it. His widow, stricken with grief, drowned herself and their four children in the same lake a short while afterwards. That house hasn't been right ever since. Every person who has gone to visit has never come back."

"Are you saying Thorn House is haunted?" I asked, a small smile forming on my lips.

"That's the rumor," the barman replied.

"Come now, my good man! This is the twentieth century!" I said with chuckle. "Surely ghosts, goblins and spooks should be relegated to mere superstitions in our modern age?"

"If you say so, sir," the barman replied and began to dry the mug in his hand once more. "If you say so."

*

The next morning, I wasn't able to find a carriage that would take me to Thorn House, so I made my way on foot. The journey was about four miles and was along a winding road that started amongst farm fields and quickly entered a forest. The surrounding trees were in the full throes of fall with most of their colorful leaves already on the ground.

After some time, the woods gave way to the remains of a country estate fallen into disrepair. The house was a mansion with a dirty red brick façade, was three stories tall, and had a roof with several triangular points, each containing a chimney that protruded towards the sky.

To my amazement, the house's foundation wasn't set on solid ground, but rather, rested in the middle of a large lake. Hundreds of pylons must have been set beneath the water to hold the entire mansion in place like a home in the Italian city of Venice. Truly remarkable!

I came to the lake's edge and took in the surroundings. The sky was overcast, and the place had a rather gloomy feel it. No matter though! I searched around for a moment until realizing the only way to obtain access to Thorn House was by utilizing the small boat tied to a nearby dock that jutted out into the lake.

The boat was long, narrow, and curved upwards at both ends like a Venetian gondola. A long staff rested against one side which I determined was necessary to push myself along through the water. After several clumsy attempts, I got the hang of the staff and proceeded across the lake to Thorn House.

Upon reaching the entrance to the mansion, I found the imposing oak door to be unlocked and with some effort was able to push it open. A damp, musty smell filled my nose and lungs as I entered and took stock of the main entrance hall; walls long ago emptied of paintings, a marble floor covered in dust, and a grand staircase with an ornately carved wooden railing that was rotting to pieces. Thorn House had been built well before electric lighting and I was glad I had packed a lantern.

The mansion had clearly been abandoned for a long while and I decided to perform my tax assessment as quickly as possible then leave.

After striking a match and lighting the lantern, I surveyed the bottom floor of the house then moved to the second and third floors. Nothing remarkable to note in my assessment other than the odd stumble over a broken piece of furniture or the squeaking of a rat in the nearby corner of a room. Thorn House was very much a product of the bygone Victorian era and that was that.

"Thorn House a haunted place? I think not," I said with a chuckle, remembering my conversation with the barman the previous evening. "Nothing haunted about this house."

Satisfied that my tax assessment was complete, I jumped back into the gondola-like boat and used the staff to push out and way from the house.

About halfway across the lake, I became aware of a paddling sound in the water and surveyed the surrounding area. As I did, a large object thumped the underside of the boat, causing it to rock back and forth.

I quickly moved to look over the side and came face to face with a teenage girl, skin white as chalk and eyes black as coal. She leapt upwards, wrapped her arms around my neck, and pulled me down and out of the boat. As I entered the water, I saw three additional children along with their mother and father emerge from the depths of the lake; the previous owners of Thorn House who had met their tragic end in the lake so many years ago. Together, they took hold of my limbs and pulled me down, further, and further into darkness.

You fool, I thought in my last moments of consciousness. It is not the house that is haunted, it is the lake!

The End