Claremount Hall

Chapter 1

Claremount Hall stood still, towering over the silver birch trees which whispered in the wind below. It seemed as if it existed outside of space and time - itself a living, breathing organism. It had stood, desolate and foreboding, for the last 100 years, and it seemed as though it could easily survive an eternity of 1000 more.

The bleak wind-beaten stone was at first obscured by the oddly dense, yet extremely quiet forest surrounding its grounds. The long gravel drive seemed like an eternity as the cold marble statues of times gone by crept past the windows. Damp mist swirling around us as the bitter wind lashed our faces, it seemed the kind of place one might arrive but never depart.

Even nature seemed afraid of some mysterious entity unknown, the sun's bright colours swiftly fading over the horizon into a washed-out sky abound with dark clouds. The icy wind seemed to be warning us, warding us off, away from that wretched place – its grips grew stronger as we ascended the ivy-covered stone steps leading to the great oak door.

That is memory I conjure up in my mind's eye when I think of Claremount Hall – the memory of my first time seeing the place which would later become my home, the place I was sent to live after the death of my parents.

Imagine a place where, for hundreds of years, time stood still. A labyrinthine, turreted manor house with blush-pink roses creeping up its sides, stone gargoyles peering down from the wind-beaten limestone walls, paving stones worn concave and smooth, and grand oak doors so ancient that at night, moonlight shines through chinks in the gnarled wood. Welcome to Claremount Hall, the enchanting yet foreboding manor house that my uncle and aunt, Lord Percival and Lady Elizabeth Claremount, once called home. In moonlight, the manor seemed almost to be holding its breath, waiting in suspense. And yet, from the occasional creaking of floorboards, the sporadic blasts of wind, or somewhat inexplicable noises, I could tell that the house was only sleeping, and eventually it would wake from its slumber.

It was here where I spent much of my childhood from the age of nine. Indeed, I am still in possession of the manor, due to my uncle's lack of an heir, and sometimes I do return to visit the house. To see the wild ivy claiming the house as its own, to see the mysterious moonflowers which only bloom at night, and to see my cousin. The manor is beautiful enough in sunlight, the golden rays dancing through whitewashed stone arches and off the glimmering, mesmerizing surface of the family lake. However at night, Claremount Hall seemed to have a personality of its own – as if it was lying in wait. Waiting patiently for its prey, I liked to imagine when I was younger.