Chronicles of Mystery

Arrival at the Mansion

Eventually they reached the edge of the woods. Suddenly, the fog seemed to lift and the sky cleared. It was shy at first, then, little by little, the pale winter sun burst into the middle of the sky.

Once the forest was behind them, nature seemed to come back to life.

 "Tell me, what is this forest doing at the entrance to your estate?" Lucy asked. 

 "This is to deter the curious from entering."

Lucy turned around, gauging at the morbid woods and found that when it came to deterrence, there was nothing to complain about.

Ahead of them, a dirt road appeared. In the distance, in the sky, the smoke from the chimneys of a small village flew up into the heavens, long slivers of clouds carried by the wind.

On either side of the path the grass was frozen and shone like thousands of diamonds in the timid rays of the sun. On the horizon, the sky was turning white and orange. The air was crisp and cool and the sky had taken on a whole new, fresh blue hue, synonymous with a new day.

Further on, the grass was replaced by fields of turned earth, already ready for spring sowing, patiently awaiting the renewal of the next season. The ground was still wet from the recent rains and a few puddles of water remained on the road. 

The snow of the heart of winter had not yet arrived to cover the sleeping nature with its white coat. Every tree, every field and every plant was therefore waiting for the white flakes to tuck them in, to wish them a good rest until the return of the sun.

Soon, arriving at the top of a hill, they could see the village below. It was hardly a hamlet, a small town that had come to get lost there, taking refuge in this little pit in the middle of the hills. It was made up of just a few houses with stone walls, big gray bricks with thatched roofs that had chimneys pierced their entire length. A small mill which towered over the rest of the small houses with its large size, like a big brother watching over his siblings. The wind came to turn its wheel merrily.

In the center of the hamlet, a church, almost humble in its simplicity, which stood out from the other buildings for its width and the tower of its bell tower, adorned with a large clock marking the rhythm of the day for the inhabitants. The gray walls, with a few orange bricks, the roof of the same colour as the fawn of wheat at the end of a hot summer. If the mill was the big brother, the church was undeniably the grandmother, who scolded her grandchildren. The cross which surmounted its steeple became the lace bonnet which covered the old woman's head. Its walls, damaged by time, eaten away by humidity, were the skin, wrinkled and withered, of the grandmother. Her roof, the color of which was barely perceptible, was her hair, gray and wiry over the years.

The village had, in all and for all, a single street that crossed it in length and stopped in front of the venerable church. And still, giving the name of a street to this muddy dirt road, covered in dirt, rubbish and ruts, seemed quite out of place.

Even about this early hour, in the village, activity reigned for a long time. Everyone had risen at dawn and had since gone about their daily tasks with some diligence.

Carts crossed the fields' surroundings, people passed and repassed between the houses, leaning their heads out of the windows... Some went to feed the animals on the farm, others went with their basket to the fields, to go pulling weeds, some were getting ready for the market, the animals were being led to graze...

Yet the hamlet remained silent, no noises, no words, nothing. Just silence. No screams from the baker calling out to her customers, no vituperation from the merchant in front of a shoplifter, no discussions from the peasants in the fields at work.