~𝓨𝓸𝓾𝓻𝓼 𝓛𝓸𝓿𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓵𝔂~

Chapter 1

The rotten leaves crunch beneath my feet as I make my way through the overgrown lawn off the old chateau. The cool air strikes against my face as all the memories come rushing back. I could almost see me and my brother running around the lawn in our Sunday church clothes mom had dressed us in. So many memories attached to this house and now it all goes into the hands of a stranger. I was completely against the idea of selling mom's house, but I needed the money and so did my brother.

As far back as I can remember my dad, John had never been much involved in our upbringing. He lived away and sent money every month to maintain the house and take care of us. Mom always talked about him fancifully as if their relationship was intact, as if we didn't know that the letters mom would write to him always came back unanswered.

I make my way through the garden or at least what remains of it. The gardens surrounding the chateau, sprawl in grandiosity, their bushes lay gray and withered and no longer do bees and butterflies sit on the fresh roses. No longer does the perfume of flowers enchant the grounds, but what remains is a dead, ashen, corpse of a garden, remembering its glorious youth. Mom always loved the gardens; she would hire special people to take care of it and I would run around in my little walking shoes to pluck the largest of roses for the vases. I wish Miles were here with me, it was too depressing to be here alone, but all he really wanted was his share of the money.

I sigh and push open the large bronze doors as they trumpet to welcome me and announce my presence.

The glittering chandelier lays on the floor like a fallen ballerina, in all its grace. The once floral wallpaper, vividly colored in deep tones is barely there, peeling away, revealing the naked walls. Walls that reveal a thousand untold stories, each crevice and scratch speaking a million words. The smell of mildew and rotting wood reach my nostrils. The dust making fanciful clouds as I walk.

The paintings that I would spend hours upon hours staring at, weaving stories about now lay completely abandoned. Since mom had been admitted to the old age home, no one had taken care of the mansion and I feel a little guilty myself for letting it fall into such a state of neglect.

I almost trip on the torn, velvet carpet as I look in front of me at the grand wooden staircase leading to the upper floor, surrounded by French windows, which flood the exquisite stairs and the giant chandelier with breathtaking light. The balmy streaks of sunlight enter through the stained, rosy windows and waltz from every corner. I see the big portrait hanging behind the staircase, it was of my aunt Margaret. I am always mesmerized at how much my aunt looked like my mother; they were after all twins. Twins run in my family, miles and I are twins too, though we don't resemble each other quite as much as mom and aunt Margaret. I had never met Aunt Margaret, mom said she had disappeared at a very young age and to this date no one knows where she is. I stare at the portrait; she must've been my age when she sat for it. I notice how much I look like her, I would've liked to meet her.

I make my way up the stairs and as I watch all the damage, I quickly snap out of my dream-like state. The workers would arrive in an hour and soon the calm, eerie nature of this house would be replaced by panic and shouting workers. And then the new owners will call this house that I call home, their home.

I go into the largest room in the entire house, mom's room. Although in rough shape, it still looked the same. The same blue floral wallpaper, the huge bed in the center, and the zillion gold ornaments on the wall that mom so carefully took care off and the vanity that mom would get ready in front of every day. I look out of the big window, at the rose bush right beneath the window. I remember it had the biggest roses and I would always play around it.

I start picking up tiny trinkets and old music boxes and tons of empty glass bottles when suddenly my foot lands on a broken floorboard, which makes a loud echoing noise. I check the floorboard and find that it was very loose, as if left on purpose. I move the rotten wood away and find a crevice, I pull out the floorboard and find a black leather-bound book laying there.
I quickly open the book and realize it is a journal. I open the first page and see the name Margaret Aspen  written in it in beautiful calligraphy and decorated with elegant swirls and motives. I gasp in realization. This must be my aunt's journal, there must be some clue in here as to where she is, maybe we could find her after all these years. I gingerly flip through the yellowed pages and become instantly curious. I dust a chair in the corner and sit on it along with the journal, open the first page and start reading.