Lost in the Echo

I

When turning off the main road onto an overgrown path, I notice how heavily nature has reclaimed the land of my family's supposed estate. Trees crowd the edge of the road like towering sentinels, their branches reaching across the sky in a way that makes you feel as if you're in a tunnel. Sunlight filters through in slivers, casting strange shadows on the cracked ground. The sound of my truck tires crunching over broken branches echo in the eerie silence of the woods and the air feels thick, like it hasn't moved in years.

I tighten my grip on the wheel as my heart pounds heavily in my chest for a reason I am unsure of. Maybe it's because I've returned to my hometown, Blackridge, Maine. It's a place I left behind years ago, without so much as a glance in the rearview. I've built a life far from here, not wanting to face the ghosts of my past. But now it seems there's no more running, as I am here, heading to a mansion that's evidently been in my family since the eighteen hundreds.

Kannehill Manor is something I've only heard in whispers from eavesdropping on the townspeople as a child, and even my own father, but I've never seen it nor knew who it belonged to in my family. Although, I have now inherited the entire thing. The lawyer's letter was brief, impersonal, and alongside a set of keys. A formality to inform me that, as the last living Kannehill, the mansion and all its belongings are now mine. I don't care much about the estate, but my father's death has left me with unanswered questions, and this place–the place he had always kept hidden–may be the key to understanding him, to understanding our fractured relationship.

A distant call of a crow echoes through the trees, startling me from my thoughts. As I round the last bend in the road, the mansion comes into view. My breath catches in my throat.

The house stands like a relic of another era, crumbling under the weight of time. Vines crawl up the stone walls, covering most of the windows in green tendrils. The roof sags in places, and several of the shutters have long since fallen off, leaving dark, empty holes where windows peer out like hollow eyes. The front steps are cracked, and the once-grand double doors are faded, their black paint peeling like dried skin.

I park my truck on the brick drive and shut off the engine. Silence presses from all sides, the kind of silence that isn't natural. It is too still, too expectant. I sit here for a moment, staring at the house. This is it, my new home, whether I like it or not.

Taking a deep breath, I open the door and step out. The humid summer air hits me like a wall, thick and oppressive. Sweat forms on my skin almost instantly, but I ignore it. My boots crunch over the many broken sticks that cover the drive as I approach the front steps, my eyes scanning the house for any sign of life–or death. The windows remain dark, the shadows behind them seemingly deep and uninviting.
The front door looms before me, its weathered surface marred with deep grooves from years of exposure to the elements. I hesitate for just a moment before pushing the key into the lock, twisting slowly to undo the lock before repeating the action with the second lock. The brass is cold under my fingers as I open the door, colder than it should be in this sticky heat. With a deep breath, I push the door open.

It groans on its hinges, the sound low and mournful, as if the house itself is protesting my arrival. I step inside, the musty scent of old wood and decay filling my nostrils. Dust hangs in the air, swirling in beams of broken sunlight that filters through the broken windows.

The foyer is grand, or at least it has been at one time. A sweeping staircase leads up to the second floor, its banister thick with dust. The walls are lined with faded wallpaper, once a deep burgundy, now peeling and stained with age. The chandelier overhead has lost several of its crystals, and those that remain clink together softly in the faint breeze from the open door.

I stand here, letting the silence of the house envelop me. There is something off about this place, something I cannot quite place my finger on. It isn't just the fact that it is old and decrepit–there is an energy here, a presence. It feels like the house is watching me, waiting for me to make the first move.