Cold Hands

Dust

Cole Manor was nestled in the woods and shut in by a big black wrought iron fence, the kind that looked like a row of pointy spears with fancy curly metalwork on the gate. Like that wasn't already "keep out" enough, it was laced around the top with rusty barbed wire and clamped shut with a chain and a padlock. Jerry had to get out of his car in front of us and let us in.

The driveway was like a long tunnel of overarching trees, seeming to go on forever, until the manor peeked through at the end. It must have been stately a hundred years ago, boxy, broad, and symmetrical, with a porch on the lower level and a balcony on the upper one ringing all the way around, lined with iron rails like the fence and barred in by columns from the ground to the sloping roof. The house reminded me of a cage, or of clenched teeth; it was smiling. Or maybe growling.

It wasn't stately anymore; it was a forgotten relic of a time long past. The white walls weren't quite white. I wasn't sure how long ago the doors had been red and the closed shutters on all the windows had been green, because it had peeled off long ago and they were mostly gray now. Viney plants were creeping up the sides like the swamp wanted to take the house back.

We pulled up. It looked a lot taller up close. My mom pulled out her phone and snapped a picture. "That's incredible. Picture how old this is place is. That is amazing."

I pictured fat white guys in white suits on the porch, watching bent and broken black men and women sweating in fields out in the back. I didn't think that was amazing, I thought that was messed up, so I just said, "Doesn't look like there's going to be WiFi."

My mom smacked my arm for that.

Jerry and Miss Steeley waited patiently by the porch steps. Of course there was no wheelchair ramp, so I was already annoyed before we even got in. I could go up stairs backwards by grabbing onto a rail with one hand and jerking one wheel up a step at a time with the other. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

"I don't like a lot of noise," Miss Steeley said coldly.

"Here, I'll lift him," my mom intervened, but I gave her an icy look.

"I'm fine," I said.

The house was even dingier inside. I realized with a chill that if you didn't have any eyes, you didn't need to turn on the lights. Jerry led the way, fumbling on the wall for the light switch.

I whistled in spite of myself. That was a lot of stairs.

The house opened into a grand foyer with a sweeping staircase up onto the mezzanine, branching off into two more staircases that arched overhead onto the second level. The floorboards were splintered and rough, and the rug was moldy. Cobwebs hung from the gilded chandelier. There was a primeval grand piano in the corner that looked like it hadn't been played for years, and some fake potted plants. A weirdly sour smell pierced my sinuses.

"You have a beautiful home, Miss Steeley," my mom said tonelessly. I could see her valiance faltering when faced with the mothership of grime and pathogens.

"Shall I stick around and help with the tour, Emily?" Jerry wanted to know.

She waved a hand dismissively. "No. You're dismissed."

That seemed oddly stiff to say to the friendly volunteer who drives you to church on Sunday, and so did Jerry's clumsy wave goodbye before shuffling out the door with a hollow thud. He didn't even offer to help bring in our bags.

I couldn't blame him. There was something funny about the air in here that made me shiver. I was almost always colder than most people, but this was something different.