In The Midst Of Darkness (On hold)

Black (Draft-1)

|U N E D I T E D|

There is a room at the back of my parents' sprawling Tudor-style mansion. It is inconspicuous and barely noticeable, but when you see it, the first thing that will come to your mind is: it doesn't belong here.

When you enter through the large iron gates and drive forward— turning around the corner to see the beautiful driveway circling around the large fountain, and the beautiful sprawling mansion with its high pillars, age-old architectural design, steeply pitched gable roofs and elaborate masonry chimneys peeking out from behind, embellished doorways adorning the entrance and large groupings of windows all over the house; it leaves you speechless. It's like a scene out of a fairy tale.

You enter the house and you see the rich interior design, the modern appliances and perfect lighting. Large chandeliers adorn the living room, dining and the hall with a beautiful grand staircase leading to the upper levels of the house. You've seen the best— the beautiful parts.

But then you walk to the back. A small door leads to the well-kept gardens and woods beyond. You open the door and see it— that room at the back of the house.

It's more like a small hut and looks ready to topple over. It's about a hundred years old, made of strong timber and iron. Surprisingly, it hasn't been infested by termites yet. There's only one room. It served as the bedroom, kitchen and hall to the old owners.

That tiny battered cottage was a thing to be forgotten. A place my mother despised and my father, indifferent to.

Growing up, I'd never known the real story behind that cottage. What purpose did it serve? My mother did not like it, so why not just dispose of it?

I found out later in one of my expeditions to the lonely cottage that the land and the tiny dwelling belonged to an elderly couple. They'd died shortly upon signing the property off to my great-grandfather (who was seventy-ish at the time).

Their only request was that we don't destroy their house upon their death. So, my ancestors built their palace (mansion), doing their best to not trample the previous owner's home. My great grandmother —being the sweetheart she was— insisted that the couple lives in the estate.

And thus, the cottage stayed. None of my family really touched anything inside the house and every once in a few years a team was brought in to ensure that the house was maintained to keep a check on termites and insects.

But time had a way of ageing things. No matter how many times we had gotten the treatment done or how we had artfully covered it to shelter it from the damaging effects of rain and snow, time took its toll. The cottage began crumbling. The once beautiful cottage looked more like a ransacked tent.

That is how I had ever seen it— crumbling and with planks of wood falling apart.

It had been a century, after all.

Being a naturally curious person I sneaked in one night. Despite the fact that I was strictly warned not to. It was dark and I could hear the clicks and squeaks of hundreds of species resting in the dark. A bat flew by just as I was opening the door. I remember shuddering and thinking if the trouble was even worth it.

The screen door cracked open all of a sudden and light poured out from inside my house.

My father was here. So I went in and my seven-year-old mind forgot all about my curiosity after my father tempted me with sparkling purple shoes I had seen in the mall the other day.