The Mad House

Alone As You'll Never Be

Entry One: I feel silly writing to myself. I have never kept a journal, yet then again I never had reason to. Never had I lived through anything worth documenting, never have I stumbled across a place that was so...purposeful I think is the word. There's a reason I'm here, I can feel it in my bones, and in the walls. I can feel that something's happening, something bigger than me, bigger than all of us. It was the storm that brought me here; the wind was too violent, shaking my carriage by the wheels. The driver insisted that we had to stop, that the horses were exhausted and he was soaked to the point of hypothermia. I couldn't do anything but agree. There was a light in the distance, the only light we could see for miles around, and so we headed over to the source. It was a house, a gigantic house, the most beautiful structure I had ever seen. I feel as though even if there hadn't been a storm, even if we had just been passing by, I would have had to stop. There was a drawing force from inside that building, something that was pulling me by my heart strings. There was a sort of urgency about it, and it would seem as though as soon as I knocked the house received that urgency straight away. The master of the house is a peculiar man, Victor Trevor. He stands easily six feet from the ground and his face is complimented by a swoop of beautiful brown hair and blue eyes. He seems to be richer than any man could ever hope to be, and he's sleek enough to be called beautiful. Mr. Trevor creeps around throughout the house, appearing at random intervals throughout my night as it to check in on me. You'd never hear him if not for that walking stick around the marble floors. Interesting fellow he is, but not nearly as interesting as the company he keeps. The whole house is empty save for the servants, myself, Mr. Trevor, and his friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Now that I think about it, they may not be friends at all. Sherlock Holmes does nothing but scowl, and he hardly eats anything; he sits without a word at the dinner table. Yet our dinner was cut oddly short just as soon as Sherlock set his eyes on my host with something of a teasing stare. They had urgent business, apparently, for as soon as Sherlock's eyes fell upon Victor, they abandoned me. I spent most of my dinner alone, wondering what pressing business had drawn the hosts so quickly from the table. Such odd company they are, and yet I find it increasingly difficult to leave them. It feels impossible to leave this house after I had already settled in. In fact I had found this old journal while searching for a piece of parchment with which to write to Harriet, and warn her that I will be a couple days late to my visit. I'd like to say that she'd understand, but at the moment I don't understand myself. All I know is that I am sitting here on this bed, sitting in utter silence, with what meager possessions I have already hung in the closets, and stuffed in the drawers. I made myself at home in this house, and I hadn't even been offered to stay. Mr. Trevor told me, all the while, that I can stay as long as I needed to. At first I took that as until the storm blew over, yet now I understand that there was more to it than that. I think he knows the appeal of his house, the feeling it gives you that you can never leave. It's interesting, really, just how much I need to stay. What a happy occurrence that storm was, even if it had quieted down just as soon as I got settled. I'm not sure if it's even raining now.
John Watson

It wasn't natural. Well that was at least John's impression upon the state of the house...the spotless state of things since they had been left how many years ago. The more he sifted through what should've been the ruins, the more he found that the house was just as structurally sound as its last owners had left it. Well of course there was the dust; all old things have dust, coupled of with white sheets that were still perfectly pristine, hanging over all the lumps of furniture that sat about the house in their original places. It looked so perfect, so perfect that he honestly couldn't tell why anyone would leave it in such a state. He could only guess to who had done all the cleaning up, maybe the last owners in their flight, or rather someone who had come only after the rest of the world realized the house was empty. Yet how did it stay so well preserved? How was it that almost all of the house was in its original state, save for the occasional mouse, or dust pile? It seemed almost too good to be true, which was something John knew a lot about these days. Disappointments were only too prevalent in his life, and so he had trained himself not to trust things that seem so perfect. Family members who should be loyal, or friends who seemed to never fail. And houses...houses that were as old as his oldest ancestor, yet still in the perfect living condition today. John was no expert on architecture, or carpentry, but he had a keen knack for knowing that there was something off. And this house, well it fared very well on the scale of peculiarity. There was something quite wrong with it, even if everything did seem perfectly in order. When they had first stepped inside, John had asked Mrs. Hudson who was taking care of the place. She claimed that no one had been in here since it had been last shut down (the cause of which she seemed to deliberately avoid), and that the key had been sitting in Town Hall, with the structure condemned for the last century. It was odd, then, just how perfect the house still was. Just how impressive its stature could be. The inside was every bit as magnificent as the outside, for the house was decorated in the late Victorian fashion, with all the money that had been put into it still evident in the golden trim, and the marble statues hidden in alcoves in the walls, or the oil paintings that hung just about everywhere. Even the ceiling was painted, when you craned your neck in the foyer and in the dining room, past the chandeliers you could just make out scenes of men on the ceiling. John wasn't entirely sure what the murals depicted, as he was so far up, all he knew was that it was drawn like an old Renascence painting, like those which depicted Bible stories. There were so many soft colors, coupled then with the color of human skin. Well of course it had been playing on his mind for as long as he could remember, ever since that deed fell into his hands he had been asking himself just what it meant, what it was all for. It had only been a day since he took his first tour, yet now he found himself returned, with that old key in his hands, wandering aimlessly around these halls as if he knew them by heart. As if he belonged here, to a certain extent, even if there was no one left to welcome him home. John wandered through the foyer, staring up at the golden chandelier, dark for ages now, which hung above his head on a sturdy cord. He had to wonder how such a thing could stay up there for so long, how the roof could even support so much weight for ages. The magnificent staircase curled before him, the stone stairs draped in red velvet, and the numerous hallways stretching into the larger rooms, such as the dining room and ballroom. John moved then to the statues, those that had been covered in spider's webs from the house's newest occupants. Insects and rodents seemed to be prevalent, yet their damage could not be seen. Their presence was obvious, yet it was interesting, really, that the creatures had not left more of a mark. John had seen the damage that rats could do, in his old basement they used to chew through cushions and cardboard boxes in a single night! How the furniture could be completely unscathed then, seemed to be a mystery he could not solve. It was as if the house had its own life force, had its own regeneration, and it was keeping the creatures loyal to it in exchange for refuge. John sighed, starting up the magnificent staircase, draped in velvet carpet that showed no sign of age. It was so...well it was so wrong! How was there not water damage, or mouse poop, or even a single loose thread! John walked up the stairway now with a little bit more determination, clenching his jaw and holding fast to his flashlight. While there was still enough light to see by coming in through the window, he was still armed with such a thing just in case he found anything he needed to explore with artificial light, such as a deep wardrobe, or under a bed. He knew there were treasures hidden about here, the house itself was so rich and old and expensive, certainly its occupants had a secret stash of money, or gold? John had gone through the whole house before, yet that was when he was accompanied. Mrs. Hudson and Mary had been at his side, deterring his sense of adventure, and his sense of belonging. He knew that he couldn't wander aimlessly while they were at his heels, he knew that he couldn't stray towards the places that beckoned him the most, he couldn't meander down the hallway, down a path that had supported his feet before. Oh why did it feel as though he had already been here before, long before? Before that key ever found its way into his hands, before he had proper ownership of this house? Well perhaps this house really was a family heirloom, and he had been here with his parents when he was still small. Maybe they had taken him to see the house, with their own key? His grandparents had died when he was very young, maybe they had taken him to the house before they passed, and gave the house to his father who wanted nothing to do with it? Yet still, that would only allot for about thirty years, and Mrs. Hudson said the house had been empty for a century! Condemned, even though it showed no signs of withering. And besides, John's family wasn't even English. He was American, and he was quite sure he's never crossed the ocean before. John sighed heavily, shaking his head and deciding that it was best not to ponder this house's history, or its ghost stories. It was unnerving enough as it was, simply being alone in the middle of the woods, with curtains drawn over the windows to create its own artificial darkness. John found himself standing in the doorway of one of the bedrooms, looking in and for a slight moment, just a tiny millisecond of temptation, he felt as though he was perfectly allowed to walk in and flop on the bed. He felt his heart tug forward, while his feet stayed back, and for a moment he asked himself why he refrained. Something in the very back of his mind, something in the crevices of his unconsciousness, told him that there was nothing to be afraid of. That this was his room, after all. But it wasn't, John hadn't been in this room before. He had passed it with Mrs. Hudson once, yet he hadn't walked inside. He had done nothing to mark it as his own. It was a simple room, not nearly as extravagant as the others that he had toured in this delightful mansion. It didn't have half as many oil paintings, or statues, or even a hint of golden trim. Yet it was beautiful in its own simplicity, with a large bed draped in scarlet, golden hangings falling around still in their original state, hanging loosely as if they had just been sewed. There were cabinets strewn about, dressers and wardrobes against the walls, with a small writing desk that still had a couple of leafs of paper on top of it. There was a quill on the desk, yet when John approached it he found that the ink had long since dried, and there were no words to be seen. He wished for the slightest sign of a previous occupant, any sort of journal or photograph that might help him solve this house's mysteries. It was odd, really. For in this house he felt there was a lingering presence. Silence had taken over long before, not a foot had stepped in these walls for years and years...yet still he felt as though he was not alone. There were others, somewhere, whether they be in the walls, or in the beds, or in the portraits which hung on the walls. Their life force was inside of this house, somewhere imbedded into the woodwork. They were here now, watching him...John took a deep breath, turning his attention away from the desk for the slightest moment, looking towards the door yet catching a glimpse of the bed in his peripheral vision. Catching a slight of a figure, lying on top of the blankets with a grin on his face, on his beautiful face. John let out a scream, one which would have been very embarrassing had he been accompanied by his wife. Yet it was an appropriate scream, for what he thought he had just seen. He fell back into the wardrobe's doors, in an attempt to get as far from the bed and its new occupant as he could...yet when he looked back he found that he was alone once more. The bed, had it hosted a man on top of it or not, was empty now. John steadied himself, trying to get his heartbeat under control as he got back to his feet, holding his flashlight tightly in his hand, clenching around it like a weapon, like a baton. And yet he felt increasingly silly, for the more he stared about the room the more he was sure that his eyes had just played a trick on him. He had been working himself up, getting scared and preoccupied on Mrs. Hudson's ghost stories, rather than the logical idea that this house was as empty as it had been when he first arrived. And yet, as his terrified brain decided to remind him, this house was indeed the sight of many murders. According to Mrs. Hudson (and of course, her information may not always be correct) there had been three deaths on the premises, or at least three violent deaths. She claimed that the ghosts of the dead men still haunt the halls, wandering about and tormenting those who lived here. That, she claimed, was the reason the house had sat empty for so long. The reason its real owners didn't want it anymore. Then again, John thought that was a terrible story, for it really didn't explain why the house was left to him. If he could do his best to guess, he'd say the house was left empty because they were waiting for a John Watson to happen in their town, so they could leave him with the burden of the ancient structure. Yet it wasn't necessarily a burden, was it? More of a gift. More of a living memory, rather than a house. He shouldn't be scared of a silly old house, no matter how many men died inside of it. People die all of the time, and if people decided that a violent death meant a ghost, well then the whole world would be haunted, wouldn't it? No, certainly there were no ghosts in this house. Certainly his eyes were just playing tricks on him, and putting figures where they weren't supposed to be. Placing men that he had never seen before, in the bed that used to be his own. Men that he recognized, that he surely recognized, even if he had never seen their face before in his life.

It was hard to concentrate when Rosie was screaming, yet John, as a new parent, was becoming much more accustomed to tuning her out. This wasn't what a parent was supposed to do, of course, for when a baby began to cry there was obviously something that needed attending to. Yet then again, Rosie never seemed to be satisfied! She has one issue one minute, and once that's solved she'll find another one just after he sat down! All she did was cry, and certainly tending to her every need just as soon as she let out her first wail was bad parenting. She should learn that she couldn't get everything she wanted just as soon as she decided it was necessary. That would be some sort of psychological imprinting, right? Something that she could grow up with, and turn her into a rotten, spoiled child. And even so, he was busy. And so she would just have to wait, or else he might start crying to get what he wanted to. It was impossible to get the face of that man out of his head; the one that John had seen sprawled out on the bed. If he was there or not, well every time John blinked he saw his face! And so it was a vision, if not an actual person. Something that was in his head, yet something he was familiar with all the same. Something he had never seen before, yet something his eyes could conjure up at will. And so here he sat, with a pencil in his hand, pressed up against a piece of printer paper as he tried to recreate the face that sat behind his eyelids, the face that wouldn't let him rest. Of course John was not an artist; in fact he may just be the farthest thing from it. All the same, however, he was determined to transcribe this face for someone else to see, to spit it up out of his head in an attempt to make it real. It was maddening to keep such a thing locked up, and to put it onto paper was to at least leave a part of it behind. Little by little, piece by piece, and line by line, John dragged that image of the ghost onto the paper, and finally had a man looking up at him once more. There was something missing, some sort of humanity, that wasn't present in his drawing as it had been in the man himself. There wasn't the shine of the pale skin; there wasn't the twinkle in the eyes. From what John had glanced of the ghost, the man had been lying on the bed in a helpless yet inviting position, he had been lying on his side and showing too much skin than John would have expected. He hadn't glanced down his body; he hadn't had the time before he screeched out his surprise. Yet John could remember just colors, colors that stretched down the length of the man's long body. There had been some black, and yet the predominant color had been the white skin, the skin that had been stretched across his face and therefore in his arms, and his exposed legs as well. And so John could only theorize that he had been wearing very little, if anything at all. And that was a little mystery in itself, why a man would by lying on the bed that John thought had been his own.