In Death's Arms, I Wait For You

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It was with a melancholic air that Cheryl reacquainted herself with the dusty halls of Thornhill Manor. 

Each room seemed to be haunted with memories past.  Visions of her mother draped in her favorite evening gown, extravagantly trimmed and detailed with lace, lay claim over the large dining room where she would float amongst her guests, playing the perfect hostess.  The spacious library was reserved for the ghost of her father, tucked away in his favorite tufted wingback armchair, enjoying a distilled spirit before retiring for the night.  Finally, her dearly missed twin brother presided over the sitting room, his jovial laughter echoing against the dark wooden walls covered in intricately patterned wallpaper, eyes gleaming with youthful mischief. 

With each pass into a new room, Cheryl's nimble fingers deftly removed the muslin cloth that covered antiquated furniture once lovingly curated by her mother.  A deep sigh rumbled in her chest as she set her eyes upon an exquisitely embroidered, chaise lounge.  She saw herself as a child, red hair curled into ringlets, giggling beside her brother as he tried in vain to touch the floor with his toes.  How young they had been, so blissfully ignorant of all the troubles in the world.  Their greatest desire only to grow tall enough so their legs would no longer sway whenever they were seated.  And with that thought, she swept into the adjoining room, bloodred nightgown billowing elegantly at her bare feet as she welcomed the flood of memories and emotions that the new room awakened within her.

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As the days passed, Cheryl moved around the grounds of Thornhill Manor, singularly focused on restoring the property to its former glory.  Imported silks were flown in to replace the old linen used within the bedrooms.  Specialists were called to remove the worn, yellowing wallpaper to expose the natural, mahogany walls underneath.  The old carpets were discarded and in their place, luxurious Persian rugs covered the freshly waxed flooring.  Slowly the interior dwellings were made contemporary, all while retaining a Victorian touch, an appreciative nod to the original decor.

Though the estate was situated on the northernmost point in Riverdale, the nearest neighbor miles away, word of the comings and goings of delivery trucks soon began to circulate the small town.  The locals began to whisper about the unknown individual moving into the long unoccupied residence, for no one had lived in the manor since the Blossoms some two hundred years ago.  It was well known that the property was the most grand in all of Riverdale, encompassing not only the mansion but the surrounding acres of land.  Anyone who had the means to afford such a magnificent home had wealth the small town had never seen before, and that was enough to get the older generation talking feverishly amongst themselves.

As curious as the residents were to catch a glimpse of the mysterious newcomer, Cheryl remained unseen.  Whilst strangers worked to clean years of dust and disuse from her home, she stood in the deepest recesses, only providing direction from intentionally, unlit corners.  It was only under the guise of night that Thornhill Manor's wrought iron gates unlatched allowing the silk cloaked beauty to slip into the darkness. 

Remaining hidden in the shadows within and beyond the walls of her luxurious fortress would be an unfortunate necessity.  Before she allowed herself to be seen, Cheryl wished to better understand the town and the dynamics of its people.  Once she revealed herself to the public, she would be watched and discussed as only an outsider would be in such a tight knit community.  When the proper time to present herself came, she needed to be sure to display herself in a perfectly contrived facade, one that fit seamlessly into the delicate threads of Riverdale's society.

She glided along the deserted streets, exploring, her pale, ivory skin contrasting sharply against the darkness that surrounded her.  To her displeasure, she quickly gathered that her earlier assumptions had been correct, the town lacked for entertainment.  No art galleries, no music halls, and no museums.  For one cursed to walk alone for eternity, she lived for the comfort of the senses.  Not for the first time, Cheryl wondered why she had been drawn back when it seemed that the small town held nothing but memories of a past life.