of silent graves

chapter 3: the house of happy children

The sign was missing a few letters, but I could comprehend it that it was meant to be “The House of Happy Children.” It had a faded illustration of children linking hands together and smiling. At least, that was what I thought. It was hard to tell underneath all the dark, bold strokes that completely defaced the sign.

On top of the hill, the house looked nothing like in the brochure. In the complimentary caption, under the black-and white photo, it said that the house was once a beautiful manor built by a wealthy mistress who was a philanthropist, desiring to ensure a safe home for orphaned children. She bought and converted an aged-old mansion into a boarding school and later an orphanage, merging the two distinctions. The wealthy mistress sought after all the children’s needs until she reached her untimely death when she “accidentally” fell down the stairs, breaking her spinal nerves. That was when the series of misfortunate began.

Since then there had been five mistresses who took cared of the manor: three of them suspiciously died before retirement, one went missing and was never seen again, but last one was still alive. Her name was Ms. Dolores Handle. The brochure did not describe her much, but I suspected that I was going to meet her very soon.

The drive up to the northern edge of the city where the isolated, rocky seaside cliffs lay was torturously long. It was a grand total of four hours to reach the orphanage, not counting the numerous stops we had to take because of inclement weather. Naturally, it was raining a lot, the sea winds blustering buffets of a brewing storm. The raindrops pelted the windshield of the automobile, hindering the taxi caber’s sight to see through the road.

I was crossing my finger that I would never get there, but no such luck. Inevitably the car drove up to the house, and I was forced to confront the fact that I was going to be living here for quite some time. I peered out from the window and a small whimper escaped from my throat.

The house was absolutely in shambles. It was squat out dilapidated: the paint had worn away to a dark black hue. Half of the roof was fallen, a hole in the side, allowing dead leaves and rainwater to clog up the drainage pipes. The shutters were closed on the last few of the glasses that weren’t shattered, as if shutters were needed. The windows were clouded with streaks of gray, and I pondered whether the poor inhabitants inside could ever see the sun’s rays shining when it was not pouring buckets.

“Once a beautiful manor, eh?” I muttered under my breath. “Must have been a long time ago…” Not on purpose, I caught sight of something moving within one of the opaque windows, a tiny dark shape. The figure darted away when I blinked, so I wasn’t sure of what I saw. I dismissed it.

The cab driver asked if this was the right address, and I replied yes, dragging the word out as best as I could. I made myself haul my heavy body out, carrying virtually nothing but the still soggy clothes on my back…and the book hidden safely beneath. It was the one thing I never wanted to let go of, even for a moment. It was just too precious.

The cab drove off, leaving me to face with fate. It was no good to stand in the rain like a stupid bumpkin, so I hurried onto the porch. I halted before the door, not by hesitation of fear but by the carvings that were slashed all over the wooden frame. It seemed to be nail scratching, like as if someone was desperate enough to try to claw his or her way out.

I tore my eyes from the creepy sight and stared at the sculpted lion’s mouth, which hung the knocker. I gently lifted it up and let swing down, and a low echo resonated. I took a step back and waited for what came next. I lingered….and lingered…but no one came to the door. Perhaps I was mistaken, maybe this house really was abandoned and that all the people inside had died years before. The house seemed hollow enough…

I reasoned that if someone did not open the door in the next few minutes, I would resolve to become a runaway, a petty thief who could live off on some stolen goods or enlist in the army and fight in war. I was talented in some ways, excellent on the violin, literate in reading and writing, and gifted in the arts. Which every way it was, I did not care. My life was already ruined and my future was only a bleak haze. The fire destroyed all things I treasured, but it did open up a whole new realm of opportunities I had not come to realize before. Yes, that was what I would do. If someone did not answer the knock, I could become anyone and anything I desired to be.