The Inheritance
Clara Akerman had never been fond of the countryside, she was a city girl, born and raised. The bugs, the animals, the un-air conditiondness of it all, it simply did not appeal to her. Yet here she was, navigating a narrow, overgrown road toward a house she had never seen, left to her by a relative she had never met.
The road was overgrown, more than once she had to get out of the car to remove fallen branches. The tires of her fancy Mercedes sedan crunched against the gravel as she rounded the final bend. Through the thick morning fog, the estate slowly came into view.
The house was enormous, far larger than she had imagined. Its pale, weathered walls rose three stories above the forest floor, interrupted by narrow windows and crumbling masonry. Ancient trees surrounded the property, their twisted branches reaching toward the building as though attempting to swallow it whole. The whole damn place looked unnerving as hell.
“Well,” Clara muttered, turning off the ignition. “That explains why nobody wanted it. Place looks like Edgar Alan Poe would have written about it.”
Unsure if she wanted to enter the place at all, she sat for a moment. Contemplating if it was even safe to go inside. What if a possum or something had moved in while the place stood abandoned, or worse… spiders.
She grabbed the keys, her flashlight, and her .38 special. She wasn’t particularly excited about vagrants or something being inside.
The front door screeched loudly as Clara pushed it open. The smell of damp wood and mildew immediately filled her nostrils.
“Jesus Christ,” she muttered, covering her nose.”
A once grand foyer, a shockingly large staircase, and a bunch of molding junk greeted her.
Clara wandered through the house, until she eventually found what must have been the master bedroom. Inside the furniture seemed largely intact. Upon a large desk, framed by an ornate window, she saw a single book sitting in the desks center.
Flicking on her flashlight so that she could examine it, she noticed, it’s cover was cracked, and the pages had yellowed with age. Embossed into the leather were the initials E.A.
Curiously, Clara opened it to about the middle and began to read.
October 17, 1893.
I fear there is something terribly wrong with this house. Yesterday, I discovered a corridor behind the drawing room. I have lived here for thirty-seven years, and I am certain no such corridor existed before.
Clara raised an eyebrow.
“Well, that’s not creepy at all.”
She flipped forward several pages.
A creak in the wooden floor behind her startled her. Wheeling around her hand on her gun she shouted! But, it must have just been the house groaning. There was no one there.
“Jesus Christ, this place is giving me the creeps.” Turning, she continues to read, after flipping forward a few pages.
November 3, 1893.
I should have never gone into that door. The one behind the drawing room. This house has always only had a cellar. That door led to a stairwell, the stairwell spiraled down for what seemed to be an eternity. I turned around several times but eventually mustered the courage to make it to the bottom. There was a door, same as the one above. When I opened it I found myself back in the drawing room. Everything was the same but, there were no windows. I ran back up the stairs, and re entered MY drawing room. But, as mad as this already seems, my drawing room no longer had any windows.
Flipping forward, November 15th 1893.
There are no windows. No doors leading outside. I have searched every room, every corridor, every miserable corner of this godforsaken house. There is no outside anymore. I know there was an outside. I remember the gardens. The trees. The sun upon my face. I can’t take this anymore.
December 3rd, 1893.
Much of my food has spoiled. I tried smashing through a wall, but I am too weak to make it through in one go. The next day it’s as if my attempts were repaired. I do not know what to do. More strange corridors lead to never ending expansions. I cannot fathom how this could be happening.
Flipping to the final page it simply reads.
I have begun leaving pieces of furniture in the corridors to mark my path. Yesterday, I came upon a chair I had left behind, but it was not where I remembered placing it.
Or perhaps it was.
I cannot be certain of anything anymore.
I hear myself speaking sometimes, though I do not remember opening my mouth.
I am so terribly hungry.
And so terribly alone.
I cannot take this anymore.
With a cold shiver Clara closed the book, and when she looked up. The ornate window, that had framed the desk was gone.