The house does not loom, it sleeps, nestled in copses of beech and yew. Its walls are high and dark, adorned with the fashions of centuries past. Westmoreland County forgets the house when it is permitted to do so. The house’s inhabitants, soft spoken figures in the coats always too heavy for the season, are given the same courtesy and overlooked when invitations are sent forth.
Ichorous water soddens the vast grounds, remnants of some ancient river that now contents itself to exhale brume across the roads and meadows. Paths that lead to and from the old place, though numerous, are treacherous for carriage, horse, and man alike.
The soft pastels of dawn fail to dampen the house’s nebulous menace. As the day creeps forward the sun serves only to contrast the stalwart shadows cast by the atavistic spires and grand windows. Through the bright hours a breath is held. It waits, still, behind the bony gates and beneath the east bog. It slumbers until inching nightfall falls upon its door, and it wakes.