[story] rosemere
author: jo asakura (joasakura)
email: condorjo [at] gmail.com
August XX, 189X
I must make haste to put these thoughts to paper, before the sun sets.
When the solicitor came in the spring to inform me of my uncle's passing, and my subsequent inheritance of Rosemere, I was filled with curiosity (and perhaps a bit of glee, indecorous as that might be).
You see, my uncle was a most contrary man, and after some undisclosed disagreement with my mother (I was but a boy), henceforth we were banned from setting foot on the family's ancestral ground. This, of course, piqued my mother to the degree that she put the family in weeds for nearly a month.
But I digress.
At the time, I was still residing with my mother whilst in the employ of the rather loathsome Mister Pendergast as a clerk in his shop. The inheritance of Rosemere, coupled with a very small sum of money allowed me to escape both situations.
It was telling, and perhaps I should have taken it as forewarning, that when I left for Rosemere with my possessions but a few weeks ago, my mother had dressed my siblings once again in mourning clothes, for I was dead to her as well.
As we approached Rosemere, my heart leapt. Before the bitterness between my mother and uncle, the estate had been the site of many a fond childhood memory. So as the solicitor's automobile (he was quite wealthy and possessed of a Daimler Phoenix of new manufacture, and drove it not unlike a wild man, grinning behind his goggles) carried us up the winding road towards the manor, you might imagine the sudden shock I felt upon seeing the place once again.
My uncle's beloved gardens rambled wild and untended and the house itself rose out of the leafy mess with darkened windows like empty eyes. There were no servants attached to the manor, so I was forced to manage my trunk alone. Still, upon entering the house, despite the grim affect of the exterior, a sense of warmth suffused my very being.
It was as if (yes. I quite belong here).
The Solicitor (whose name was Smith) promised to return upon the morning with the final papers, and bid me good day. I stood on the steps of Rosemere and watched his motor car vanish into the dusty road.
Had I known what lay in store, I would've taken his hand and begged him to stay.
In all truth, that first day, I was enchanted by the glitter of sunlight through the dusty windows, and the scent of roses was still heavy in the air. As my uncle's inheritance did not leave adequate funds to
staff the manor properly, I vowed that until I found a way to make my fortune, I would become at least somewhat self-sufficient.
The pantry was mostly empty, save for a few tins of questionable content and mouldering scraps that even mice had not consumed. The cellar, however, was admirably stocked, and for supper
I enjoyed a fine bottle of port along with a cold and somewhat congealed pastie purchased in the village below.
That night, bottle in hand, I sat on the veranda, watching the waxing moon rise and the stars twinkle above. Here in the country, so far from the bustling city, it seemed so quiet, save for the trill and
chirp of insects, perhaps the distant yip of a fox. I had expected the silence to be disturbing, but instead, I felt wrapped in a soft blanket and drifted off to sleep with the sky above.
The next morning, however, I woke in the master bedroom. My clothes were laid out and I was naked under the covers. At the time, I thought perhaps in my drunken state, I had done this for myself. I felt no ill effects from my over-indulgence, and so I dressed and went downstairs. I would make my way into the village and buy proper supplies and then I would see to my uncle's garden and tame the twining roses.
To say I was surprised when I entered the dining room would be an understatement. The table was set with a light meal - toast and jam, a pot of coffee and a soft-boiled egg sitting in a china cup.
I wondered if perhaps Smith had returned and brought provisions, but there was no sign that anyone had been in the house other than myself. Yet there was food, fresh and warm and waiting for me. It was delicious, as my hunger would not allow me to waste food, regardless of its origin, and filled with optimism and toast, I set out for the village of Puddlesworth.
I had gone a short way down the winding path to the village when dark clouds began to gather. Within moments, rain poured and a wild wind sprang up. The village was too far away, and my home so close that I ran back to the safety of Rosemere's great porch.
The storm gave no sign of abating, so I went inside, only to find the fires lit and brandy on the foyer table.
"Hello, then?" I called, but the house remained silent except for the creaking of branches from the wind outside. I took the brandy and sat down by the fire to dry myself. It was then I promised I would discover the secret of my Uncle's mansion.
Things continued apace for the next two weeks. Whilst I stayed on the grounds, restoring the gardens or studying the books in the library, the weather was fine. Each day I awoke to breakfast, and each night I found a bath drawn and port on the veranda to watch the moon, soon full and bright in the sky.
If I stepped foot on the path to the village, rains and wind or a fog so dense it could be cut with a knife would set upon me. One day, I made it nearly to the bridge, only to find it gone, and the river a howling maelstrom. Battered and defeated, I returned home to the same comforts.
I tried to stay awake at nights, perhaps to see what creatures, were preparing my food or pressing my clothes, but sleep would always come, and I would find myself again unclothed and in bed.
The first night after the full moon, I was seated in the library as had become my habit, reading one of the many books there. My Uncle seemed to have quite the collection of strange and occult books, pages filled with notes in his spidery hand. Some of the scribblings would have made no sense to me a month before, but now I found myself wondering, had he too been a prisoner of the house? Was this what he and my mother had fought so bitterly about?
There was an unfamiliar creak of the floorboards then, and I dropped the book with a start. "Who's there?" I had said, reaching for the nearby poker. There was only a breeze in reply, drifting through the room. There was nothing there.
Still, my nerves were jangled, and I took a bottle of brandy to my chambers along with the book, to study it more intently.
As my eyes grew heavy, I felt a breeze tickle my cheek again. My sleepy mind thought to chide the house-spirit for leaving a window open somewhere, and the breeze seemed to become something more. Something not there, yet quite capable of sliding between my lips, moist and cool.
As can be imagined, I awoke with a start and found it to be morning. The book lay on my nightstand, the bottle of brandy untouched.
I touched my lips and wondered, what strange dream had that been?
Each passing night the dreams, if they were, grew more vivid. I thought perhaps I was going mad from the lack of companionship. I received no letters, could send no telegraph and any hope I had of Smith returning had vanished.
During the day, the house, or the presences therein, were as solicitous as ever. Meals prepared, brandy warmed, baths drawn. Sitting on the veranda, sipping tea as birds chirped brightly in the sun-speckled oak trees, it was easy to pretend that I was a gentleman of leisure or perhaps a professor.
The day came after a week, when, in a book of astronomy, I discovered a note of my Uncle's. "It moves under the whim of the moon!" was written in red ink in the margins. The sun was setting, and I went to the garden to watch the moon rise.
Each night it waned a little darker. Each night, my unseen companion grew bolder. Even as I turned to find my evening drink set out, I felt the cool touch on my face, trailing along the edge of my ear, then my jaw. A swig of the brandy gave a flush to my cheeks, but instead of driving the sensation away, it only intensified it.
"What do you want of me?" I shouted to the night air and was answered only by the rustle of leaves.
Full of anger, I stormed in the house. In my excited state, it seemed perhaps if the house was holding its breath, waiting to see the extent of my temper. I passed by the bath, where the tub was drawn, as it was every night, and returned to my chambers. Books from the library were strewn about the room and I kicked them aside. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, scruffy beard forming, eyes wild, and the image startled me. Again I asked "What is it that you want?!"
The answer this time was a force that lifted me off my feet and violently onto the bed. What had been invisible, ghostly touches now were almost visible, the room's lamps distorted as if through a prism. The touch was so very cold and seemed almost moist. Ectoplasm. I had seen the word in one of the books, but I couldn't remember.
I was pinned to the old four-poster bed by these icy tendrils, and when I cried out in protest, my mouth was stoppered by another. I could only lie helpless as my unseeable assailant tore at my clothing, ectoplasmic coils probing, caressing every part of me. It even twirled about my manhood, traitorous organ leading me to buck wantonly against the ghost.
I felt as if I were being covered in a thousand wet ghostly kisses, and release drove me into insensibility.
Each night after grew worse and I found no peace anywhere in the house. Even as I write this, I feel the cold touch against the small of my back. It allows me no sleep, not even during the day. The gardens which I so carefully tended bended to the ghost's desires and betimes, I would find myself entwined in ravishing vines. I now eat, not sensible fare, but ripe fruits, eclairs and other decadent treats. In the library I would become overwrought with passion, possessed by that lustful spirit, writhing under my own touch in the great leather chair. Tonight is the darkest of the moon, and I must write, should I perish from the attention of my spectral lover.
My Uncle's writings have made clear to me that Rosemere is cursed. I do not know if my mother tried to protect me, or if by fostering my ignorance, made me the perfect sacrifice to this fate.
I can only pray that someone finds this and is spar...
the end
email: condorjo [at] gmail.com
August XX, 189X
I must make haste to put these thoughts to paper, before the sun sets.
When the solicitor came in the spring to inform me of my uncle's passing, and my subsequent inheritance of Rosemere, I was filled with curiosity (and perhaps a bit of glee, indecorous as that might be).
You see, my uncle was a most contrary man, and after some undisclosed disagreement with my mother (I was but a boy), henceforth we were banned from setting foot on the family's ancestral ground. This, of course, piqued my mother to the degree that she put the family in weeds for nearly a month.
But I digress.
At the time, I was still residing with my mother whilst in the employ of the rather loathsome Mister Pendergast as a clerk in his shop. The inheritance of Rosemere, coupled with a very small sum of money allowed me to escape both situations.
It was telling, and perhaps I should have taken it as forewarning, that when I left for Rosemere with my possessions but a few weeks ago, my mother had dressed my siblings once again in mourning clothes, for I was dead to her as well.
As we approached Rosemere, my heart leapt. Before the bitterness between my mother and uncle, the estate had been the site of many a fond childhood memory. So as the solicitor's automobile (he was quite wealthy and possessed of a Daimler Phoenix of new manufacture, and drove it not unlike a wild man, grinning behind his goggles) carried us up the winding road towards the manor, you might imagine the sudden shock I felt upon seeing the place once again.
My uncle's beloved gardens rambled wild and untended and the house itself rose out of the leafy mess with darkened windows like empty eyes. There were no servants attached to the manor, so I was forced to manage my trunk alone. Still, upon entering the house, despite the grim affect of the exterior, a sense of warmth suffused my very being.
It was as if (yes. I quite belong here).
The Solicitor (whose name was Smith) promised to return upon the morning with the final papers, and bid me good day. I stood on the steps of Rosemere and watched his motor car vanish into the dusty road.
Had I known what lay in store, I would've taken his hand and begged him to stay.
In all truth, that first day, I was enchanted by the glitter of sunlight through the dusty windows, and the scent of roses was still heavy in the air. As my uncle's inheritance did not leave adequate funds to
staff the manor properly, I vowed that until I found a way to make my fortune, I would become at least somewhat self-sufficient.
The pantry was mostly empty, save for a few tins of questionable content and mouldering scraps that even mice had not consumed. The cellar, however, was admirably stocked, and for supper
I enjoyed a fine bottle of port along with a cold and somewhat congealed pastie purchased in the village below.
That night, bottle in hand, I sat on the veranda, watching the waxing moon rise and the stars twinkle above. Here in the country, so far from the bustling city, it seemed so quiet, save for the trill and
chirp of insects, perhaps the distant yip of a fox. I had expected the silence to be disturbing, but instead, I felt wrapped in a soft blanket and drifted off to sleep with the sky above.
The next morning, however, I woke in the master bedroom. My clothes were laid out and I was naked under the covers. At the time, I thought perhaps in my drunken state, I had done this for myself. I felt no ill effects from my over-indulgence, and so I dressed and went downstairs. I would make my way into the village and buy proper supplies and then I would see to my uncle's garden and tame the twining roses.
To say I was surprised when I entered the dining room would be an understatement. The table was set with a light meal - toast and jam, a pot of coffee and a soft-boiled egg sitting in a china cup.
I wondered if perhaps Smith had returned and brought provisions, but there was no sign that anyone had been in the house other than myself. Yet there was food, fresh and warm and waiting for me. It was delicious, as my hunger would not allow me to waste food, regardless of its origin, and filled with optimism and toast, I set out for the village of Puddlesworth.
I had gone a short way down the winding path to the village when dark clouds began to gather. Within moments, rain poured and a wild wind sprang up. The village was too far away, and my home so close that I ran back to the safety of Rosemere's great porch.
The storm gave no sign of abating, so I went inside, only to find the fires lit and brandy on the foyer table.
"Hello, then?" I called, but the house remained silent except for the creaking of branches from the wind outside. I took the brandy and sat down by the fire to dry myself. It was then I promised I would discover the secret of my Uncle's mansion.
Things continued apace for the next two weeks. Whilst I stayed on the grounds, restoring the gardens or studying the books in the library, the weather was fine. Each day I awoke to breakfast, and each night I found a bath drawn and port on the veranda to watch the moon, soon full and bright in the sky.
If I stepped foot on the path to the village, rains and wind or a fog so dense it could be cut with a knife would set upon me. One day, I made it nearly to the bridge, only to find it gone, and the river a howling maelstrom. Battered and defeated, I returned home to the same comforts.
I tried to stay awake at nights, perhaps to see what creatures, were preparing my food or pressing my clothes, but sleep would always come, and I would find myself again unclothed and in bed.
The first night after the full moon, I was seated in the library as had become my habit, reading one of the many books there. My Uncle seemed to have quite the collection of strange and occult books, pages filled with notes in his spidery hand. Some of the scribblings would have made no sense to me a month before, but now I found myself wondering, had he too been a prisoner of the house? Was this what he and my mother had fought so bitterly about?
There was an unfamiliar creak of the floorboards then, and I dropped the book with a start. "Who's there?" I had said, reaching for the nearby poker. There was only a breeze in reply, drifting through the room. There was nothing there.
Still, my nerves were jangled, and I took a bottle of brandy to my chambers along with the book, to study it more intently.
As my eyes grew heavy, I felt a breeze tickle my cheek again. My sleepy mind thought to chide the house-spirit for leaving a window open somewhere, and the breeze seemed to become something more. Something not there, yet quite capable of sliding between my lips, moist and cool.
As can be imagined, I awoke with a start and found it to be morning. The book lay on my nightstand, the bottle of brandy untouched.
I touched my lips and wondered, what strange dream had that been?
Each passing night the dreams, if they were, grew more vivid. I thought perhaps I was going mad from the lack of companionship. I received no letters, could send no telegraph and any hope I had of Smith returning had vanished.
During the day, the house, or the presences therein, were as solicitous as ever. Meals prepared, brandy warmed, baths drawn. Sitting on the veranda, sipping tea as birds chirped brightly in the sun-speckled oak trees, it was easy to pretend that I was a gentleman of leisure or perhaps a professor.
The day came after a week, when, in a book of astronomy, I discovered a note of my Uncle's. "It moves under the whim of the moon!" was written in red ink in the margins. The sun was setting, and I went to the garden to watch the moon rise.
Each night it waned a little darker. Each night, my unseen companion grew bolder. Even as I turned to find my evening drink set out, I felt the cool touch on my face, trailing along the edge of my ear, then my jaw. A swig of the brandy gave a flush to my cheeks, but instead of driving the sensation away, it only intensified it.
"What do you want of me?" I shouted to the night air and was answered only by the rustle of leaves.
Full of anger, I stormed in the house. In my excited state, it seemed perhaps if the house was holding its breath, waiting to see the extent of my temper. I passed by the bath, where the tub was drawn, as it was every night, and returned to my chambers. Books from the library were strewn about the room and I kicked them aside. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, scruffy beard forming, eyes wild, and the image startled me. Again I asked "What is it that you want?!"
The answer this time was a force that lifted me off my feet and violently onto the bed. What had been invisible, ghostly touches now were almost visible, the room's lamps distorted as if through a prism. The touch was so very cold and seemed almost moist. Ectoplasm. I had seen the word in one of the books, but I couldn't remember.
I was pinned to the old four-poster bed by these icy tendrils, and when I cried out in protest, my mouth was stoppered by another. I could only lie helpless as my unseeable assailant tore at my clothing, ectoplasmic coils probing, caressing every part of me. It even twirled about my manhood, traitorous organ leading me to buck wantonly against the ghost.
I felt as if I were being covered in a thousand wet ghostly kisses, and release drove me into insensibility.
Each night after grew worse and I found no peace anywhere in the house. Even as I write this, I feel the cold touch against the small of my back. It allows me no sleep, not even during the day. The gardens which I so carefully tended bended to the ghost's desires and betimes, I would find myself entwined in ravishing vines. I now eat, not sensible fare, but ripe fruits, eclairs and other decadent treats. In the library I would become overwrought with passion, possessed by that lustful spirit, writhing under my own touch in the great leather chair. Tonight is the darkest of the moon, and I must write, should I perish from the attention of my spectral lover.
My Uncle's writings have made clear to me that Rosemere is cursed. I do not know if my mother tried to protect me, or if by fostering my ignorance, made me the perfect sacrifice to this fate.
I can only pray that someone finds this and is spar...
the end