👴🏻 The Old Man and his Mansion 🏘

As I hurried down the corridor in the mansion, I could’ve sworn I felt an icy cold hand touch my shoulder. I was hurrying because I was supposed to bring some warm milk to the one person who lives alone in this place, the one person who can answer my questions about the icy hands and the random chills in this mansion. 

Tonight is the end of March, this month was my first month working as a maid for the old man. Everyone in my family objected to me taking the job, but it was the only job available, and I have four siblings’ mouths to feed with so little money and time. 

Legend has it this mansion was haunted, no one left this place once they went inside in a thousand years. The old man just moved in here a month ago, he’s also mysterious. Every night in the middle of the night, he asks me to bring him some warm milk. I do so, but when I get back into his bed chambers he’s gone, the only things remaining were a chill that filled the room and an empty glass from the previous night’s milk. 

During the day he eats breakfast, gives me my orders – to clean the house, it’s the same every day – then disappears. I know he doesn’t leave, I would’ve heard the front door close. For a month I’ve been trapped on the mansion grounds, either tending to flowers, pulling weeds, getting warm milk, or dusting corners. 

No one visits me, every week I send the cash to my family, I have no time to spend it. People, such as my family and friends, think I’m all dead, I got a letter saying so, but when I sent a letter back saying everything was fine, I never got anything back. I guess I’ve spooked them out of their wits, serves them right, thinking this lovely place is haunted, they never even seen it! 

They’re right though, it is haunted. But not in the way they think. They think there’s an assassin here who pays a delivery boy to get food from the market. People say the assassin is just waiting, waiting for the right moment to strike.

Obviously, that’s not true. No matter how many letters I send, no one sends me any back.

What’s true, is the fact that it is haunted. I hear voices when cleaning, faint screams and shouts when I pull the weeds, random gushes of chill air, no matter how many times I dust away the cobwebs, they keep coming back. 

That’s why tonight when I bring the old man his warming milk, I’m going to ask him what in the name of my mother is going on. 

It started like an ordinary trip. I went to the kitchen after receiving the orders, poured the milk into the kettle under the fire, then went on my trip through the mansion carrying the burning glass once it was done.

Tonight was loud, but calm at the same time. The voices were chattering wildly, but quiet enough to bring a sense of calm. The eyes in the portraits followed me like always, the icy hands even steered me down the corners. 

I’m used to these frightening things, only one thought keeps me sane, “I’m doing this for my siblings and family, no one else,” 

I was halfway to the room when something happened. The ground started shaking, and with it were cries of anger from the voices. 

“Hurry! Hurry! We need our milk!” They shouted, and with each word the ground shook even more until finally, it turned in a slant like a slide. 

I fell over, my hand on the top of the goblet to keep the milk from spilling, the candle fell on the floor. I screamed, not of fear, but of surprise. This never happened before, at least not that I remember. 

As soon as I got there, the floor went back to normal, the voices dimmed back to the quiet chattering, the goblet was hot and steaming again as if nothing ever happened. 

I blinked in surprise, then remembered my task.

Before rapping on the door, I checked the time on a clock nearby. It was three past midnight, and I was late. 

Shifting the goblet to one hand, I knocked on the door ever too gently. 

I didn’t expect an answer, so I moved to open the door, when it suddenly swung open, the old man standing in the doorframe. 

Stepping back in surprise, I said, “Here’s your milk… sir,” 

The old man had a long white beard, the top of his head was bald, while there was long hair flowing down the sides, mingling with his beard hairs. 

“I appreciate it, but it’s not for me. Please, come sit down,” he said, waving me into the room. 

The room was round, we weren’t in his bedroom, we were in a room in the turret. Windows covered the far wall, while there was a great table in the middle of the room. Books were covering the table, and half the shelves on the walls were empty. To the right is a break in the shelves, where a burning hearth lay. There were also empty tankards on the ground and table.

“Sorry for the mess,” the old man said, trying to put a few books on the table away. 

“It’s alright, I used to work for someone who was messier,” I said. “Not that you’re messy.”  

“Sit please,” he said, indicating a chair by a clean spot on the table. 

I sat on the dusty old chair and looked around some more. 

The books looked old, like hundreds of years old. The table looked like was about to crumble into a pile of dust, but was managing to hold the milk and all those books. There was a grand chandelier in the ceiling, the only thing lightening the room. 

I waited in silence while the old man studied me. 

“You are very brave,” he said. “I admire bravery. That’s why I chose you to take care of this ol’ place,” 

“May I ask, sir, why would I need to be brave? It’s cleaning, pulling weeds, and taking care of you,” I asked. 

“You may ask. Surely you’ve noticed, the voices, icy hands, and today the floor moving?” he asked. 

“I have noticed, I never felt it very frightening. Well, at first it was weird, but I got used to it fast, sir. Anyone could come in here and clean with those lovely calm voices and the freaky icy hands,” I said. 

“Not just anyone can come to this place. Only of the bravest of the brave. You might not realize it yet, but it takes great bravery to do what you do in a place like this. I thank you,” he said. 

“Why thank you, sir, that was the nicest thing anyone’s said to me in a long time, sir,” I said. 

“You won’t always get rewards in life, – Learned that from experience – but this time you will. To reward your bravery, I will give you answers,” the old man said. 

“If I may, answers to what?” I asked. 

“Well answers to why this place is the way it is of course!” he chuckled. 

“A long time ago, when I was just a wee lad, around… say twelve years old, there was a war. Not many people knew about said war because no one lived to tell about it. There was only one survivor, me. This war was of assassins and bodyguards, a whole guild of assassins wanted my father’s head. Once all the bodyguards were dead, my father called upon his family members to protect him, except the women and children of course. They were all evacuated. I, on the other hand, stayed. I was curious, I wanted to know why those assassins were in my home, and what they wanted. I sat in a corner and watched. 

“An hour went by, felt like a day or a fortnight, the house got quiet. Stepping out of the corner, I stepped in a man’s blood, his body was somewhere close by, it was a brutal death. I walked to my father’s study, where he was always, and peeked inside. ‘Father?’ I had said, seeing a man that looked like him, back turned to me, with two daggers in both hands. 

“The man turned around, anger and pleasure on his face. He smiled at me. I stepped back, seeing it was one of the assassins. ‘I won’t kill you, child, the world will take you soon enough. Let me teach you a lesson, don’t move,’ he had said, walking up to me. 

“My instincts urged me to run away, it took all my willpower and strength not to do so, not to fall in a heap on the floor and grief for my fallen father. If I moved a muscle, the assassin would snap my neck in less than a second. 

“’This is the one time someone will show mercy on you, this is the one time I’ll give you a reward, for not running away and screaming,’ then he slapped me hard on the face with the side of his dagger, I still have the scar. ‘You won’t tell anyone, you understand?’ he demanded. I stayed frozen on the spot. ‘Understood?’ he demanded, rising the dagger. ‘Yes! Y… y… Yes. I … understand,’ I stuttered. ‘Good, I’m off,’ he left just like that. I ran up to my father, or what was left of him. His head was severed, and I saw some veins popping out of the cut, the image haunted me. Good thing I was crying, because nowadays I just remember his face being bloody and blurry,” the old man explained. 

By the end of it, I was almost in tears, shocked, and frozen in horror. This all ended the second he stopped talking. 

“I’m so sorry! That must’ve been very hard,” I said, wiping the tears that managed to sneak out.

“It was. I told you this because that war took place in this mansion all those years ago. By now the bones dried up and the blood had disappeared. I bought this place a month ago to visit my family, and to say one last goodbye,” he concluded. 

“If I may, how does this answer my questions? I mean, it does explain a lot, but how could you visit them if they were…” I said stopping myself in time.

“If they were dead? There are rumors, rumors I’m sure you’ve heard. People say this place is haunted, no one has lived here ever since the war. I believed since my family all had brutal deaths, including the maids, this place was haunted by their spirits and ghosts. I was not wrong,” he explained. 

“You mean to say those icy hands, the following eyes in the portraits, the voices are all your family members?” I asked. 

“Yes, and they are the ones to drink the milk, not me. As you can see, I had my fill of drinks,” he said, indicating the tankards. 

“When you explained why you bought this mansion, you made it sound like you’re leaving,” I commented. 

“You are not wrong, I’m afraid my time’s almost up,” he replied, with his cracky voice. 

“Who’s going to take care of the place when you’re gone?” I asked. 

“You are, you’ve shown you’re brave enough to take care of this place. You don’t have to buy it, no, I’m handing it down to you. Even though we know almost nothing of each other, you feel like a daughter to me. That means you’re the heir to take ownership of this house,” he said. 

I blinked in surprise again. 

“But what do I do with this place? I can’t just live here alone and dust the cobwebs all day,” I said, gripping the table for support. 

“Your family is poor… no?” he weezed, sinking into a chair. 

His face got all pale, and his eyes too. Something is wrong. 

“Papa, what’s wrong?” I gasped. 

(We call our elders Pappa or Grandma even if they aren’t related.)

“The world is taking me faster than… expected. Take your… family… here. The sprites… would not… bother you any longer once…. I’ve joined them,” he coughed, falling to the floor. I caught him just in time. 

“Papa! Sir! My family would never agree to this!” I shouted as the tears came. 

“They, will… someday,” and then he was gone. His body disintegrated into the air. 

The voices of the dead sounded sad but joyful to get their long-lost son back. I stood up, wiping my tears. 

“Remember, we’ll always be here. You don’t have to take care of this place, but if you don’t, someone will get rid of the mansion, then we’ll be gone forever. The choice is yours, I know you’ll make the right one,” the voices said, they sounded more like the old man’s cracky voice, except he sounded a tad younger. There was happiness in his voice, mixed with hope. 

“I will stay here for as long as I live, for you, old man,” I said. 

I stood up, crossed the room, then closed the door one last time.