House of Flesh

Alan Weller looked out across the Black Hollow Bay and thought to himself: "Well, this is not bad at all...". It was a lovely, New England spring day, bright and bracing, a stiff Atlantic breeze rustling through the treetops. The drive had been easy and pleasant, and he had quickly gotten used to driving on the right side of the road.

He turned a bend and was greeted with a view of Mount Nysus Manor, overlooking the coast. His heart leapt in his chest. The house was in unbelievable shape! It was the perfect purchase to give his employer, the real-estate agency Massingbird, Massingbird and Levine of London, an entry into the valuable US market. Of course, there were the stories...and the unfortunate rumours surrounding the passing of its previous occupant, the lady Karin Wahl... He shook his head as gravel crunched under his tires, it was all nonsense of course! Superstitious yanks making up stories again. The whole town was full of them, stories of lost colonies and giants in the woods, rats as big as horses and fish-men...All rubbish!

All he had to do was spend a while living in this gorgeous dream-estate to prove it wasn´t haunted and then MM&L could sell it off for a ridiculous sum to some newly-rich New England Fish-Oil-Baron. Alan grinned, being paid to live in a giant manor for half a year... It certainly beat stamping forms and bringing Mr. Massingbird Jr. his tea day-in-day-out!

He parked his car in front of the entrance and surveyed his new accomodations. The house was certainly fine, if a little unorthodox in its architecture. From this angle it almost looked like some sort of church, with its single, slender tower, gothic windows and impressive front door. The house seemed to curve upwards, coiling its way up against the cliff behind it like some kind of serpent rearing its head in challenge. Wherever Alan looked, he found curved, spiralling carvings and patterns, in a style reminiscient of Art Nouveau. It was all a bit overwrought for his tastes, but he had to admit it was striking. Whoever had built this house, all the way back in 1853, had been decades ahead of their time.

Alan stepped up to the large, intricately-carved portal and knocked twice. No answer. He pulled the doorbell. Still nothing.

Unsure of what to do, Alan stood on the front porch. He didn´t have the keys and he had been told that there were still some servants in the house who would open up for him... He surveyed the garden. It was in perfect condition, roses, tulips and hydrangeas glistening in wet, luscious bloom, so someone must still be tending to it on a regular basis. Maybe the gardener was still there?