Jack, the writer

"This place will be just perfect," said Jack, as he walked to the front door with the old man. "It's just far enough from town to be isolated, and all these old furnishings and portraits will really set teh atmosphere for my writing."

"Indeed, the place has it's...character." The old man leered at Jack, as if he had just made some sort of inside joke at Jack's expense. Who cares, thought Jack, this is is the last time I'll see this guy, anyway.

The old man said goodbye and walked down the front steps to his waiting car, which sat parked by Jack's old Toyota. He waved as he started the car and drove off through the iron gates at the end of the gravel drive. As the crunch of the tires over the loose bits of stone faded, Jack turned what he was already beginning to think of as his new retreat.

Yes, indeed, thought Jack, this will be a great place to write. Nice and quiet, no phones or TV. And still only a half hour drive back into the city and his modern apartment if he just had to catch the latest episode of "West Wing." Jack closed his eyes for a moment, and could almost imagine that he was back in the 19th century, when most of the house had been built. The historical novel he planned to write as his final project for his degree would practically write itself. The silence was blissful.

Silence? Wait a sec. What's that noise?