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Melancholy House

It has been many years since I stood at the foot of Melancholy House, but that’s not to say I haven’t seen it lately. Not in the flesh, never in the flesh, but in my most tortured nightmares and imaginings.

Always the dream begins the same. A massive shape looms before me, beyond a decaying barrier of wrought-iron. Unseen hands throw open the creaking gate to welcome me into the outer courtyard.

The leering gargoyle sits on his usual place atop the dried up old fountain in the courtyard and his empty eyes watch as I walk through the gap in the wooden fences. Twisted brambles cover the old yard, hiding the spider nests and skittering roots of dead trees. They crawl and change places with each other while I am not here, and only the magpies in their branches know it.

Past the web-choked lane is the remnants of a pumpkin patch, sowed by one of the nameless, faceless gardeners many years ago. The gardener is there too, strung up on a pole to frighten away the birds. He has a face now, lent to him by his beloved pumpkins. I think he is as happy now as he looks.

The rusted blade that serves as his arm then points me down the memorial garden. The plants of the garden withered long ago, leaving only the gravestones and bones of those buried beneath Melancholy house. Sadder still, the memory of their names and tragic deaths are beginning to wither as well. As the world forgets, the corpses drag themselves from their lonely graves, begging to be remembered. Not brave enough to reach the door to the basement, I turn my back on their desperation and return to the courtyard.

I pass the grinning gargoyle and swear that his eyes are still following me as I climb the stairs to the main veranda. An empty chair rocks back and forth beside a door that I have never seen open. I’m not convinced it is the true entrance to the house. But I remember entering a door somewhere… somewhere nearby. I will search for it. I see a balcony to my right - unreachable - and turn to the walk on my left.

A library. A finely appointed open-air library, well-stocked with books. They are mildewed, rotting, with spines as broken and decayed as the corpses in the cemetery. Still, they glide and float upon the air like moths, and they seem drawn to me like a flame, whispering to stop and lose myself in their moldering pages… I am getting close.

Fighting off the allure of the tomes, I continue down a set of stone steps. A bolt of lightning strikes beside me, thrown down by the ominous black clouds that are perpetually overheard whenever I remember the house. No… when I dream the house… no… it is a memory… why did I think it was a dream?

It is a memory, this is the memory of how I came to this place. The corpses, the gargoyle, even the books, all are trying to keep me from remembering… something. But what could be so terrible that they would seek to bar me from it.

That is when I turn and see it.

The tomb. My tomb, bathed forever in a blood-red glow. I do not remember what crime caused the master of the house to lock me away here and forget me, but I remember myself now. I have been here the whole time, traveling through the memory of the house in my mind. Not in the flesh.

Never in the flesh. I have no more flesh, you see. The rats that skitter and creep along the floor took the last of my flesh. I know because I see myself in the mirror that they left me. A parting gift, they said. That mirror and the rats are my only companions now.

Here is where I shall leave you, before I take leave of myself. I see the hollows of my skull now, reflected in the red light of my prison, and I hear the rats. Soon my silent screams will fill the air as well.

You must go! Leave! You should not linger here, unless - unless you wish to join me? Yes! Join me. The crypt beside mine is empty - do you see? Stay, chain yourself beside me and our screams will echo through the night and melt into the storm and birdsong that surround us here. Yes. This is your home now. Welcome, my friend, to Melancholy House.