Part 3: The House, in Dust
Chapter 2: The House, in Dust
- The Second Floor
I made my way up the stairs with a certain sense of foreboding... the more time I spent in the house, the more I felt shaken by the utter and terrible sense of loneliness. I could empathize, if only a little, with the author of the first journal I stumbled upon; and I didn't even want to pay serious attention to what I read in James' diary.
I was met at the top of the stairs with another flight, which no doubt led to the upper, and highest floor of the house.
Stepping closer, I peered at one particularly eerie painting.
Shaken, I turned to the nearest door.
The rag was relatively clean, everything considered.
There were a couple of towels in the bathroom, but a great deal of repair work would be necessary before I would attempt to take a shower.
I stepped out of the bathroom, and walked down the corridor accross from by bedroom.
I had a door to my right, and another to my left. I started on the right, first.
The door led to the largest bedroom in the house, which I suspect belonged to James Blackwood, or whomever the patron of the house was before him.
Was this Catherine? I could only guess, but I couldn't be sure. All the paintings in the house seemed to be reproductions of famous works of art, and this could easily be one too. It is a pity I am a philistine.
I noticed the mirror could be flipped.
The bed seemed to be comfortable, but was too fancy for me.
Books on engineering, maths, science... not my thing!
I suspected, now, that this room was occupied by both James and Catherine.
A diploma sat on the shelf. It seemed that the people living in this house were educated!
I was disturbed, to say the least, to see that drawing sitting in a broken frame like that. I could not tell if the damage was the product of an accident... or something worse. I am not normally this paranoid, but this manor... it bears down upon my soul; a darker weight than what I am accustomed to.
I didn't want to go through a bunch of trinkets and perfumes.
As beautiful as the bedroom was, there was little of interest in it. I stepped out, and walked through the doors facing me. They led to a gallery of some sort.
I was unusually surprised after entering this room. It was some kind of gallery... its theme being African culture.
I presume that this was the collection James spoke of in his diary.
The lamp seemed to be broken beyond repair, probably a souvenir from some hazardous journey.
It wouldn't move...
The beautiful vases were mesmerizing...
I truly was impressed by James' collection! He must have truly been as passionate about the country as he wrote.
All these masks... they made me feel uneasy. They seemed to be guarding the room.
The ambience of the gallery had been comforting until now. Upon setting my eyes upon the masks, I could only think back to the grotesque tale I read in James' diary.
With a growing feeling of discomfort, I scowled and stepped out of the gallery. Exploring the upper floor felt like an increasingly more foreboding task, but I pressed on...