Well to do and stilted knight
Hush our flashing candlelight
For all would wilt if by your might
The ember send us through the night

The musty halls echoed their silent party-goer’s pleasantries, a ghost of the once lively estate. Where once were lighted candelabras illuminated the entry, a stagnant, encroaching network of cobwebs colluded. It was their house; it belonged to them now, dwelling among the stalwart big game trophies who had overseen each hunt and every celebration.

The enormous foyer door spoke its age in a cry, “Cruuuuuuck.”

An instinctively ducked head dodged out of the way, knowing it came late with the summer breeze, “Oh, right. It’s just me now. Well, I’m coming in.”

It had been years since anyone came around with a dustpan or broom. With just one look, you could get a rough estimation at how many hands it took to upkeep.

Bo swallowed a lump of saliva as it came begging for release. He could smell the rice porridge in the kitchen, compliments to a roughed raisin in a brown apron dress toiling over an open stove. “Come here, young one. Your hands are stronger than mine.”

Long, knobby, and gnarled digits lifted him in before he could take his boots off in the foyer. They clutched at his shoulders gently, but firmly and unyielding. “I’m not to care for this place myself. This place is your blood. No longer is it mine.”

Now much closer to her decrepit, dark detail, Bo noticed a scent he had long misplaced. “Beech bark and elderberry. Oldemor?”

She froze, no longer stirring the pot, no longer does the sound of wood on iron find its place in the kitchen. And it stayed that way until almost a minute had passed; until the rice was just about to burn. “No, dear. You are far too young to know. I have seen many children come and go. Your oldemor was just the first to revive the house.”

With two pours of a ladle and a dusting of cinnamon, a large bowl of rice porridge was ready. A warm beam of sunlight hit the floor from a small tear in a curtain, and approaching the kitchen table, the ancient discrepancy pulled aside a chair for Bo. “But you have come a long way to get home. Sit down for a moment with me.”

The timber groaned under his weight. It long hoped somebody would oil and rub it, and now to just be used again, was unexpected. As he sat, he listened to the whispers of a house once known, and as he listened, he heard not its story. No, he heard its heart. From the servants’ staircase, he heard urgency. From the dining room, he heard roaring. The library told generations of handwritten family logbooks, waiting for another entry. The billiards room, the cellar, the ballroom, the study, and when he listened closely… the church.

“It sounds like you hear them too,” the raisin chuckled.

Bo jumped in his seat, “Ah! You’re here. Right.”

With a warm smile, she handed to him the bowl of porridge. A summer gust parted the curtains, spilling light into the dusty kitchen. As the next in line sat there, blinded by the evening sun, he swore he heard her say…

“I have been here. We all have been here. Will you join us?”