Chapter 1

Notice: Work contains mature themes, language and violence that is umsuitable for younger readers.

The imposing old house, perched like a vulture atop a lofty prominence that overlooked the Rundle River, never hurt anyone--not intentionally. Intention implies sentience. The dwelling was no more than stone, timber, glass and a collection of incidental building materials typical of the time of construction. One could hardly hold the aging structure accountable for the men, women and children who died there. Nevertheless, the once elegant marble flooring and sumptuous hand-blocked papered walls had witnessed every degenerate act that could transpire through the course of generations, and each vulgar occurrence indelibly etched its onerous mark upon the dwelling’s impassive surfaces.

The estate is char and ash, now, naught but an eerie relic of its insufferable and sinister history. To digest fully the evil that reeked from that primal place, allow me to elaborate on my first impressions of the cursed behemoth and to explain what I have learned of it since.

An ornate rusted gate, chained in iron and oddly posted with a faintly discernable sign that read “Visitation by Appointment Only”, fairly warned the curious and misguided on approach. Tall pines with multitudes of remnant branches spiking out from their centers like thorny fingers forged a formidable wall on either side of the deeply eroded drive. The earthen way, through a series of calculated curves, presented a taste of intrigue to the uninitiated that was irresistible and effectively masked the harsh austerity lying in wait beyond.

The substantial rise on which the house rested was nearly stripped of vegetation, except for a skirt of brambles that cringed shyly at the toe of a severe slope. A spattering of pecan trees anchored mid-hill still bore the air of monarchy and spoke of a once productive orchard--their gnarled limbs and rumpled trunks long fouled with decay and drowning under neglect and elemental abuse. The supplicant trees, in their physical contrariness, arched their craggy limbs up-slope towards the house for attention that never came, despite the majesty their presence bestowed upon the land and owner.

Overgrown foundation plantings smothered the manor’s colonnaded entrance to one side of the generous portico and thwarted the intended architectural symmetry with a cruel lopsided logic. The sagging, rotted corners of the roofline bore gaping wounds where bats, rodents and other secretive vermin found refuse between the skeletal trusses that crowned the moldy superstructure. Countless layers of bland whitewash applied to the structure’s exterior over the years hardened and cracked into scaly schizophrenic patterns. The resultant unsightly chinks in the reptilian armor allowed the weathered grey siding to breathe where exposed.

The most salient elevation offered a commanding, if hazy, view of the bones of a failed crossroads that once held promise as a vital trade center. The energetic and productive entrepreneurs who first populated that austere landscape welcomed the prospect of hardy commerce in the beginning but quickly abandoned their considerable investments of money, toil and blood once the Lovingdale presence corrupted their dreams. Driven to desperation, most migrated north over Hazens Notch to the small town of Milford and resettled there.

Gaps and breaches in the property’s walled and fenced perimeter allowed errant cattle access to the meager vegetation sprouting between the stumps of diseased elm trees and shoulders of outcropping rock. Such sporadic growth provided scant nourishment, and a hungry bovine earned little reward for losing its way. Most farmers considered their livestock an indispensable commodity, but no one dared trespass onto the unholy soil to gather strays.

It was said daredevil youths routinely scaled trees on adjacent parcels for unobstructed views of the notorious site and witnessed the ghosts of foraging animals. Their elders quickly dismissed such fanciful tales, but shifted their perspectives after the remains of cloven-hoofed beasts were found strewn along the ribbon of road that connected their properties to the estate.

Rumor had it that demonic forces drove the wretched animals from the hilltops. The few to survive being torn to ribbons by the thorny boma near the property’s extremes expired in their madness before reaching their stable sanctuaries. Their bug-eyed carcasses, lagging tongues and flaring nostrils bore testament to their terrific exertions before the indiscriminate hand of damnation weighed in.

Viewed from the grounds proper, the Rundle River glows in the distance like the upturned belly of a lifeless serpent. The emerald sparkle upstream and downstream, where the course dramatically roils around the polished stones dotting the river’s bed, offers stark contrast to the chalky metallic sheen peculiar to the half-mile stretch that fronts the Lovingdale property. There the skewed trunks of trees, long-felled to their knees by the blustery demands of time and season, choke the river’s vibrancy into sluggish pools.

Anglers still dub this remarkable stretch of water “Dead Run” for its general pall and sterile qualities. Indeed, even birds and amphibians commonly encountered nearby avoid the area altogether, with nary a heron or salamander eager to claim the territory home. Boating enthusiasts adventurous enough to test their mettle in this “den of iniquity” swear the river’s deep calm demeanor harbors unseen whirlpools and life grabbing eddies that clutch at their crafts as they speed through. Most folks in Upshire County, even today, steer clear of the river there and abide by the waterway’s implicit warning.

The daring fools naively drawn to danger and forbidden folly serve as oblations to feed Evil’s dark appetites. While the meek majority hunkered behind barred doors and shuttered windows endure their marginal existence enslaved and emasculated by superstition and fear. It has been so with all cultures and civilizations since stars first fell, and so it was with Lovingdale Manor.

Lovingdale Manor was, and is, an oppressive place, an evil place. It is a place better left to the tragic dead and the skeletal herds haunting its god-forsaken slopes. The ruins near the Rundle River stand as a monument to the irrefutable decay of the hearts and souls of ruthless and ambitious men, and to their miserable failing to recognize and correct their destructive paths.

There will be more concerning this singular manor later--much more. For now, though, let us begin at the beginning.

Author's Note

All comments and perspectives appreciated.