Standing from a distance, the wind borne clouds had animated the scene and,
in much the same way as a great ship would creak and whine, the house of my
distant relative had an air of the Mary Celest about it.  Wandering
through time and quietly ageing into ruin it had not seen its owners for many
years and would never had done so now, were it not for a cryptic and
disturbing communication that I had received the week before.  

  In parts of the easterly wing of the house rain had smashed great
holes into the roof and left the poorly defended rooms within with little
choice but to submit.  Beside, the shell of the great hall etched
into the grey clouds reminded them of their fate, since I was in no position to
take on such an undertaking myself and the rest of the family had shown little
or no interest since 30 years past and the reading of a will.

  My dampening coat pulled close about me, I trod my way up a windy windy path
around the back of the estate, looking for any sign of a light in the
increasing blackness of the house in front of me.  Catching snatches of an
almost whistled tune I noted that the elements were still attempting to beat
down upon the weathered frame of the building.  For a moment I almost felt
myself take pity on the old place, but I had more pressing matters to deal
with: gaining entry and taking shelter from what I feared would only become
worse as the night came on.

  Finding no light at the back of the house, I unsuccessfully tried to make my
way anti-clockwise around to the front.  My progress was blocked by a locked
gate and walled garden which I had had to fight my way into and out of as
well.  Snagged by sharp briers, I made a mental note to check my shin for
injury when inside.  A fleeting image of a warm bath and cold whiskey was
banished as quickly as it came, since it was not helping matters, not in the
very least.

  Stumbling in the darkness cast by yews on uneven ground, I crossed over into
a forlorn formal garden.  Climbing some decidedly slimy steps I crossed over
to some French windows: shuttered and locked on the inside they provided
little more than something upon which to bang, with the hope of alerting
my correspondent to my presence.  The only response was the lightest of taps
from tiny fingers of rain against the panes of glass.  As I turned, I was
greeted with more, on my face and eyes, causing me to squint until I turned
the corner of the house where it was quiet, still, and damp.

  Gigantic ornamental pines littered this side of the building, their needles
dusty brown from lack of light.

  Sharply, the wind took hold of a loose tile flipping it over and down from
the roof.  Hearing its sidling descent across the wet I instinctively backed
up against the wall, to see it fall in front and to the left of me.  It was
followed, almost a second after by a large clump of moss, whose only reason for
record was that it managed to surprise me almost as much as the former did.
Thankful for not being spiked by the missile, I was mindful that the house
was not entirely passive in its demise.  Though its efforts reminded one of a
soldier having run out of ammunition, desperately throwing his own pistol at the
enemy running toward him.

  My head now filled with images of war, I was reminded of how my wife had
insisted that I not go.  At such great distance, with no lines of
communication, she had felt a deep sense of dread about the whole affair,
which I shared, though had not let her know of it.
       
  Bursting through the shrubbery onto the front drive I was met by a crunching
and churning gravel path up to the front porch, the depth of which left me
a little out of breath by the time I arrived within its pitch
blackness.  Stepping out again into the path, I could make out no lights from
this side of the house either, and so reasoned that my only hope of gaining
entry was to re-enter the gloomy portal and play a game of roulette with the
eight legged creatures which were almost certain to be occupying the dark recesses
of stone work about the door.  I had never lost my hatred of the blasted things
like my nanny had said that I would and blamed her for not hiding her
own fear, now obvious to me, but then easily transferred to a young mind.
However, this was not the time to unlearn such things, now was the time to
take great care not to disturb any of the residents of the porch.

  Running my fingers over the pitted black cracks of the door, my touch was
instantly greeted by a thick mat of flossy cobwebs.  This however did not
concern me greatly, it was my experience that these could be made by spiders
of such a size that would not worry me.  Had the structures been horizontally
orientated I should have pulled my hand sharply away, probably bringing with it 
a larger and more impressive foe, but for now, I was more specifically concerned
about the door knocker and rounded handle below where I would surely meet my
nemesis.

  Finding the door knocker unmoveable, even when pressure had been increased
from the lightest first touch, my fingers explored the cracks and crevices
around the sides of the door for a bell of some kind.  Icy spray continued
to speckle the back of my neck and the first shiver of the coming winter
shuddered its way up my spine.  Stepping back again, in a forlorn attempt
to check for any signs of life in the blackened windows above, I clapped my
gloved hands as a precautionary measure, and then re-entered beneath the
porch to bang with my fists.

  For such was the strength of the oak, and the weakness of my flesh and bone,
that the resulting sound was so unimpressive as to have been almost
embarrassing had it been loud enough for the occupier to have heard it at all.

  The only option left to me seemed to be to use my voice to attract the
warming attentions of the those within.  At this rate I thought, I wouldn't mind
if they took me in and robbed me blind, just as long as I could get into the
place.  Cupping my hands, I shot loud greetings at the windows above which
were ricochet back across the other windows of the frontage.  They stared
blankly, the reflected clouds giving the impression of a dazed and unconscious
within.

  Still without, and increasingly distracted by my frustrated efforts to gain
entry to what was, as I reasoned, my own property.  I redoubled my
efforts, even attempting another go at the font door.

  Abortive attempts to prise open the front shutters were my next line of
attack, achieving little but the satisfaction which comes from doing
something, rather than nothing at all.  I sat on a low wall on the left hand
side front plotting my next move.  It was now too dark to make my way around
to the back of the house again, and due to the rigid planning which governed
the whole of my life, I would be leaving this area this very evening on the
midnight express train.

  Clearly there was no-one in the house I decided, though with the approaching
night, the place seemed to be gaining life by the minute.  However, it was
at least possible that the writer of the letter which had brought me to the
area had left some form of explanation within the house itself for it would not
be unreasonable to expect that the owner, no matter how far removed from the
residence would have a key to at least one of the doors.

  This fact renewed my determination to gain entry, the rainfall had also
become less now, or was it merely the fact that I had become wetter?  Either
way, I decided to continue my previous walk around the house, there was at
least one more side before the kitchen garden barred my way again.

  Maybe it is just my own character, but I felt a great deal of pleasure when
I made it to the other side of the locked garden gate, a minor victory but at
least I now knew what was on the other side, a green house, and more
importantly, through the greenhouse I could see a door which must lead into the
property itself.

  Brighter on this side, due to the larger area of visible sky not painted out
by trees, I could see that the method of entry I had chosen was not going to
be simple.  Glass hung from the rotted slats of the roof like deadly
stalactites, and remembering my previous encounter on the other side of the
building I knew I was about to take a risk entering the old glass house.  Ever
the one for impulsiveness, when it did not interfere with the grand plan for
the week, I nudged myself through the building to the door at the far end.

  As the door opened I could sense the displeasure from the resident arachnid
population as I disturbed what would amount to a small city at their scale.  My
confidence sank as before me the deepest, blackest void opened out.
Suddenly everything was quiet, everything was still, I was immediately
self aware and aware of my surroundings.

  I spent some time getting used to the various bumps, creaks, and
unidentifiable noises natural to a house in its condition.  With some amusement
I noticed that these bumps did not seem to be quite as random as I had first
assumed and as time passed it dawned upon me that too often for chance did
the noises exactly coincide with some mundane action that I was performing.

  Now, one can rightly expect that shutting a door might cause a moan to
emanate from some distant part of a house but the flicking of a lightswitch?
Or putting down a glove?.  It was clear. I would stub my toe and a bump would
arise in an upstairs bedroom.  Not that I suspected a supernatural answer mind
you, my relative was at peace and in good company too, it was just
coincidence or, more to my way of thinking, synchronic.

  The lightswitch had been an overly optimistic chance on my part and it soon
became clear to me that there was no-one inside the building.  Not that there
was no presence to the place, just that it was becoming crystal clear to me
that I was not going to find the elusive author nor any evidence of his being
there.

  Stepping gingerly through, into what I believed would be a kitchen, I was
immediately surprised to find that I had not, as I had believed, gained entry
to the main house at all.  There was yet another doorway in front of me, and this time
it was in the same tightly closed condition as the rest of the orifices, and
although entry could be forced through the rotted wood in no time with the
correct tool, I had not arrived with any such device nor did I have the
desire to stay to look for one, or to return more suitably equipped the following day.

  The whole trip had been a bad idea, and I cursed myself for being
blackmailed into going there without any more knowledge of the author than a
a postmark.  Marching weary back around to the front of the house, I grimaced
as the rain picked up a little and, although it was not enough to turn into a
storm it was enough to make the trudge down the front drive miserable and
cold.  I did not turn about for a last look back at the house but kept my
head down as I paced off into the night.


  Escaping the early onset of winter by train south gave me an extra few
weeks of moderate weather before one of the worst winters I can remember.
It eventually passed of course as the four seasons will always do, each one
making myself, and I suppose the house, a little older.

  I forget where I placed the anonymous note that had prompted my excursion.
It had told of a future death in the family but strangely it was not a name that was 
given, just an address.