THE MANIPULATOR (PART-3)

...PART-3...

Fuck what my mother says. I’m living here. I’m a

successful writer and have the freedom to live anywhere. So,

what if I decide to live in a place that means a lot to me? That

doesn’t make me a lowlife for staying in my hometown. I travel enough with book tours and conferences; settling down

in a house won’t change that. I know what the fuck I want, and

I don’t give a shit what anyone else thinks about it.

Especially mommy dearest.

The clouds yawn, and rain spills from their mouths. I grab

my purse and step out of my car, inhaling the scent of fresh

rain. It turns from a light sprinkle to a torrential downpour in a

matter of seconds. I bolt up the front porch steps, flinging

drops of water off my arms and shaking my body out like a

wet dog.

I love storms—I just don’t like to be in them. I’d prefer to

cuddle up under the blankets with a mug of tea and a book

while listening to the rain fall.

I slide the key into the lock and turn it. But it’s stuck,

refusing to give me even a millimeter. I jimmy the key,

wrestling with it until the mechanism finally turns and I’m

able to unlock the door.

Guess I’m gonna have to fix that soon, too.

A chilling draft welcomes me as I open the door. I shiver

from the mixture of freezing rain still wet on my skin and the

cold, stale air. The interior of the house is cast in shadows.

Dim light shines through the windows, gradually fading as the

sun disappears behind gray storm clouds.

I feel as if I should start my story with “it was a dark

stormy night…”

I look up and smile when I see the black ribbed ceiling,

made up of hundreds of thin, long pieces of wood. A grand

chandelier is hanging over my head, golden steel warped in an

intricate design with crystals dangling from the tips. It’s

always been Nana’s most prized possession.

The black and white checkered floors lead directly to the black grand staircase—large enough to fit a piano through sideways—and flow off into the living room. My boots squeak

Against the tiles as I venture further inside.

This floor is primarily an open concept, making it feel like the monstrosity of the home could swallow you whole.

The living area is to the left of the staircase. I purse my lips and look around, nostalgia hitting me straight in the gut. Dustcoats every surface, and the smell of mothballs isoverpowering, but it looks exactly how I last saw it, right

before Nana died last year.

A large black stone fireplace is in the center of the living room on the far left wall, with red velvet couches squared around it. An ornate wooden coffee table sits in the middle, an

empty vase atop the dark wood. Nana used to fill it with lilies,but now it only collects dust and bug carcasses.

The walls are covered in black paisley wallpaper, offset by heavy golden curtains.

One of my favorite parts is the large bay window at the front of the house, providing a beautiful view of the forest beyond Parsons Manor. Placed right in front of it is a red velvet rocking chair with a matching stool. Nana used to sit there and watch the rain, and she said her mother would always do the same.

The checkered tiling extends into the kitchen with beautiful black stained cabinets and marble countertops. A massive island sits in the middle with black barstools lining one side.

Grandpa and I used to sit there and watch Nana cook, enjoying her humming to herself as she whipped up delicious meals.

Shaking away the memories, I rush over to a tall lamp by the rocking chair and flick on the light. I release a sigh of relief when a buttery soft glow emits from the bulb. A few days ago, I had called to get the utilities turned on in my name,

but you can never be too sure when dealing with an old house.

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