Life Eludes Him (2 page)

Again, I found the correct key and labeled it. Stepping inside and using a small flashlight, I could tell it was a garden and swimming pool supply shed.

Turning back out and locking up this building, I headed for the front door of the main house. I inhaled a fresh breath of air and unlocked the padlock. With no aid, the door creaked open slightly. Fresh air stirred up dust puffs at the doorstep.

Light streamed in from the doorway, casting my shadow across the dirty floor. A dingy staircase started twenty feet inside the foyer and a small anteroom sat off to the left. Old furniture pieces stood near a fireplace in the formal dining room to the right. I tasted dust in my mouth so I put on a mask, covering my mouth and nose and closed the door behind me. I took out my voice recorder and began recording notes on the quality of the dwelling and its contents. Even though the place was in bad need of repair, it looked grand, almost worth restoring.

The inside of the mansion looked medieval in style and most of its furnishings suited the era. I checked the first few stairs before ascending them. Stable and durable, they were quite solid—and didn’t even creak.

The second floor had a larger buffet-type dining hall, a sitting room and a game room, the latter furnishings apparently added within the last few decades. I noticed old, worn tapestries still draping from ceiling to floor on two walls and a couple of dirty chandeliers hung from the ceilings over the twenty-foot dinner table. Though the place was bereft of life, it had potential if properly tended.

I headed farther up the stairs, which ended at a landing on the third floor;
the
dreaded floor the dead man had warned me about. Though stained-glass windows were ample on the second and third floors, less light shone inside. Trees outside and darker glass in the windows contributed to more shadows.

A bit more eerie than the other floors, the third floor seemed even more so than the second did. There were two main rooms on this floor, both with smaller rooms coming off each.

The first room I checked was to the right of the landing. It was obviously a bedchamber, still containing medieval-period furnishings. The bed was large, its headboard carved mahogany with cherubim. The closet was empty, save for a rod for hanging garments. A mirrored vanity sat in the corner and, by the looks of the layering of dust, had remained undisturbed for years. Noting nothing bizarre, I shut the room’s door after I took measurements and evaluated the space.

Across the hallway from the first room was the second, larger room. Its door was locked, so I pulled out the set of keys and tried each. None seemed to work for this door. I took a screwdriver and tried to jimmy the lock, but was unsuccessful.

I stepped back for a moment, thinking, studying the lock and knob. As clear as day, it hit me; I could simply take the lock completely off the door with my screwdriver.

Setting the lock aside on the floor near the entry, I brought my flashlight up to mid-level view and peered into the room. It was the darkest of them all. Not one window lit this room.

The room displayed a huge, dank, stone fireplace in the center of the back wall. To the left was a door, possibly to its sister room. Between the other door and the one I currently stood in was a large, thick table of some kind of dark wood. To the right, and more centered in the room in front of the fireplace, were a throw rug and a couple of sitting chairs. This room was the most elegant thus far.

A broad, crystalline chandelier hung in the direct center of the room. Looking at the walls of the room, my gaze fell upon a portrait. Intrigued, I entered the room and walked toward it. The flashlight’s beam completely revealed the oil painting of a woman in a medium blue, ruffled dress. She sat with her left shoulder most predominately forward. Her hair, curled in locks around her bare neck and shoulders, fell around her head and framed her face.
She looks just like me.

Bemused, I stepped back from it as if I feared to be eaten alive by its sublime meaning.
Who is this lady? Why does God make unrelated people look exactly alike?
So enthralled I was with the woman in the portrait, I was startled when the room lit up and glowed with warm lighting.

“It has nothing to do with God,” a deep voice retorted, flat and smooth.

I spun.

The handsome man strode toward the table with a surprising grace. Solid as he seemed, when his tunic-like shirt touched the edge of the table, it went through it.

He’s a…

His presence, not the chandelier, lit the room. It changed everything from rusted, worn, broken and aged to shiny, smooth, bright and new. The fireplace flared up into a roaring blaze, burning wood that, a moment ago, was ashes. The rug and all things within the room lit up with sparkling brightness, clean and new, rich in colors and reflected vivid contrasts.

He’s a…

My vision blurred and my feet dropped out from under me as I fell.

I heard before I saw. I felt before I heard. The back of my head throbbed.

“You had yourself a little spill,” the man’s voice cracked with a chortle.

I was lying on the floor, my torso propped in his lap and arms. When my vision cleared, I saw his face. He was truly handsome; he had a cleft in his square chin, his jaw was sharp, his eyes perfectly set under his straight-lined eyebrows. He’d kept his shoulder-length black hair tidy and clean. The man wore a tunic and breeches that would have blended well at a renaissance faire. Though he smiled softly, he seemed sad.

“Wha-what happened?” I rubbed at the swollen knot that had formed on my head. He aided my attempt at rising to my feet. I felt slightly relieved that he seemed solid. “I guess,” I shook my head, “I just got carried away with thinking you were a—”

“Ghost,” he finished. He looked for a reaction in me and when he found me silent, he continued. “I am, actually. I have outlived many generations of people.” His face became sullen, mostly morose. “My name is Chesley Davis Renshaw the third. I come from a long line of Englishmen and journeyed to Ireland—of all ironies—in hopes for a peaceful life.”

“Are you saying you
are
a ghost?” I recalled what was revealed to me the other night. “I met with Steven Davis Renshaw. Is he your relative?”

“I believe so. He would be my great-grandson, I suppose,” he looked up in thought. “He just passed away actually.”

Shivering, I agreed. “How do you know such?”

“I may not be able to leave this place, but the world I…
live
in is more complex.” The expression on his face saddened a bit more.

“Why here and not somewhere else?”

He turned to the large table and opened the desk drawer that I knew wasn’t there before. Pulling out a tome and moving to a chair, he waved me over. As I approached, he opened his book. He showed me small, oil-painted pictures throughout the volume. “This tome contains portraits of my family. My wife died in childbirth, but she had two others, two boys, before the girl that was lost with her.” He flipped through the book until he stopped at a woman that resembled the subject in the portrait. “She was my lady, the life of this place.” He looked around until his gaze fell on me. “This house we built together.”

Thinking about the commercial development company about to tear down this man’s world, I couldn’t help but feel powerless. “Steven warned me about getting involved.”

He seemed fully aware of his condition. “I cannot do what you can in this world anymore. Though I have some manipulation of items and general communication with the living, I am bound to this place,” he spoke softly. “Save it.”

“Why me?” I couldn’t believe what he was asking of me.
Sure, I want this place. And to save it from high corporate raiders, but I don’t know what I can do to help.
My face expressed the feeling of helplessness.

“I am not really asking anything of you, but I do like the prospect of having this place tidied up a bit.” He smiled. “It would make my effort to keep this place nice much easier.”

I laughed at the thought of being his mortal housekeeper. He clearly didn’t know the true situation. “Sure, so I happen to help you. Then what?” I knew what it would take to keep this wonderful place for myself, except for Chesley. I looked at him again, studying his face, his body. I could fall for a man such as this one, if he were alive, that is. “Mister Renshaw,” I began, “do you know that there are people wanting to come and knock down your house?”

He sighed. “I would be a fool to think not.”

It occurred to me that Chesley Renshaw had a knack for repeating his moves, yet he was quite fine manipulating and conversing with the physical world. His situation was upsetting. I never knew a man of such caliber until I found this manor and discovered its inner workings. I felt that I fit in here with no problem. I explained my feelings as best I could.

Looking him in the eyes, I stuttered, “I-I want you to know that from the moment I stepped on this property and came into this mansion, I had no fear. In fact, I feel completely at home being here. I like this house—and as I’m a property assessor, I can say those words are huge compliments coming from me.” I knew I had money enough for this. For a moment, I sat motionless. He watched me intently, his steely eyes fixed on me. “I want to buy this house, build it back the way it used to be for you, but in order to do that, I would definitely have to ask that you share it with me.”

It could be a partnership, if nothing else. He could help by guiding me on what to do and how to do it, since he built this entire area of land to suit his wife’s desires. A symbiotic relationship, if nothing else, was all I wished. His exquisite taste was complimentarily to mine.

Without word one, he rose and walked out of the room.

Once more, I was alone in the dark. For the first time, I felt cold and empty and in response, a shudder racked through my body. I used the flashlight to look around the room while I waited, hoping for his return. As I became certain he was not coming back, he did, bringing the warmth and light back into the room. He carried life and light with him. It was present in his physical manipulation of the entire space his spirit occupied.

I took the item he held in front of me and asked, “What is this?” I started unrolling the scroll before he could reply.

“These are the floor plans. I drew them up many moons ago,” he furrowed his brow. “I wonder. How will you stop these fellows of which you speak?”

“Simple,” I glanced at the drawing and carefully rolled it loosely. “I’ll buy this land. For what its true value is, the price is very reasonable. I’ll contract out help on the lower two floors and I will personally pay special attention to the third floor, so as to not hinder your mobility up here. I can get you the tools and materials you need for this floor. I would like my own style for my bedroom across the hall, if you don’t mind. Oh, and also, I need amenities like electricity in parts of the house.” It sounded like a nice plan to me. I was ready to take on a haunted house, so long as the haunting came from this refined, handsome man.

“Do as you must,” he nodded. “It sounds like a wonderful arrangement. We have an accord.” He smiled when I shook his extended hand.

“Very well, then,” my voice cracked. “I’ll head back tonight to my apartment and rest. In two days, I’ll come back with the drawing and we’ll go over what needs to be done. I’ll round up cleaning supplies and shop for miscellany tomorrow.” Subterfuge hid my inner doubt that I could convince my boss or the corporation of a buy-out on the property.

“Fair thee well, milady.” He reached for my hand and, after bringing it up to his lips, kissed the back side softly, his gaze never breaking mine.

For some unknown reason, his action sent a wave of heat through my body. Yes, I had to admit, this man was very attractive. With my hand released, I smiled nervously and left the room. I welcomed the cool air of the dark hallway.

Once outside, I looked at the mansion, at every window, for a sign of him. Nothing. Slightly disappointed, I headed back to my apartment. As I grew more distant with every mile, my mind started turning over ideas. Excited with the new project ahead of me and nervous about the possible impending legal fight, I filled up with mixed emotions that grew into a chaotic mind-storm churning in my head. I supposed this was how I came down with a pounding headache that evening.

The rain battering on the roof of my apartment awoke me. The desire to hear Chesley’s near-melodic voice replaced my headache. I swallowed a couple pain relievers in case the aching set in again, sat on my bed cross-legged, took up my recorder and propped my back against the headboard. Closing my eyes, I pressed
play
.

I’d forgotten I had recorded Steven Renshaw’s testimony the night he died, until I heard his voice. I decided to replay the visit. Most of the conversation was audible, but I had to turn it up and replay some areas muffled from being in my pocket. “Please heed my warning about that place. I just know it’s haunted and you’ll fall prey to its power.” Not having heard that statement before, I replayed it a time or two until I definitely knew what he said. “That is almost creepy,” I mumbled in disbelief. The warning was clear, yet felt out of place with the feelings I had when in the presence of Chesley.

Fast-forwarding it to the visit at the mansion, I played it when I heard Chesley’s voice. His slight chuckle when I awoke from my fainting spell made me smile. I backed up the recorder until I heard the thudding sound of me falling down and listened intently. I heard feet shuffling, something spoken inaudibly and after that a sentence I never heard due to my unconscious state.

“Forgive me touching you without your permission, but you need my aid, my beautiful baroness.”

Maxing out the volume and similarly in Steven’s conversation before, I replayed it repeatedly until I knew definitely that what I heard was real.

Sighing, I spoke aloud, “I’m no baroness. Clearly, he has me confused with his lady, the woman in the paintings.” Could this mean he was a baron of some sort? Why hadn’t the townspeople mentioned something so important about his social standing? Feeling that there was more to the story than what the townspeople had told me, I pocketed the recorder, shuffled my paperwork together, stuffed my bags full with notepads and readied myself for a trip to the town’s library.