Melody Of The Echo

The door represents a pathway to who we are. A symbolic story of life change.

As Kay opens the door for the very first time, she lets the magic enter and stumbles over the weight of oblique sadness now resting on her. 

A soft light peers through the white lace curtains that rest along the floor in the distance. She looks to the wood staircase in front of her that creek with the wind and follows the winding way it leads to the top of the tower. Four bedrooms reside on this floor of the mansion, Kay chose the first door to the right. The smaller of the rooms, the floor to ceiling windows illuminate the soft blue color of the walls. 

Kay awoke at five the first morning in the mansion to the pale moon light peering through the window. It's her favorite time of day, the last moment of stillness right before the earth awakens and all stillness is lost. She sits on the desk, through the mirror across the room she watches Eugene sleep. Kay lights a cigarette before considering coffee, that's just her preference. She doesn't even smoke it. It's just nice to start the day with some soothing, grey, dark mist like one of Charles Baudelaire's poems.

The Tiffany glass chandler above Kay's head vibrates from the strum of a rich instrument, "Poor angel," it sang. A shiver rushed down her spine and her eyes, with piercing tension, locked on the door. Sucking in her breath, Kay walked to the door reaching out to open it. The creek beneath her feet and the sound of her breath were all she could hear. The house felt unnaturally still.

Kay stands at the glass double doors for only a moment. She listens to the house, still no sound. An uneasy breeze blows through the doors brushing a golden hair across her face. The echoing strum invades the silence of the  mansion again. She opens the door wider to listen closely. Silently she steps through the great hall passing the round oak table. The windows dark and gaping, beneath Kay's feet a light peered through the bowed floor boards. She heard a whistle through the kitchen before her. 

The kitchen is rather large and dusty. The cupboards are faded green with light yellow trim and the tap from the sink is leaking on to the pile of dirty plates and bowls in it. She came to the closed Butlers pantry door, faded white, paint curling with age, a brass knob consumed by a network of thick cobwebs, reaching out, she turned it. In front of her swung open the door leading outside slamming against the ram-shackle mansion. The wind flourished outside and with much hurry, Kay reached for the door locking it shut. 

A moment of calm relief broken by an almighty note. It would have remained undiscovered, a passage door hidden within the wall so well concealed. A curious and striking contrast tempted her to open the door. Before her lies a narrow passage way down dank steps. She steps deeper, cobwebs brush her face. At the bottom of the stairs, the ceiling sagged in the middle where a steady drip of water hit the concrete floor. The house stood still and so did time. A cold damp air wrapped around her like a heavy coat. Sparkling just the same as any cut diamond, growing like a crystal, an emerald green light rose out of the door frame before her.

The wood of the door has grown soft and moldy and through its broken hinges, a windowless perfection with a single entrance. The mansion loomed proudly with a thick coating of dust resting upon everything. From the structure of a pianos core came music in no form she had heard, it sang softly, "So much to say and no ears willing to listen, no soul willing to feel the torment that lies within." Its beautiful mystery left Kay not afraid, but there is something unbelievable about this place. The mansion has a core rooted in so much untold. Kay stepped away slowly from the molded door, careful to not disrupt the song. 

Behind her, Kay closed the glass double doors. Walking up the towers wood staircase, she stops at the last step when the cord strums for the final time, "These are suspicious times and you my dear are stranger than most." A smile gleaming in her eyes, she slipped back into bed, Eugene still asleep, telling herself, "Tonight, I will sleep like the king of this decrepit mansion."

“I love to watch the fine mist of the night come on, 

The windows and the stars illumined, one by one, 

The rivers of dark smoke pour upward lazily, 

And the moon rise and turn them silver. I shall see 

The springs, the summers, and the autumns slowly pass; 

And when old Winter puts his blank face to the glass, 

I shall close all my shutters, pull the curtains tight, 

And build me stately palaces by candlelight.” 

― Charles Baudelaire, Les Fleurs du Mal