Abigail                         English 8

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The room was dark, dust and cobwebs haunting its corners, and I was alone or was I? The frozen, unblinking eyes of the house's former occupants stared down upon me from grimy frames, shifty, scowling eyes glittering dimly in the weak rays of sunlight that dared desecrate their adobe. They never ceased to disturb me, the few times I had been in there, the grainy old black and white photographs, stern rulers of their forgotten  room, unsmiling faces disapproving of my every trespass into their abandoned kingdom. The shattered door marked my first intrusion into the Picture Room, (as I called it; it being the only room with any photographs of any kind), its strong door broken only by my stubborn tenacity to reveal its contents. Ultimately, my doggedness turned up nothing in the isolated room, its sheet-covered Victorian furniture already too familiar to my eyes, hungry for new evidence. My search for the mysterious disappearance of the huge, ancient house's former family ground to a screeching halt. Disappointed, I had re-searched all of the rooms, every closet and cupboard under my careful scrutiny, digging for the answer that had eluded all before me. Ah, but I had more then simply the paperwork basics, I had the house itself, frozen in time at its family’s disappearance, every room, every item placed perfectly, still awaiting the return of those who never would, forsaking the luxuries of life for the sweet embrace of death. It all waited, here, lurking in the corners with the innumerable cobwebs, a key, a monumental clue to solve this enigmatic conundrum, but it eluded me, dancing just from my grasp, laughing as I groped vainly for answers it already knew. Who? Why? This was a riddle that seemed unsolvable, why someone would pulled a family out by its roots,  to destroy them even to these     distant relatives. Distant, true, yet the name still carried the same power, diluted as it was, the same weight of royalty robbed of their title but nothing else. So powerful, and yet…..they were eradicated completely. Nothing remaining except a few titled ancestor’s gravestones and their grand mansions, untouched, yielding secrets, clue…..With a sigh I set my folders, filled with newspaper clippings, birth records, anything, on a small coffee table, upsetting a cloud of dust. It seemed to attack me like all the unanswered questions, blowing up in my face. I stepped back, sneezing. Wiping my nose on the back of my sleeve, I pulled my coat closer around me. There was a draft in the room, and it irritated

 me like the foreign weather of this odd land. With an another sigh I flipped through the yellowing newspaper clippings, the familiar titles glaring up a me, taunting, as they told me what I already knew and what I could not find; “PROMINET FAMILY GONE” “DISAPPERED” “NO BODIES FOUND” they blared, telling nothing not already know. It was beginning to seem hopeless, lost in a foreign country, friendless save for the kind, elderly owner of a nearby cottage. She was the great-grand daughter of one of the maids of the house, kind and a little forgetful. Every once in a while she’d stop by and inquire how it was going, or leave cookies or such. Her kindness was greatly appreciated in my loneliness, a helping hand in a case that was beginning to seem hopeless. Resigned, I scanned the room for a clue, anything, to breach its mystery. Chairs. End tables. Pictures, ornate wallpaper. It was all too familiar, a replica of every other room, everything similar, dull , boring— but the pictures…….the pictures…..they were the only thing that seemed...out of place, somehow, the grainy, yellowed photographs adorning every inch of the walls, grim occupants watching over this room, yet not the others —- I drew closer, studying the nearest one, a young boy, dark hair immaculately groomed, framing porcelain white skin, dark eyes staring coldly out, guarding dark secrets in their depths. Gently I reached up to removed the picture from its place, stirring a fog of dust and cobwebs, searching intently the picture, hoping for a clue, insight, something…….But there was nothing, nothing but a dead, frozen eyes, suspended in time. Hopeless, that what it was…..there was nothing. Nothing…..the dead eyes of the pictures staring, laughing, they would never give their secret, never, never…..I began to replace it,  resigned to my endless task, when I saw it. A rip in the wallpaper, a dark maze of ink beneath it; I leaned closer, intently examining the red-black words,” and then….” the scrolly handwriting disappeared beneath the wallpaper, a whisper of a clue. Hands trembling, I set the picture gently on the floor, then reached