Account taken from Claire Donovan’s diary regarding her
terrifying first visit to Ravenhurst Manor
From
what we were able to gather after reading Claire’s diary, and speaking to
several neighbors, including interviews with her husband, we have put together her story here...
The
terror for Claire started shortly after she and her husband, Maxwell moved into
his ancestral home, Ravenhurst Manor—and what happened next turned into an
American Horror Story—an urban legend that parents told their children on
stormy winter nights…
The
newlyweds had snickered at the rumors that the mansion was haunted. Scoffed at
the neighbors that insisted it was festooned with ghosts. And shook their heads
at the people who crossed the street rather than pass by their house.
They had
moved in despite the mansion’s apparent state of neglect. It had been vacant
for so long that it had become dusty and forgotten. Ravenhurst Manor was a
sizeable estate located in Whispering Pines, California and built within what
some referred to as the upper-class section of town. In her mind, the mansion
was perfectly situated in a quiet, rural setting, yet close to the bustle and
conveniences of the downtown area.
On a
Saturday afternoon in late October she put her green Mercedes into park on the
gravel driveway, took a deep breath, and climbed out of the car to view the
place that would change her life forever…
Outwardly,
Ravenhurst had a formidable appeal, constructed with a fusion of Gothic and
Victorian architectural styles, which closely resembled the features of an
American Carpenter Gothic design that was often characterized by steep gables
and pointed windows. Ravenhurst was bursting with cupolas and spires and
scrolled balconies—everything except gargoyles. Towers, sculptural detail, and
boldly angular masses proliferated the exterior. It had black wrought-iron
embellishments, storm shutters, and of course, the obligatory lightning rod
atop the tallest tower that donned it as a stereotypical-looking haunted house. Even the fog that purled and thickened around the estate, resembled some Silent
Hill-esque world.
Determination
flowed through her veins as Claire tossed her long golden hair over her
shoulder. Placing hands on her slim hips, her sapphire eyes glinted with pride
at the estate. No, her new home.
Ravenhurst’s
walls were long and high and its towers peaked above the staggered trees.
Gigantic and sprawling and unyielding. Ravenhurst’s wide front porch led down
to a pebbled walkway flanked by low evergreen hedges and lush green grass. In
the yard was a peculiar oak, ancient and ragged, like the ghastly white bones of
an arthritic skeleton. It loomed like a sentinel positioned menacingly on a
knoll as if to warn trespassers that this place was not to be entered
whimsically or taken lightly.
While
Claire was aware of the macabre appearance of her newly acquired treasure, she
intentionally overlooked the oddness of it. All that was required was a little
cheery paint, some pruning, and landscaping, which would—forever rectify the
gloomy, almost mournful tone of the unkempt estate. Besides, Claire wasn’t the
type of woman to spook easily, nor was she prone to an overactive imagination.
With her husband, Maxwell frequently gone on business trips, she’d have to
endure the problems of running such a large household on her own. But she
didn’t mind. She was an independent, sensible woman, and since she’d become the
mistress of this Gothic estate, she refused to be disturbed by a few ghost
stories.
The
logical part of Claire’s brain knew it was just a house. Brick, glass, wood.
But what she didn't see was what lay beneath it. It was dangerous. Restless.
Insidious. Yet Claire refused to believe that real evil hid behind its
beautiful façade. Even though, she thought on the outside, it made Amityville
Horror seem tame in comparison.
Running
the tip of her tongue over her full lips, she straightened her spine.
She
marched forward, mounted the steps, and unlocked the door. A part of her wished
that Maxwell could be here to explore the house with her, but she knew as the
owner of a software company that business acquired him to visit many parts of
the world. But she would kept herself busy, by decorating her new home and
tending to the gardens.
She wouldn't have time to miss her husband and by the time he
returned, the house would be finished. Her first task was to roam the interior,
and she found herself amazed at her husband’s collection of fine antiques,
priceless art, and Victorian wallpaper, ornate chandeliers, and huge,
gold-framed mirrors. Walls of brocaded velvet, with hanging tapestries, and
polished hardwood floors. At the top of the massive and ornately carved
mahogany staircase were eight luxuriously furnished bedrooms, three bathrooms,
including Maxwell’s private office.
In the
parlor on the third floor, she swung open a corner cabinet door and found an
interesting wooden trunk inside. Holding the chest gingerly in her hands, she
placed it on the end table where she could open it.
Claire
pried open the lid and discovered one lone item: an old iron skeleton key with
an elaborately fashioned handle.
She held
the key up by the window to examine the object closely more closely in the
light.
“Hmmm, I
wonder what this opens?” she asked herself as a jangling clatter pierced the
quiet. The telephone.
Following
the direction of the ring, she descended the staircase to the second floor. She
spotted the phone resting on a hallway table near her bedroom. She hurried
forward, tripping on a loose shoelace and almost falling. Finally, the phone
screeched its last plea and fell silent just as Claire placed her hand on the
receiver. The screen on the caller ID reported it had come from an unknown
caller.
Too busy
to care, she went down the next flight of steps to the main floor. Claire
decided to explore the grounds before sundown. In October, the air was prone to
chill and night came early. She hunted around for the jacket she’d left on the
bench near the front door and shoved her arms into the leather sleeves of the
coat. She patted her pockets to make sure she had her keys, and located in her
right front pocket.
“There
will be no peace until you free us, mistress.” A chant, the plea
of a hundred child-like voices, supple and insidious lined her ears. “Open
the Sheol…Unseal the gateway…Free the—”
She spun
around. The corridor was dim and void of human life. Shrugging, she ignored the
whisper and pulled the front door open. It was just her imagination. She told
herself, there was nothing to be afraid of.
She left
it unlocked, and marched onto the porch, then stepped down into a carpet of
deep, soft green. Dirty windowpanes glistened in the sunlight. A humid scent
like wet moss and freshly cut grass floated on the air. Claire strolled in the
gardens, noting the overgrowth of untended rosebushes planted beneath the
stained-glass windows. Claire paused for a moment to survey the grounds. Ahead of
her was a broad expanse of land—acres of lush grass that led to a thicket of
trees that bordered the back of the property several hundred yards away. Even
from this distance, she could sense the onset of winter, most of the leaves of
the staggering redwoods had fallen, leaving the branches bare like bony fingers
reaching toward the ground.
From
this vantage point, the scale of the mansion impressed her. She was able to
view most of the three-story structure and the colorful glass of the windows
that embodied the second and third floors. Inside, the heavy drapes that lined
the windows were evident as well as the gauzy fabric intended to filter light
and add privacy. At the top of one peaked edge were three crescent-shaped
windows that Claire guessed belonged to the attic.
To the
right of the property was a rusty gardener’s shed. She decided to check out the
metal shed and its contents before it became too dark. Nearing the shed, she
stopped abruptly.
“Claire…” A whisper by her
ear, faint and distant, yet close all at once made her to freeze.
Trembles
traveled from her legs and vibrated up her neck. Dread choked her like a noose,
strangling her from the inside. Once her feet became motionless, the crunching
of the autumn leaves beneath them became silent, and she began to doubt that
she’d actually heard anything at all.
Then her
eyes caught something else in the dying light. Ground fog swirled and
transformed, rising higher, forming a distinct black shape in front of her. An
apparition with bleak hollow eyes.
She
blinked. Then she took a deep breath, turned her gaze toward the horizon where
the sun was making its slow descent, then turned her head to face the house
again. She gasped.
In an
upstairs bedroom, someone parted the drapes and a translucent face stared down
at her from the window.
A
prickling sensation glided over her body then settled in her stomach. Bile rose
in her throat. Claire struggled to calm herself; all she had to do was call the
police and report an intruder. Instead, Claire scanned each vacant pane, and
then she turned completely around and stared at the road in front of
Ravenhurst.
Not a
single car or person in sight. Nothing hovering in the fog.
“Maybe I
need to eat something.”
She
shook her head and turned back around, quickly closing the gap between her
present position and the entrance to the shed. The door was made of two
out-swinging panels, intended to allow enough room for gardening implements to
pass through. The panels were held shut by an old, rusty lock. She reached in
her pocket for the keys.
All she
found was an empty compartment.
Claire
tried the other side. Vacant. “What the—?”
Confused,
her mind raced back to the moment when she’d dropped the keys in her pocket
before leaving the house. She searched the pockets of her jeans.
No luck.
“Huh. I
must’ve dropped them on my way out,” she said and began retracing her steps
across the yard.
She
passed the oak, reticent and massive, on her way to the porch. The setting sun
cast long shadows on the ground. Claire mounted the steps and opened the front
door. Her fingers groped the wall near the entrance feeling for the light
switch. At 5:30 in the afternoon, the rooms were dark and eerie. She shuddered
as a cold draft swept through the door like icy fingers running over her skin.
Her gaze
flicked outside, through the open door. Steeped in shadow, darkness echoed and
folded inside itself until sunlight was absorbed completely, and the trees
surrounding the mansion, large mammoths of green foliage bunched over, bent and
stopped, poured more shadows across the hallows of what used to be the most
prestigious house in Whispering Pines.
She
flinched, the autumn wind was howling, and it sounded like laughter to her
panicked mind. Flipping the switch up and down frantically, the room remained
immersed in darkness. Fear settled in her heart, making it thud loudly in the
quiet.
Finally,
the overhead light flickered to life. The chandelier light was dim but adequate
enough for her spot her keys. Relieved, she clutched the misplaced keys from the
hallway table.
Yet her
relief was fleeting. Suddenly, a dark shadow passed through the room. A cold chill lifted her hair. Darkness hovered in a corner further down the hall. Black as night.
Her heart pounded. Her hands shook. "Is
someone there? Hello?"
No
answer. But Claire knew she was not alone.
She
reached for the cell phone sitting on the table and began to back slowly toward
the front door…
To be
continued…
To read a chilling story based on Ravenhurst Manor
and its eccentric owners, written by author Sherry Soule, go HERE
