Winifred Pickle and The Ghost of Godwin Manor



I did not openly object to our move. It wasn’t necessarily my place to question where my Aunt and Uncle had insisted on living. When I saw the house however, a feeling inside my stomach told me that Freddie’s cries of objection were perhaps the most normal reaction a sane human being could have. It was the most intimidating house I have ever seen. It was three stories high and lingered over us as though it was mocking us with its presence.

The exterior walls were a deep, dark grey, almost black in certain areas. All the windows were filthy and closed shut; all except one.

It was on the top floor to the farthest left point of the house. It hung wide open in an awkward manner with dead orange leaves cluttering the ledge. You could see nothing inside though, just a deep blackness. It was as though the house would not dare let the light in, no matter how hard it tried to break through.

I found out later that evening that this was to be Freddie’s room. She complained all through dinner about the hoard of dead leaves covering her bedroom floor.

I stared at her as she demolished her soup. Her copper locks were no longer free flowing like they used to be. Her hair was pulled up into a high bun at the top of her head. I also noticed a hint of eye shadow, a shimmery blue across her lids.

It was difficult to talk to her these days and I couldn’t really understand why. I like kids because they don’t care what people think. I suppose it was easier to talk to her when I had nothing to fear. I now have everything to fear and everything to lose. Something deep inside me lingered like a hidden disease; a trouble I could not name, nor identify.

What I did know in this moment however, was that I did not want Freddie to have that room.



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