The modern key for the modern door knob feels out of place for such a house as this, but it makes sense why the city would at least attempt to lock the house up, not that it has mattered with all the broken windows. After the standard home inspection and as the only person bidding, I got to literally name my price for the house (ten grand!!) because apparently the house really is that bad. I think the city council felt guilty accepting any money at all, to be honest, especially with the contract stipulating the requirement to restore the house to a "safe and livable condition" at a steady pace to be declared acceptable by a city appointed contractor, one Jay Meadows, who will inspect the home monthly through this process and also serve as a resource as I figure things out. (A perk for doing the city a favor by taking on the project at all.) I don`t know Jay, but I was promised that he`d meet me at the house sometime today to help me compile a list of projects and organize the priorities. While I know that this is going to be an extreme undertaking, I don`t think I fully understand the true scope of it. I`m going to need Jay`s help.

　　A partly cloudy day with the promise of cleansing rain in the not too distant future, my own thrill of anticipation seems reflected in even the weather. I forgot already how bumpy the neglected road is for the last half mile stretch through the neighborhood. I suppose, now that the papers have been signed and the money transferred, it`s now the Evered mansion? But the history of the home runs much deeper than ownership, and the house itself has now owned the Soward name longer than the people who gave it that name. No. Soward`s mansion it shall remain. The Evered name might make a small blip of an appearance on a plaque someday to acknowledge my short tenure as the home caretaker and to explain away the modern facsimiles of historic details.

　　And there she is. I still remember the first time I saw her as a child one Sunday when father loaded us kids up and took us for a little drive. The intricate, dark trim contrasting strikingly against whitewashed siding, lush gardens, a great fountain front and center- Soward`s mansion was the beautiful crown jewel at the end of the lane. I remember being especially enraptured by the old and consequently massive, perfectly manicured trees lining the street, forming a sort of arched tunnel that framed the mansion and hid the other old homes on either side from view until they were right next to you with their own clean, uniform lawns. As a small child the size of the trees made the lane feel like something out of a fairytale, and it gave the illusion that Soward`s mansion was the only building in the neighborhood, and certainly suggested that the mansion was the only building that even mattered here.

　　Now the trees continue to line the streets, but they are overgrown, the pristine arch effect marred by wayward branches jutting into and disrupting the visual effect as no one has seen fit to prune them back for a few decades now. And the house is less of a crown jewel and more of a condemned eyesore on the end of a long chain of similarly condemned, though less visually impressive, structures hiding behind neglected landscaping.

　　I wonder if anyone lives in these other houses. I don`t actually know, but if anyone does currently live on this street, I can`t tell with little more than a cursory glance to go off of. It is eleven in the morning; no one will have their lights on, people will be at work or school, and the very old or very young will be taking mid-morning naps. I`ll have to investigate the question of neighbors another time.

　　Pothole lane becomes a gravel driveway as the overgrown archway of trees lining a crumbling sidewalk ends. The driveway is one great circle surrounding a grassy island with a whimsical fountain featuring four scantily clad, Romanesque maidens at the center&. At least, that`s what it`s supposed to look like. For now, the wild foliage is doing its best to choke out a stone fountain that has certainly seen better days. Moss and staining have claimed three of the four sprites` faces, and the stone or concrete has cracked in several places.

　　It feels good to park the car and get out to stretch. This old mess is now mine. That`s a strange and intimidating thought as I climb the stairs to the covered porch that spans the entire front of the building- a porch that needs to be torn out and rebuilt from scratch if the obvious wood rot is as extensive as I think it is. The fact that every step I take comes with the squeaking and groaning of bowing wood makes me feel the need to slowly test my weight on each plank before I commit to standing on it.

　　I had my first kiss on this porch. Roland Moore. Prom 1970. Raesport High School had a standing agreement with the Swansons back in the day to use the main floor of their house for prom every May. Roland was a senior, and I was a sophomore. I was too young and stupid at the time to pick up on his hints that year or we might have started dating sooner, but he finally plucked up the courage to ask me out in time for prom- just in time for him to graduate and move to Hestinia and eventually even further as he pursued his education and, presumably, a career. Sometimes I wonder whatever became of Roland. Back when I knew him, he really seemed to be going places. Apparently those places just didn`t include Raesport, though I can`t say that I blame him.

　　The key still feels silly. I passed three broken windows on my way to the front door, two of them had the glass sufficiently cleared away to allow easy access for a person to climb through it&. Or a feral cat. Oh no. The house is probably going to reek of cat urine, but, one step at a time.

　　The door opens to a foyer housing a grand staircase to the right lined with tall wood paneling on the wall side and a rich wooden banister on the other. The stairs are solid wood with a long red carpet running down the middle of them. Paintings and lavish entryway tables covered with flower vases and candlesticks should greet visitors on the left. Except, the foyer of my memory is not the foyer before me.

　　No furniture, no flowers, a solitary painting on the wall that has been slashed and vandalized, the stairs dusty and dark with a frayed carpet stained beyond recognition. Shoes will be necessary to wear throughout the house just to avoid splinters from the worn and abused wood flooring. The wood paneling remains intact with superficial damage only, but the banister isn`t quite so lucky. A few of the balusters appear to have been kicked out of place and snapped off; cobwebs accumulating dust now linger in their places.

　　Have you ever stared at a cobweb? Like, truly studied one? It`s kind of like cloud watching. Something in your brain, or at least in mine, seems determined to make sense of the formless shapes. A string of pearls. A bridal veil. A ghostly figure. A disfigured face. Involuntary shudders tingle down my spine whenever I find such a face in anything. It`s called face pareidolia. I`ve read articles about it. Some people, like myself, find it a little creepy when they look at an inanimate object and find a facial pattern in the mess where none is supposed to exist. It`s almost like the thing is looking back at you, and often the faces bear grotesque, tortured expressions- like the one in this cobweb: a gaping, screaming mouth, eyes clenched unevenly, a crooked, too-long nose. Because I need the cobwebs to scream at me&.The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

　　"Mrs. Evered?"

　　The kindly face at the door is most welcome even though he startled me. "You must be Mr. Meadows. Please, call me Lottie."

　　"Lottie," Mr. Meadows extends his hand to me graciously as I move to greet him. "I`m Jay. So you took on the restoration project!"

　　"As you can see."

　　"Well, good for you." He has a toothy smile, honest, endearing, youthful. Early thirties? "I`ve been itching to screw around in here since the city council added the mansion to their list of projects. Just been waiting for the right partner. No surprises, but you are the only person to express any interest in the challenge."

　　"If you were so eager, why didn`t you take on the project yourself?"

　　"Oh," he chuckles, "I thought about it, but I lack a certain cash flow, and knowing me, I`d get sucked into the project and fail to get anything else done. Still gotta work to pay the bills, ya know? Nah. Supervising the project from a distance is more than plenty for me, but if you do run into any problems or need some extra help&." Reaching into his back pocket, Jay finds and opens his wallet before removing a simple business card. "This is for you. My personal number is on the back. I`m happy to help where I can."

　　"Thank you. That is extremely generous." With the card now in my pocket, "would you like to walk through the house with me?"

　　"I would love to!"

　　***

　　Jay is just exactly the type of person you`d want to help with this sort of job. Endlessly enthusiastic, knowledgeable, pragmatic&. We found a couple of basic chairs in the house during our walkthrough that weren`t broken and relocated the pair to the main floor where there is a table preserved in a corner under a miraculously unbroken window. Here we begin the process of going through Jay`s notes to form a plan.

　　"Really the only first step is to clear out all the unsalvageable junk so you can jump right into the demolition process."

　　"I figured."

　　"It would be good to remove the artifacts` that aren`t completely trashed and put them in storage or send them off to be restored somewhere. With the damage to everything else, it`s going to be hard to preserve the authenticity of the home without retaining some of the original features and doodads."

　　"I agree."

　　"Good! Well, Lottie, how would you like to proceed? I could have a giant dumpster off-loaded in the driveway by tomorrow evening if you`d like."

　　"That seems as good of a place to start as any."

　　He makes another note to himself on a paper buried on his clipboard. "I will make that call," he mumbles to himself. "Are you going to need help clearing the house out?"

　　"Oh, I think I`ll manage. Most of the bigger things are restorable, so I`ll just be scooching them to the middle of the rooms they`re already in so I can demolish the walls."

　　He doesn`t seem convinced based on the pinching I`m observing between his eyebrows, but he is polite enough not to argue. "Well, you have my number if you change your mind."

　　"And I appreciate that."

　　"Hm. Well, I have a lot of notes to sift through, but I think you have enough of a plan to get started."

　　"Yes, thank you."

　　"Remember, don`t knock down any vertical beams before I get the chance to look for the load-bearing ones."

　　"Just the walls," I nod and smile at his fussiness. He`s only told me ten or twenty times. I`m not senile. Not yet anyway.

　　"Alright. I`ll get back to you by the end of the week with a more detailed step-by-step plan. I think it`s going to be a matter of just sorting out priorities. But I think we already agreed to universal gutting and then putting up fresh walls once I check for any stability issues and after the electric and plumbing and AC gets sorted. And then detailing the rooms one-by-one to return the historical character?"

　　"Yes." Again, I`m not senile, but I suppose it doesn`t hurt to review the plan one more time.

　　"And you are going to take up residence in that back chapel?"

　　I laugh at the grimace on his face. "Yes. I will clear that room out first and store the effigies elsewhere."

　　He shudders. "You are a brave lady. That room gave me the creeps."

　　"Not religious?"

　　"Oh, it wasn`t&. I was raised in a Christian home with a very devout mother. I don`t have any problems with religion or being religious, but I`ve never understood the morbid fascination with death and torment that so many zealots engage in."

　　"Historically, Christianity has focused on the crucifixion of Christ, it`s true. I think the goal was to guilt people into obedience by reminding them of the torment suffered on their behalf? It`s bad parenting though," I chuckle.

　　"Bad parenting?"

　　"Guilt tripping wayward souls almost never works. Most people rebel for the sense of manipulation. At least, that`s been my experience. It took a couple thousand years, but I think modern Christianity has adopted more modern methods of persuasion."

　　"I guess, I hadn`t thought about it quite like that, but I can see where you are coming from," Jay nods thoughtfully. "Regardless, that room with all of the figures of the tortured Lord was disturbing."

　　"I think that is probably what saved that room from vandalism. Between the disturbing images and the fact that those images were religious in nature, people have left that room alone."

　　"Yeah. Bad juju to disturb a church. Well, Mrs. Evered, I`ll get out of your hair. Thank you for letting me join you today!"

　　"Thank you for tagging along. Your commentary was very insightful."

　　Walking him to the front door, I can`t help but feel a little anxious about Jay leaving. But with a quick handshake and a smile, the door shuts to the sounds of his boots making the wooden deck without cry as he follows it to the stairs.

　　Quiet.

　　Too quiet. At least with Jay`s casual chattering and easy warmth, the house didn`t feel quite so empty and forlorn.

　　Note to self: bring a radio. A battery-powered one. And lots of batteries.