Cast Down; Remnants
The following is an excerpt from one of the new Cast Down series novels I'm working on. This one is called "Remnants". It's a companion novel to "A New England Haunting" and can be read independently of the first book, though it will make a little more sense if read as part of the series. Old friends from Ridgefield may recognize the location I've chosen and put a spin on for this book. I'm using the first concept for the cover art here, but there is a piece of original artwork being created for the amazing cover that will go on the book once it's finished!
Revelation 12:7-9
Then war broke out in heaven. Michael
and his angels fought against the dragon, and the dragon and his angels fought
back. But he was not strong enough, and they lost their place in
heaven. The great dragon was hurled down—that ancient serpent called the
devil, or Satan, who leads the whole world astray. He was hurled to the earth,
and his angels with him.
⸎
The
old mansion that burned down. It
was a common phrase used in town when referring to the three hundred acres on
the east side of town. The old mansion
hadn’t actually burned down, it had been torn down but for some reason the idea
of a massive fire consuming everything except the chimneys and the marble
staircase seemed to be the way people in Bridgefield wanted to remember
it.
The sprawling estate was originally
built for the owner of a prestigious hat factory in New York City, who fought
in the battle of Gettysburg and often entertained the likes of Mark Twain. In addition to the imposing forty-five room stone
mansion there were carriage houses, a massive swimming pool and several modest
homes occupied by servants and caretakers.
There were fountains and gardens and miles of trails through the
woods. There were also stables; one that
sheltered up to twenty horses, and one, closest to the main house was built for
just a single special horse; the Palomino pony, favored pet of the estate
owner’s young daughter.
The property was sold shortly after
the horse, startled by a snake on a wooded trail, threw the girl to the ground,
breaking her neck. The beloved pony’s
fate was never recorded.
The next owner of the estate was an
international jewelry magnate who set foot in the home exactly twice after
closing the deal, though ownership was not transferred again for several years. It was widely rumored that his wife hated the
home at first sight and refused to move even a single piece of furniture into
it after the initial walk through. The
mansion sat vacant for some time while the magnate hoped for his adamant wife
to change her mind. The caretaker living
in one of the servant’s cottages shot himself in the head one snowy winter
night. He was found early the following
spring by a prospective buyer.
Less than two months after the
grisly discovery of the caretaker, a consortium of physicians purchased the
estate with a sanitorium in mind. The
venture never got off the ground. The
plethora of accidents and the death of one contractor during the renovation
process brought the project to an untimely end.
The estate’s next incarnation was a
short-lived “dude ranch” which failed almost immediately. The elegant architecture of the small castle
hardly lent itself to the rustic ranch feel the new owners were trying
for. The few guests they had departed
long before the end of their bookings and not a single guest ever completed a
ride along the miles of scenic trails.
Most of the former servant’s cottages were used by the seasonal
employees and quickly fell into disrepair.
The luckless Palomino’s former abode was converted into an office with a
small kitchen and upstairs sleeping area.
Priests became the next residents of
the mansion. They stayed only slightly
longer than the guests of the dude ranch, though the secluded property had
seemed so utterly perfect for prayer and meditation. Although the Order demolished the small
dwellings on the land to curtail temptation, they kept the tiny stable/office
as a simple retreat for people from the outside wanting to get away from it all
for a few days and participate in some of the quiet, comforting rituals. The visitors were free to stay in the little
building, which now had a wood burning stove upstairs for warmth, and to wander
the old riding trails through the vast woods.
There were no real explanations
shared with the town as to why the Fathers quite suddenly ceased to occupy the
estate.
The town of Bridgefield grew up
around the abandoned property and ownership changed hands again. The wealth of the town continued to increase
exponentially, but no longer were estates of such a size in demand. The manor sat vacant and rumors started to
grow along with the incidents of vandalism.
Tall tales of satanic worship and black masses in the woods soon began
to pop up. People whispered of missing
pets and livestock from the area, and bonfires seen late at night. The stories of witches’ covens circulated and
did nothing to discourage local teens from hiking to the old mansion with
coolers of beer and bags of pot.
This
time the new owner was someone who had no intention of living there at
all. A smart developer jumped on the
rock bottom pricing and brought in a crew to strip down the old mansion for
salvage, made his money back on that alone and then subdivided the land into
generous five to ten acre parcels which were gradually purchased and built
upon. He found it curious that the most
interesting lots were the ones that sold last; the lots with the old chimneys,
the marble stairs and what could still be seen of the swimming pool that he’d
filled in for safety.
On one side of the development was
Garvey Road, which the Cross and Barton families soon began building on. The opposite end became Hopewell Road, where
the one remnant of the estate remained intact; the single stall stable, which
had been so many times repurposed. It
made a lovely little guest house. At
least that was what Janet Smythe and her new husband thought when they began
building their home many years later.
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