The Promontory - Chapter 1

The Promontory

Presley Acuna

It was our dream home, in many ways. We had saved and made our plans and wrestled with the pitfalls until we stood before it, hand in hand, on that cold spring morning. I still can remember all the sensations of that moment - perhaps because of everything that happened later.

There was the sharp smell of cut wood and the oven warmth of the sun on our faces even as the cold, late winter breeze chilled our skin. The sky was a crystalline blue, laced with wisps of cloud and giving just a hint of moisture to the air. Birds sang in isolated bursts.

The construction equipment lay inert to the side of the property, like a tired army, resting after victory. Before us, what was once a dense expanse of untainted forest was now a cleared space of turned soil and sharp edges - our newly erected, single level, ranch house.

In those days, there wasn't much out here on the forest border of Suffolk County. A few randomly situated homes such as ours, lots of potato farms, and the occasional long standing estate from the days of wealthy gentry. Our place was just across the road from one of those ancient bulwarks. It might have once been a nexus of social pageantry but now it stood alone and abandoned.

Somewhat surprisingly, the cost of the lot had been phenomenally inexpensive. I simply couldn't turn it down. Sure, it was out in the middle of nowhere and I was going to have to commute into the city every day, which would be inconvenient -- and my days in the office were long. Yes, I would worry about Julie getting lonely with no one but the baby growing inside of her for company. But it was wide, open space and the chance to build a place we could call our own.

So we laid down our stakes and we built, and now our country home stood proudly before the freshly tarred road, defiantly facing that silent, tangled pile of stone and vines, which brooded behind wrought iron gates.

"Do you think they’re angry with us? That we blemished their view?” joked Julie.

She knew the ruin was empty but she liked to pretend otherwise. I laughed and held her close. Her fragrance filled my senses.

”They say no one's lived there for decades. There’s probably a circle of skeletons gathered around a bridge table just waiting for you to visit.”

"I'll make you sleep outside if you keep that up.”

She slugged me on the arm and led me inside. Our footsteps clomped loudly on the wood planks of the porch, sounding alien in the deciduous silence.

There was not a stick of furniture in the place, but it was large -- larger than anything we had ever lived in, and virgin. There was a sunken living room area made grand by the significant polished stone fireplace set against the far wall – my only required indulgence.

Further down, an open dining area, and to the left, a modern and spacious kitchen. Off to the right of the living room and foyer area was a long hallway with several rooms. There would be space enough for a pottery studio, an office for myself and plenty of bedrooms for present and future family. And out behind the kitchen, a huge greenhouse and terrace, ready to be populated with plants and flowers. Julie's face shone with the promise of it.

We moved in two weeks later.

The furniture from the old apartment seemed out of place and small in the midst of the wide, sunny rooms. There was even a noticeable echo. But we were intoxicated by the newness of the place, here at the frontier of the world, where there was only us, the bare walls and the proto-suburban wilderness.

We were like kids. We sat on the living room floor late at night, ranks of candles bestowing the room with a fierce, flickering glow. We played games of hide-and-seek, loving the luxury of such a grand choice of hiding places. We roamed the forest during the gloaming hour of the late evening and just as the darkness began to forebode and the evening chill became sharp, we took joy in seeing our defiantly illuminated and warmly beckoning hearth.

But after a time and another time of this, the novelty began to subside inexorably into a feeling of purpose and a realization of requirements. Practical considerations followed.

And across the way, as my wife grew more pregnant with every turn of the calendar page, the craggy mansion of our unknown predecessors seemed to be silently waiting, the old, moss covered stones and rusting iron gratings watching us with somber indifference.

You could see the house from our living room window, high on a rise beyond the heavy gates. It stood dark and unmoving, night after night, like a sunken galleon suddenly raised from the waters and left to grow ivy on its briny carcass as it dried.

"Maybe they were an enclave of old widows who committed suicide in a wicked, occult ritual,” Julie whispered, her breath a ticklish air inside my ear.

"Or maybe one night they just disappeared through a dimensional tear in the space-time fabric!” I tried.

"Oh, Peter, that's so boring! It was something much scarier.”

"You're right. More likely it was a wild Cro-Magnon tribe, survived into modern times, smelling the beef roast through the windows of the mansion and going wild with hunger until they finally could stand it no longer, then in a ravenous frenzy they beat down the main doors, crashed through the windows and, not finding the roast, ate the hapless inhabitants of the estate instead. Yeah, that's right. Better?"

Julie just stared at me speechless for a minute or two, her eyes a dark liquid.

"Not bad, you jerk. Can we go to bed now?"

Strangely, as we settled into our new home, our attentions to the caretaking of our property were diverted to the silent house across the way. Even when we did not speak of it, we both knew we were thinking of it. There were no other houses on our street and there were precious few diversions -- malls were still decades away -- so perhaps it was not all that surprising. Finally one hot, sunny day we were working on the front yard laying down grass seed, when Julie found something.

"Peter, come look at this!"

I hurried over, wiping the sweat off my brow, and followed her gaze down to the ground.

A small rusted object lay in the dirt, miraculously free of oxidation and reflecting the sunlight. It must have caught Julie's eye. I bent down and lodged it free from the sticky loam, bringing it up between us.

"It's a key,” she gasped.

"And a pretty old one judging from the design of it,” I answered. I turned it in my hands and fingered off some of the dirt.

"Look, there's a number on the face of it,” she said.

I nodded, also noticing it, and chinked off some more of the dirt with my grimy fingernail.

"3-A,” I recited slowly.”

"An apartment number?"

"No,” I whispered, realizing what it was at once.

Julie's eyes followed mine across the street.

I nodded. "That's the address of...”

"Do you suppose?”

"Let's go find out!"

We dropped our gardening tools and made our way across the road to the base of the gates protecting the mansion. I examined the iron work for a keyhole. There was none. I grabbed the iron bars and rattled the gate. There was a crack and the tinkle of metal falling to the ground.

"You broke the gate, Peter. Now the ghosts of this place will want your head.”

"Stop,” I said, surprised at the effect of her words on me.

I pushed open the gate and we stepped in.

Julie giggled. "I bet no one’s been here in a generation.”

The grounds were a tangle of dried brambles and overgrown weeds. The broken stone pathway, at one time meandering and decorative, was now barely visible. At last, we stood before a pair of heavy wooden doors, deep with inlaid carvings and crenellations. Above the door, written in an ornate, gothic script, was engraved:

The Promontory

I inserted the old key into the keyhole of the door and turned it. It resisted only momentarily, then gave with an iron groan.

"It works!” I exclaimed, hunching down in surprise at my own loud voice.

Julie pushed on the door, grunting a little in exertion. No luck. I gave the door a shove and it abruptly yielded, swinging wide open to reveal - or rather not reveal - the interior, for it was utter blackness within. We stood before the yawning portal, not daring to take another step.

"You first.” she ordered.

"What?"

"Go in!"

"Um, OK.”

"What are you waiting for? Go!” she snapped and without warning, shoved me in. What a woman.

Stumbling in the darkness, I found my legs and swallowed my heart back down my throat. I stood perfectly still. Slowly, my eyes adjusted to the very faint hint of light within and I tried to look around.

"What do you see?” Julie called after me.

"It's too dark to tell - only shapes.”

"Have you got any matches?"

"No. Fine time to ask.”

"Be careful,” she intoned, ignoring my quip. Her silhouette leaned inwards, trying to see.

I felt my way in the darkness towards a crack of light visible about two feet above my head.

CRASH!

I had bumped into something hard and evidently knocked it over. Glass crunched beneath my feet.

'Peter?” Julie called, her voice flavored with concern.

"I'm OK.”

I reached up and felt for the sliver of luminescence I had observed. My fingers just fit into the gap, which felt moist. I pried it open.

Painful, bright light flooded into the room, revealing the interior for the first time in perhaps decades. I covered my eyes reflexively and crouched down. Through my blindness I heard Julie gasp. As my eyes recovered from the sudden change in illumination, I took in with growing incredulity the sight before me.

All around us was a well-appointed salon straight out of a nineteenth century gothic novel. Persian rugs carpeted the floor. Leather wing chairs were situated at either side of a long expired, but still impressive brick fireplace. A huge, silk covered sofa rested some distance back from the fireplace. The mummified, great heads of animals hung on the walls, interspersed with Old Master works depicting mythical beasts and genteel hunting scenes. A Tiffany lamp lay in colored crystal shards on the ground, a testimony to my clumsy groping in the dark.

As impressive as all this was, what was most disconcerting of all was the fact that not one particle of dust could be detected on any of the artifacts within the room. I had half expected to discover a pile of broken sticks and moth eaten remnants - perhaps covered in white sheets, like corpses inside a mausoleum. But not this. The room looked inviting. It even looked recently occupied. It was as if the place was alive with the presence of its owners still.

"This is really amazing, Peter,” croaked Julie, entering the room now with a bit more aplomb. Her eyes danced with interest.

"You're not kidding,” I responded distractedly.

"I feel a little naughty. It’s like someone still lives here,” she admitted.

"I know what you mean. It's almost like we're trespassing.”

"Well, aren't we?"

"That's not possible. I mean… it can’t be, right?” I stammered.

She took a step closer to me. "What should we do?"

"Maybe we should leave?” I half-asked.

"While we still can, you mean?"

"No! Not that. Even though it seems impossible, someone must live here.”

“But who! And how?”

“We have to find out. I think we should look around. Don’t you want to find out what’s really going on here?”

“Yeah.”

My little display of bravado seemed to relax her. She released me and declared, "Alright. I'm right behind you.”

We opened all the shutters and proceeded to give the house a good thorough look-see. We returned to the foyer area and ascended the great curving staircase up to the second floor and found it to be similarly preserved. There was a fully stocked reading room/library. The shelves were filled with books covering every wall from floor to ceiling, and there was a rolling ladder on a rail to allow access to all the myriad tomes. The master bedroom featured a large round mosaic glass window set high on the wall displaying the images of satyrs and nymphs in various acts of fornication.

The bathrooms still had towels on the hand racks, not the slightest bit sour or weathered. The fixtures were splendid vintage 19th century polished brass and ivory jobs. There was also a variety of antique colored glass jars on a glass shelf above the sink - for creams and unguents, no doubt.

"Peter, did you see these? They're precious.”

"And probably priceless,” I breathed, admiring the porcelain work. “I can't understand how this house could be ignored for all these years, and yet still be so well preserved.”

"It's definitely strange - and wonderful,” she said, opening one of the small, cut glass jars and taking a whiff.

I wondered about that last comment but, suddenly struck with a sense of impropriety, I succumbed to an impulse to leave.

"Let's go, Julie. My cup runneth over.”

"Um, OK.”

We fairly rushed out of there and silently made our way back to our own house. I carefully shut the door and turned to face Julie. She was smiling.

"That was really neat. What a mystery! I haven't had that much fun since the days when we used to explore the old asylum on Ellis Island,”

I nodded, remembering. "I think we should drive into the town and ask around about old 3-A.”

"The Promontory. What a name.”

"Sounds foreboding,” I said as we both plopped down on the sofa.

"Peter, I think we should take it slow,” she said, sitting down and crossing her legs at the ankles. As she continued, she began to run her fingers through her hair. She always did that when she was up to something. "Let's not say anything to anyone just yet. Let's keep this to ourselves.”

I frowned. "But why? Aren't you curious to learn more about the whoever lived -- or lives -- there?"

She reached across the back of the sofa and took my hand.

"Yes, I am. But this is a secret that only you and I know. It makes me feel close to you, Peter. Let's just have some fun with it before we blow the whistle. OK?"

I thought I understood. But there was more, I could tell. I tried to read her thoughts through her face but she was opaque All she would give me was a vague bemused expression.

To be continued…