There are many forgotten estates in the world. They skulk along the immeasurable streets, avenues and lanes, brooding in the shadows of their walls, staring out forlornly from the sockets of stained glass windows. They mark the countryside, like ancient monuments, their pale facades a grim expression against the surrounding fecundity - stark death masks amongst the deep trees and deeper wood. Some are great, some are small, but they all protrude from the world like skew teeth, slightly off, dislodged and unaligned with the mechanics of time. That is what happens to the unwanted. They fade away into the spaces between memories, they slip into a slow decay. They wallow in the shallows of what once was, and what will never be again. Halls once filled with the rush of footsteps yawn vacantly. Rooms once warm with the glow of lamps; parlours once crowned with the jubilant humdrum of banter and chiming crystal; and, doors swinging to and fro with the coming of busy souls all stand in their silence. Broken and undone. Remade into something other. Disjointed. Haunted.
These are the places Patrick Siddle looks after. He has done so for as long as he can remember, ever since he could call himself an adult. At least, that is what his memory tells him. But he can’t be sure. Not entirely. Strange things happen to those who linger in abandoned places. They become as bereft as the stone and wood which they preside over. Over time, they take on the character of the neglected and condemned. Patrick Siddle is no exception. His body is bent, his skin scaled and rough like old masonry, and his eyes sigh with the dullness of a misty morning. He is a jagged cathedral of flesh and bone. A spire with lungs. A crooked church tower with failing hair.
Patrick Siddle has cared for many forsaken houses in his time, and he has never questioned their history, he has never pried into the affairs of those who still hold claim over such relics. It’s better that way. Old families bear black histories, and houses are the burial ground for dark secrets. Ignorance is preferred. After all, what business was it of his? He is but a simple custodian. All that was required of him, is the preservation of the property. No vagrants. No pests. No calamities. And in return, he is permitted to take up residence on the property. That is the pact. Simple and straightforward.
Yet, the house on Serpentine Road is different.