by S A Jacobs
While her words captivated my attention, I could not stop getting distracted by her looks either. Simple things like how her eyes conveyed so much emotion drew me in. The way she licked her lips slightly before she spoke made my heart race. Her clothes clung to her, accentuating every curve. I often found my eyes start to wander before I forced them back to her face.
The conversation started with her explanation of how she preferred being called ‘Kat’ over ‘Katherine. Soon we were sharing the stories of our lives. She shared a lot about growing up with the stories of her great-great-grandfather and the estate. We laughed, joked, and talked endlessly.
Without realizing it, the simple drink turned into a late night. Soon, the bartender was making the announcement of ‘last call’ even though it felt like we just got there. I had forgotten that I’d just inherited an estate and money; everything in my mind shifted to the amazing night I was having with her. After the last call, we walked back to the parking garage hand-in-hand. It wasn’t awkward. It just felt right.
After a long night, I finally got home and sat down on the couch. Despite everything that had happened, I was thinking of her. I also recognized the absurdity of that fact. Here I was, an overnight millionaire, and my thoughts were of Kat.
I lay there silently with a smile on my face. Thoughts of her slowly let me drift off. I’d nearly fallen asleep when I suddenly remembered the envelope. With a burst of energy, I stood up and retrieved my backpack to pull it out. I got the envelope and turned on the lights.
I sat there for minutes just staring at it. I admired the intricate wax seal and the feel of the paper on my fingertips. Soon, the suspense got to me. I pulled out my pocket knife so I could open it without disturbing the seal.
Inside was a letter. As I pulled out the letter, a pair of keys fell out and clattered to the ground. I picked them up and looked at them for a moment.
They were old and heavy — made of brass. While they were both intricate, they were very different. One resembled a typical old-style skeleton key, only much more ornate. The other was again the same style, but far more elaborately designed. The handle was intricately crafted with branch-like adornments. The loop of the key was not even a loop, but an engraved scene. It almost looked like a picture of a window or a mirror surrounded by leaves. In the center, were some engraved characters I couldn’t quite place.
I set both keys on the table and gently unfolded the letter. It reminded me of a historical document you would see at a museum. The paper was yellowed with age and the text was slightly faded but written in a beautiful script. The writing looked more like artwork than actual letters.
Dearest James,
If you are reading this, you have no doubt taken possession of my once beloved estate, Villa Ortenberg. While I am sure this is all new to you now, I am hoping that in time you will begin to feel the memories of my time at the Villa become clear.
It saddens me greatly to deliver the estate to you in this manner, and you must know I had sought for alternatives. However, the forces at the estate from my former husband became far too great for me to overcome. You are the only one who has a chance to make everything right again. Forgive me as I have failed you in life in many ways. I know that I cannot right all my wrongs, but only do everything I can to give you the opportunity to succeed where I did not.
This letter and the enclosed keys are items which I could only entrust dear Edgar with. Please take the greatest care in using them and undoing what has happened. One of the keys is to my parlor in the Villa. I trust that it is still locked and secured. As for the other key, all I can say is you will understand how to use it when you are required to.
Finally, I have put away some of my dearest personal effects into the safe at the Villa. These items are both extravagant in nature but also very important to me. They are yours to do as you wish with them. The combination to the safe should come as no surprise to you:
2 – 27 – 4
Please do all you can to rectify the wrongs I made in life. I look forward to a moment when we can meet again.
Love Always,
Your Mother – Ida
I set the letter down and was overcome with emotion. On one hand, I completely acknowledged how crazy this all was. Hell, she referred to herself as my mother. Yet she knew she was writing to someone eighty years later. At the same time, something tugged at me emotionally. Maybe it was the whirlwind of everything that happened that day coming to some pinpoint in the letter — or something else completely. Whatever it was, it grabbed me emotionally like nothing else.
I awoke in the morning feeling oddly relaxed. I started to think about the house and everything I inherited. I really knew very little about the house, just the abbreviated history from the lawyer. I knew more than I wanted to about the will, but mansions like that don’t just pop up. There was a story there. A story I didn’t know. How did the affluent life end the way it did? I started assembling questions like that in my head. I then realized how I was going to spend my day.
An hour later, I parked my truck in front of an old house. This particular house was home to the area’s historical society. I walked through the front door. The inside was set up like a museum. An older woman sat at a desk opposite the door. The door shut behind me with a loud thud. She jumped, startled by the noise and looked up at me.
“I’m sorry, there are not many visitors this early in the morning.” She sounded flustered.
She quickly stood up and took a moment to flatten her floral dress.
“I’m Florence,” she said, regaining her composure. “Is there anything I can help you with this morning?”
“Hi, I’m Jim.” I extended my hand. “I’m researching an older home in the area, and I was wondering if you had anything in your collection that could help me out.”
“I’m sure we can help. We have been very blessed to have a lot of things for most of the original homes here. What property are you interested in?”
“I am looking for things specific to the Ida Muller property.”
Her demeanor immediately changed. She looked at me with contempt.
“You mean Mansfeld Manor?” she asked with disdain in her voice.
“Uh no, I am actually referring to Villa Ortenberg,” I said.
“Same place. Mansfeld is what us locals called it after everything.” She still sounded anything but friendly. “I suppose you are another one of those paranormal people trying to dig up something.”
“No, I’m not. But I would be interested in understanding why you would suggest that. I am actually the current owner of the property.”
“Oh please.” She waved her hand at me and rolled her eyes in disbelief. “This is a fine community. The last thing we need is people like you making up stories to tarnish our past.”
“Ma’am, I’m sorry, but I assure you that is not what I am looking to do. I am indeed the owner.”
“Jim is it? I have work to do, and I don’t intend to listen to your lies. Good day.” She sat back at her desk.
“I am sorry if I offended you,” I said trying to keep from yelling at her, “but I assure you I’m not lying.”
She turned in the chair and looked at me with a scowl. “Look, mister, I don’t know what you want. I would be glad to help you, but don’t come in here telling me you are the owner of Mansfeld. There is no owner of Mansfeld. Maybe if you did your research you would know that no one has owned that property since Ida Mansfeld herself passed. She didn’t leave it to her kids. She left it to some unknown heir at some unknown time in the future.”
“And maybe if you did your research you would know that the unknown time actually took place about two weeks ago and the unknown heir is me. I would prove it to you, but I certainly didn’t expect to you to require proof of ownership in such a fine community as this.” I started walking towards the door.
“Wait,” she said releasing air from her lungs and letting her guard down. “You’re serious. I don’t know what to say. It’s just, well
, no one believed the heir would ever arrive. That is how the papers talked about it anyway.”
“Well, it certainly happened. I don’t know much of the history that you speak of, but I am the owner.” I turned back to face her.
“That’s right! I remember now. The original papers stated something like 80 years in the future, which would be right about now! I cannot believe this happened. Well, that and, you must understand, Mansfeld has been a dark cloud over this community for so long. I get tired of people looking to focus on the dirt when there is so much more to this area. Anyway, please accept my apology.”
I stopped and looked at her. I couldn’t help but notice not only her age but the way she talked about the property — as if she had witnessed everything.
“Florence, how long have you lived here?” I asked.
“Oh dear, I was born here and have been here all my life. Born in 1934, but I suppose I don’t remember much from before 1940 or so.”
“So, you were here when they closed the estate in 1943?” I asked.
“Yes, I was just a girl, but I do remember that. As you can imagine it was quite a little news story.”
“So, are you saying that you are not too busy and would be willing help me?” I asked.
She lowered her head and took a deep breath. “I apologized once — I am not going to do it again, but yes I will gladly help you. But mark my words, if I come to find that this is some ruse… well, do not underestimate this old woman.” Her words were stern, and her jaw set tightly. “Please come have a seat in here and let me grab a few things.”
She led me to the dining room of the house, which was converted to a conference room.
A few minutes later she returned to the dining room pushing a cart with a couple of file boxes on it.
“Where would you like to start?” she asked, sitting down.
“Honestly, I would love to get some insight from you as to why the paranormal investigators are looking into the property.”
“Oh dear, it is mostly folklore I’m sure,” she replied dismissively.
“Well, that is even better. Since you grew up here, I’m sure you heard your share of that folklore first hand,” I said.
“It is just wild imaginations of kids if you ask me. But you are right. I was here. In the beginning, it was stories revolving around Samuel Jr. That was Ida’s child who died when he was only four. At any rate, when the child of such a prominent family dies for unknown reasons, rumors start to spread. Samuel, Ida’s husband… he ended up being truly a wicked man. Then, there was Ida herself. That poor woman. Rumors were she lost her mind and began to dabble in black magic. No one really knows what had happened there. But it was clear, based on the little information the public had, that some terrible things took place. Of course, once the manor was closed, these stories really caught on. Boys would sneak in there at night and come back with horrendous tales of being chased by the ghost of Ida or rabid wolves with red eyes guarding the property. Like I said, all a bunch of mumbo-jumbo.”
“I understand. I would like to know as much of the real story as possible. But I also understand that sometimes when there isn’t real information to be had, the rumors can help fill the gaps.”
“Surely you don’t believe there are wolves roaming the estate.” Her defensive tone resurfaced.
“Absolutely not,” I said, trying to ease her mind. “But I also feel that those stories may have begun with some element of the truth. Why don’t we focus on what we do know.”
“Actually, there is a lot here. Especially when you consider there were no family keeping these items together. If memory serves me, these files were donated to the city by the butler after the estate was closed.”
She put one of the boxes on the table and opened it, slowly taking out items and setting them on the table.
“This box is mostly photos of the estate. Again, with no family to pass these to, the city got them.”
The first photo that caught my eye was a picture of a young woman standing in front of what looked like a fountain terrace. I picked it up and looked closer. She was beautiful in a stately way.
“Would you happen to know who this is?” I asked.
“Oh, that is Ida Mansfeld. And from the looks of it, that is a very early photo of her.”
I spent the next hour or so flipping through the photos. There were a massive amount of them. Most of them were of Ida and the family, but some were of the house. Seeing the gardens and landscape in those photos made it hard to believe this estate was real, and that it was mine.
Florence helped me acquaint myself with what was in the photos. She had a keen eye and was able to quickly identify the people in each shot, including Samuel Muller, Ida’s husband, and other notable people from the area.
I picked up one of the last photos on the table. The moment I looked at it I felt a sharp pain in my head. I closed my eyes hard trying to shake it off, and when I opened them all I could see was a bright light. I dropped the photo on the table and pressed the heels of my hands into my temples. After a few moments, the pain started to subside. I opened my eyes and looked at the photo again.
There was Ida. Again, a younger Ida. She was seated, holding a glass of champagne. Next to her was her husband Samuel. They were posing with another man I hadn’t seen before. Both men were dressed in suits and had glasses of whiskey in their hands. In the photo, there was a large white stripe across the dark wooden table they sat at. They both seemed to be trying to hold their drinks across the white stripe. I flipped the photo over and noticed there was some writing on the back.
“Cloudland – 1907 – Gen. Wilder”
I flipped it back over. Again, there was a sharp surge of pain in my head. I took out my phone and snapped a picture of both the front and the back of the photo.
Florence gave me a stern look as I took the picture.
“Sorry, I am just trying to capture some of this history to understand the whole story.”
She removed her glasses letting them hang from the attached chain. I feared a quick reprimand was coming, but she surprised me by placing her hands on top of mine.
“Is it any surprise to you that we have no exhibits in this building dedicated to your estate or its former owners?” she asked.
“I guess I didn’t think about it.”
“When it comes to money and status, Ida and Samuel were without a doubt the most affluent residents of this community ever. We are blessed to have a wealth of photos and documents about the estate, and yet, there is nothing on display. This is not by accident, James. Whether you believe the ghost stories or not, there is a reason we refer to the house as Mansfeld Manor. That estate and Samuel cast a dark shadow across this community. When the estate fell apart, we couldn’t continue using the formal name, Villa Ortenberg. Mansfeld Manor soon became the name, stripping any relation to Samuel indefinitely. The history books tell of his wealth and his prosperity, but this is not the real story.”
“What is the real story?” I asked.
“The real story is far less documented. Buried like the remnants of that once great home. The real picture of life at the Villa comes to us in fragmented stories. There were stories of excess. As you can imagine, Samuel came off as a bit of a playboy. But there is more. There was a much darker side. Police work wasn’t much back then. Combine that with the fact that no police squad would ever dare accuse someone of his prestige with anything, and you get a massive amount of unanswered questions left in his wake. Strange stories, missing people, even dark rituals were commonplace around here. There were tales of families coming to town looking for loved ones who had been visiting Samuel and were then never heard from again. He was constantly hiring new help at the home, but the staff was not turning over…they just vanished.
“I have no doubt that there is a lot of folklore involved. But, as you said, folklore does almost always start with an element of truth. You will never see black and white reports on any of this. The only fact I can relay is that people h
ere were uneasy with his presence. That is, until he disappeared. Shortly after Ida abandoned the house, he just vanished… and this community wasn’t exactly concerned about finding him.”
I was shocked at what she was saying. Every answered question led to ten new unanswered ones.
“You said wanted to know about the house,” she continued. “I feel it only right to tell you the truth. Not all history is good history. Some questions are best left unanswered. Remember that as you continue to dive into this. If I were you, I would focus on the house itself. As for its former occupants, it may be best to leave that alone.”
I nodded in response. I wanted to ask more but felt as though she had closed that door.
“I must tend to some other matters. If you need me for anything else, I will be at my desk.” She curtly stood up and left me with the boxes.
The next box contained fewer photos and a lot of papers. As I went through it, I realized that the papers were original plans for the estate. Floor by floor blueprints of the home. Plans for the servant quarters. Even sketches planning the gardens down to the details of what kinds of flowers should be planted where.
After paging through, I stood up and walked over to Florence who was now working at her desk.
“Excuse me, I need to leave in a moment, but I’ve a question for you.”
“Yes, what is it?” she asked.
“I noticed that you have the original plans for the house… or at least some variation of them. As I’m looking to restore it, these would be a tremendous help. Is there any way I would be able to get them duplicated?”
“Of course. Most of our files have already been digitized. But these haven’t been touched, I’m afraid. I can arrange to have them added to our next group.”
“That would be much appreciated,” I said. “And thank you for your time today.”
“Just a moment, did you say that you are planning to restore the house?”
“Well, that is the plan. Of course, we will have to see what it’ll take to make that happen.”
