The Ghost of Buxton Manor book review

I wanted to post something I thought was really special. I had sent my newest novel “The Ghost of Buxton Manor”to Alex Oliveira in exchange for a honest review. Not only was her review amazing but she fell in love with the real story of Rupert Buxton and Michael Davies just as Aaron and I had. Alex is a talented writer herself and wrote a poem based off the story and (with her permission) I wanted to share it with all of you. Here is her poem as well as a link to her website. Go check her out!


“Remembering Peter Pan” by Alex Oliveira

and perhaps, one day
you might have liked to grow
and share your Neverland
with someone you’d come to know

but was life ever fair
to boys who were lost
granted, you discovered yourself
but at what cost?

they said to never say goodbye
and to never go away
but they forgot to warn you
sometimes life won’t let you stay

and you’ll never be forgotten
because we all believe
with a bit of fairy dust
in our Neverland, you’ll forever live.

The Ghost of Buxton Manor (Physical Copy open for preorder)





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Calling all book reviewers! Get your free copy of “The Ghost of Buxton Manor”

Hello all!


I’m officially giving out free E-book copies of my newest novel “The Ghost of Buxton Manor” in exchange for a honest review. If you would like to participate in reviewing the novel feel free to email me your request at The novel is releasing October 12, 2016 and is up for preorders.

I couldn’t be more excited!



There is not a single thing I remember about my life. I died nearly a hundred years ago, yet I haven’t the slightest idea to why I died at the young age of seventeen. ALWAYS I’m trapped within Buxton Manor, without any means of traveling beyond my quarters. I spend my time reading and writing. By the way, literature is my only connection to the physical world, yet why that is another puzzle I can’t seem to solve. It’s rather lonely here, stuck IN such a grand manor, but I do enjoy the rare visitors: Bloody Mary, the Weeping Bride, the Headless Horseboy, and of course, the jolly old ghost, my therapist of the Deceased. They’ve all tried to help me, aiding me in uncovering my unfinished business, but so far they’ve proven ineffective. All that is about to change. A new family is moving in to OUR family estate; the first family in over a century, including a boy my own age (or at least the age I was at my time of death). I don’t know what it is about him that I find so fascinating. It seems he might have seen me, or at least, dreamt about me because, you see, he’s drawn me. He’s an artist, rather good actually, and he has drawn me since he was a little boy.
Aaron, this boy who I thought was a perfect stranger, he helps me remember….

The Ghost of Buxton Manor is a young adult, paranormal LGBT novel about first love, adventure, and finding your purpose in an unfamiliar place. The novel is complete at 325 pages and is suitable for ages 15 and up.

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The Ghost of Buxton Manor: Free Chapter 2

Chapter 2:

My mind whirled, racing at a speed I wasn’t used to. I couldn’t believe this was happening. Someone was moving into my home. Soon, there would be people sleeping in my bedroom, eating in my dining room, reading in my library. Nearly a hundred years later, and finally, Buxton Manor had been pulled from the market.
What was I to do?
I began to make my way back to the Manor, reminiscing over what it all could mean. Just when I reached the front doors, I turned around at the out-of-place sound of a neigh.
Out from the woods emerged a coach-less carriage, rocking back and forth on the untamed path, pulled by two monstrous steeds. I use the word “monstrous” for a reason. You see, this particular pair of horses was never from the living world. This was clear to me almost instantly. They were fleshless creatures without an ounce of muscle—or organs, for that matter. They were merely bones fastened together like the remains of a dinosaur displayed in a museum. However, unlike the extinct, reptilian beasts, these horses were somehow alive.
They barreled straight for me, galloping across the lane, fog gliding away due to their heavy stomps. The reigns in which the carriage was attached appeared about ready to snap from the way it was chaotically dragged, knocking into massive roots, wooden wheels falling into potholes before being hauled out. I’m not sure I had ever been so startled before. If I had any bowel movement at all, I was certain they would have released against my will.
The horses slowed, soon prancing, eventually coming to a halt. The carriage door swung open. From the front porch, I strained to see inside, but it was shrouded in a cloud of white as though a passenger had been smoking cigars throughout their entire journey. A man soon surfaced from within, a caterpillar mustache stretching along his upper lip, his round belly resting on his knees. He wore a moth-eaten coat made of wool, a matching cap upon his head, and he carried a leather briefcase. With his cane, the stranger hoisted himself out of the coach. That’s when I realized that, like myself, the man was transparent.
His beady little eyes stuck in a permanent squint settled upon me, my mouth still gaping from shook.
“Rupert, I presume?”
I hadn’t spoken to anyone before, and so I was not sure how to maneuver my lips to form a sentence. I nodded instead.
“Good gracious. You’re a difficult fellow to get a hold of, you know?”
He hobbled toward me, waiting for a response, but still I couldn’t seem to wag my tongue.
He stared into my eyes. “Are you mute?”
I gulped, my mouth seemed somehow dry. “No, sir. I can speak.”
“Good. That will make this a whole lot easier.” He gestured to the Manor’s tall, front doors. “Shall we?”
“After you.”
I followed him through the closed doors, drifting after him across the foyer, arriving in the sitting room. The man took hold of the cloth covering the sofa, and dramatically yanked, unveiling a daybed like a magician presenting an act. I was so confused, my head was spinning. I had never had a visitor before, and so I was not sure how to behave.
Reluctantly, I sat down beside him. “I wish I could fetch you something, but I’m afraid I haven’t anything to offer.”
“No trouble at all. I had the pleasure in smelling some marvelous croissants before I left—molded to perfection, just how I like them.” Chuckling, he patted his bouncing belly, “I couldn’t possibly have another sniff.”
He plopped his briefcase on the coffee table and clicked it open. I watched as he collected a stack of paper, some blank parchment, and a writing utensil. I was sure he was working up to an introduction, but I couldn’t wait a moment longer.
“Forgive me, I don’t mean to be rude, but who are you?”
He took a moment to respond, making himself comfortable before he spoke. “My name is Dr. Walter Wyman, licensed therapist to the dead. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“…The pleasure is mine?”
“Now, Rupert, I have a few items to go over with you: just a few simple policies and procedures. I can assure you that they’re not too difficult to grasp. Then, I would like to ask you some questions.”
I grinned. “You have questions for me? I have about a hundred for you.”
“In due time.”
He was disorganized, rummaging through his files, glancing from one page to the next until he found the one he intended to.
He leaned across the sofa, his eyes were so close that I felt like I was under a microscope, “Tell me, Rupert, what do you remember about the day you died?”
I was somewhat taken aback by the abruptness of his first question. “Nothing.”
He retreated into an upright position, jotting notes on his pad, eyeing me as he did so. “How long have you been haunting?”
“Haunting?” I chuckled, “You’re mistaken. I live here.”
He nodded in a way that was sympathetic, but also suggested he might have just learned something significant from my answer that I didn’t fathom.
“Not aware of his haunting,” he repeated to himself while scribbling my answer down on the parchment. “I wonder, are you capable of manipulating physical objects?”
“Only books,” I said, wondering what he knew that I didn’t. “But I can write as well.”
“Interesting,” he acknowledged. “I assume you must have had somewhat of an appreciation for literature in your most recent life.”
“Yes, I believe so.”
He glanced at his paperwork. “In regards to this property, Buxton Manor, I see here that there aren’t any other ghosts on record. Is that correct?”
“I am alone.”
“Must get lonely at times,” he assumed. “Would you care to talk about it?”
“No, thank you.” I became frustrated, “What exactly are you here for?”
Dr. Wyman held up his hand, sausage-shaped fingers extended upwards as a way of silencing me. With the same hand, he reached back into his briefcase and retrieved a sturdy piece of paper on which I couldn’t see what was written.
“I have here your death certificate.”
My eyes bulged. “Where did you get that?”
“It indicates you died on June 12, 1917, shortly after your seventeenth birthday. Now, that is a long time for a haunting to transpire, and typically I would have been sent to you much sooner, but I’m afraid your circumstances are rather unique; bearing in mind this residence has been isolated from the outside world since you’ve perished. Ordinarily, those new to the deceased community are given time to adjust. We try not to intervene, but hope the individual ghost can figure things out for themselves. Unfortunately, within the last hundred years, you’ve grown little. And so, I was sent to you. I will visit for a duration of an hour each week. This will be one of many sessions in which I will assist you in the process of remembrance.”
I slumped into the couch. “I don’t understand. What do I have to remember?”
“Then allow me to clarify.” Dr. Wyman began to explain in a soothing tone—one I was positive he used with his other patients, “When we die, our souls are released from our former body. Sort of like a caterpillar from a cocoon that will later transpire into a butterfly—there are stages to our existence. Now, some of us choose to step into the light and ascend into the heavens; while others, like you and I, stay put. The most common reason as to why a soul will linger on Earth is because they have unfinished business they wish to attend to. The tricky part of that is they haven’t the slightest idea to what that might be. And so they haunt, trying desperately to remember. Once they do, some will then make the ascension, but most go mad because there usually isn’t anything they can do about whatever it was that troubled them at the time of their death; considering they haven’t the means to do so.”
“Are you saying I’m stuck here because I have unfinished business?”
“Precisely, my boy. I’m here to help you until you remember why you chose to stay on Earth.” He didn’t pause to let the information sink in. “Now, there are two ways in which a haunting may occur. Either you died on the property, or your remains are buried here on the grounds.”
“My grave is in the woods,” I told him.
His eyes perked. He quickly wrote it down. “Have you any idea who the prior residents were?”
I shook my head. “I don’t.”
He glanced back to my death certificate. “It says here that your full name is Rupert Errol Victor Buxton.”
“Yes, that’s what my headstone reads.”
“When taking into account your surname, and given your age of death, I presume your parents were the previous owners of this establishment. Do you remember them at all?”
My head fell limp. “I don’t. One of my earliest memories after death was walking through this house. It was empty, but I could make out faint voices. I tried searching for the owners, but I couldn’t find who was speaking. I remember it sounded like a great deal of arguing from far away, but I could never be certain. Their words were too difficult to discern. The next thing I knew, the voices stopped, and all the furniture had been covered in cloth.”
“In the beginning (that is, for all new ghosts), there lies an adjustment period that can be incredibly strenuous for the newly deceased. Your new “body” is foreign. Some have trouble assembling their substance into a collective image, which I see you’ve managed over the years. Others have a difficult time with the senses: lacking the ability to see or touch. From the information I’ve gathered, I presume you had difficulty adjusting to your sight. You see, until we’re able to adopt our new sensations, we are unable to see through the realms. In your case, and quite ironically, the living had become ghosts to you. Which is why you were able to hear your family, but could not see them.”
Once again, Dr. Wyman didn’t wait for me to fathom his explanation. “Rupert, do you know why I came to you at this particular moment?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Recently, Buxton Manor was purchased, which means a new family will be moving in shortly. To ensure our separation from the living, every haunting must be reported. You had decades to achieve remembrance on your own; but now that you will be sharing quarters with the living, we’ll have to move you along much quicker in order to keep our kinds divided. Do you have any questions thus far?”
“Yes!” I nearly leapt off the cushions. “I’ve been stuck here in Buxton Manor ever since I died. Every time I try to leave the gates, I disappear into the fog, and reappear at my bedroom window. You’re a ghost as well, yet here you are. Why are you able to come and go, and I am not?”
“I can understand your confusion,” he sympathized. “For those of us with unfinished business, we are bound to the quarters in which we died or were buried. This phenomenon is better known as a “haunting”. With remembrance, as well as the development of senses, you can learn to expand your boundaries. Like you, when I died, I found myself a prisoner to the land in which my bones rested. For too long I roamed the cemetery, attempting to remember the life I once lived. And like yourself, I needed guidance to achieve it. I was assigned my own guide who helped me do so. Once I remembered why I chose to remain on Earth, I was offered entrance to the kingdom above. But once again, I strayed from the light, deciding to remain and to assist others who struggled the same as I had previously.”
“So, you’re going to help me?”
“That is why I’m here,” his mustache curled into a warm, comforting grin. “Rupert, we’re going to do this together. But before we dive too deep, I must heed warning. As I mentioned before, there is a new family moving in. You might have a long way to go before remembering your past, but I see you’ve developed your other senses significantly. I must stress that any connection to the outside world is absolutely forbidden. Therefore, you must be cautious to not expose yourself to the living.”
I felt a smile tugging at the corners of my lips. “Are you suggesting that the new residents might be able to see me?”
“Not exactly, no,” he countered. “Most of those alive would see right through you, not even bothering to take a second glance. It takes a keen eye to see through the veil. However, some might sense a cold presence when you are near; others might notice a shimmer of your reflection in a mirror. When you develop the capability to move objects(as you have achieved with literature), the living start to recognize that their things have mysteriously been misplaced. This may, and has before, jeopardized the harmony of our separation. Believe me: once the living learn we are indeed present, the outcome is unpleasant to say the least. Unwanted attention is attracted to our kind, becoming curious individuals from around the world. They come to be frightened, making your home some sort of ceaseless sideshow attraction. Others will come with the intent of expelling you from this plane of existence completely. Time and time again, I’ve had the misfortune of seeing these scenarios play out. You wouldn’t believe the mess I have been trying to clean up in New York at the Amityville household. It is positively dreadful.” 
 I chuckled, “Believe me, I have no desire to contact the living. I just want to remember who I was, why I’m here, so I can finally leave this place.”
He winked at me. “Now, that’s the spirit!” Dr. Wyman began to pack up his things, stuffing his paperwork back into his briefcase. Using his cane, he managed to rise to his feet. “Well, that concludes our first session. I’ll be back the same time next week. I look forward to continuing this journey with you.”
“Thank you. I as well.”
“In the meantime, I would like to assign you a bit of homework. Just a few things you can work on until our next visit. I would like you to write specifically in regards to your life as a ghost. This will force you to look at your more recent past, which will start to stir your memory. Clearly, you have some connection to writing, and I would like to use that to our advantage. Does that sound reasonable?”
On that note, I ushered Dr. Wyman back through the foyer, out the front door, and back to the porch where his carriage awaited. I was still rather shaken by the bag of bones he had for horses. It wasn’t until that moment did I realize that each of the steeds bore pairs of red eyes, nearly hidden within their hollow sockets, glowing like heated coals.
Dr. Wyman then hopped into his carriage. “Rupert, I bid you farewell.” He offered me with a tip of his hat, “Until next time, my boy.”
I lingered there for awhile, floating a foot above the porch, watching the carriage return to the woods until it was swallowed by the mist. I couldn’t believe what had just transpired. I had two visitors that day, the first of which was a realtor, the other a therapist to the dead who happened to be a ghost, like myself. A family would be moving into my home, and I didn’t quite know what that meant for me. After all those years of being alone, I was being bombarded by visitors.
As I stood there gazing into the fog, I realized that there was one thing I was certain of—just like dear Alice, lost in Wonderland, things were becoming curious and curiouser.

The Ghost of Buxton Manor: First free chapter

I’m really excited to announce my next novel The Ghost of Buxton Manor! I just finished writing it and will be posting the first five chapters. It’s about a ghost who finds themselves trapped in his family home. He doesn’t remember how he died or when he died–all he knows is that he has an unfinished business, and he won’t be able to move on until he remembers what that is.

I hope you enjoy!


Chapter  1

Nearly one hundred years later, and I had only just begun to accept the fact that I was dead. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t seem to recall a single moment from my former life. In fact, if it wasn’t for my headstone, I wouldn’t even know my own name. The last thing I did remember was evacuating my body. Now, that might sound somewhat extraordinary to you, but it certainly didn’t feel that way at all. You see, I had expected to find a set of pearly, white gates opening up for me; a glorious light to shower me in its beauty, or perhaps my deceased loved ones racing toward me to welcome me home. But it was nothing of the sort. What I’m trying to say is that everything your parents taught you about life after death is wrong. Believe me, that idea is completely inaccurate—at least for me.
I gather I must have done something rather awful when I was living, or maybe I just upset the Big Man in the sky…I’m not sure. What I did know was that I was permanently fastened to this decrepit house, alone, without a single soul to interact with. I guess it could have been worse. Whoever built this house must have been exceedingly wealthy during their life. The structure itself was gargantuan: three stories including the attic which was large enough to house an entire family in itself! It resided within 20 acres of private, uninhabited land. A lackluster pool lay untended out back. The green house was strewn with plants and flowers that had long been departed from the land of the living. There was a modest timberland on the property as well that I did enjoy exploring ever so often. Don’t get me wrong—by no means was it an awful place to live, but after a few decades or so, it could get a little lonely. I tried (more times than I care to admit) to leave the gates and survey what laid beyond the Manor’s range, but there are certain rules you must abide by in death, and if you don’t, well…it doesn’t really matter because you can’t leave. Not ever!
I started writing this book to keep myself busy, but all it has seemed to accomplish was to painfully remind me how pathetic and uneventful my afterlife has been thus far.
By the way, my name’s Rupert. I was the resident ghost of Buxton Manor.

* * * *

The day began just like any other day. I would like to say that this particular morning I watched the sunrise from my bedroom window, but I hadn’t been able to see sunshine in nearly a century. I couldn’t even remember what it looked or felt like. From this dimension (whichever one I had been condemned to), there simply was no sun—only an everlasting haze. Everything within my scope of vision was clouded by this mist, and outside the gates beyond where I was allowed to venture, the mist thickened to a completely blinding fog. Even if there were a sun on this side, it’s not like I would have been capable of feeling its warm rays on my face. After all, I had no flesh. Although I might be invisible to people like you, I can assure you that I was quite real. I might have been transparent, but I did have some sort of a body. From what I’ve seen from old photographs of myself, my hair is wavy, dark brown, shorter on the sides, and too long in the front (which always seemed to cause it to swoop down across my forehead). I had honey-brown eyes, and I was stuck wearing the same attire as when I must have perished. I perpetually donned a white, long-sleeved shirt and trousers secured by a pair of suspenders. My physique appeared as though I must have been active. So who knows, maybe I was some sort of an athlete when I was alive. Not likely though, considering sports or any form of exercise doesn’t seem to interest me whatsoever. I nearly forgot to mention that I was seventeen at the time of my death, and when you die (at least for those of us who stay on Earth), your appearance remains. I guess I should be grateful I didn’t die an old man, forever frail and crippled. But then again, it’s not like I had much time to actually live.
So, there I was at my bedroom window. I can assure you that it wasn’t much of a bedroom. All furniture in Buxton Manor was draped with clean, white cloths. Whoever lived there previously preserved the house, but never bothered to return; and so it had been deemed abandoned ever since with only the rare sighting of realtors through the century(none, by the way, had ever been able to sell the property).
As I was saying, time didn’t exactly exist for me, so I was not sure as to how long I had been standing there, peering out the icy window, peeking over tall treetops, watching the blanket of fog slink along the grounds. I enjoyed this particular window. I hovered there often to daydream, hopelessly trying to remember who I was, how I died, or even what part of the world I was in. Did I leave any loved ones behind? Not like it mattered anymore. If there were people who once loved me, they had been long gone.
Eventually, I managed to drag myself from the window and venture over to the corner of the bedroom where a musty trunk sat. I’d never been sure as to why, but I had always found myself to be quite curious about this precise chest. I imagined it housed answers to my past, something that could potentially shed a bit of light on the life I once lived; but every time I tried to pry it open, my hands would slip right through.
Though, this never stopped me from trying again.
You see, the majority of physical objects (such as this trunk) are unattainable due to my gaseous form; but there were certain objects I was able to touch…books, for example. About seventy years ago, I was flitting around the library downstairs when I suddenly remembered something. It was the first thing I had ever remembered about my former life: I thoroughly enjoyed reading. The memory presented itself within my mind like a sort of vision. I saw myself lying in a grassy field, back propped up against an old, oak tree, right beside the gates of Buxton Manor. I read a delightful story about a young boy who never grew up; a boy who could fly, who battled menacing pirates—a boy who would rescue lost children and take them to Neverland. It’s called Peter Pan. Have you heard of it before?
I then quickly scoured the shelves of novels until I found the story I sought out. Believe it or not, I was able to touch it. I gather that’s how it works for us ghosts. The more you remember, the more you’re able to move through the realms, regaining some human senses: touch and feel.
Still, the chest was out of my grasp.
I exited the bedroom, floating straight through the closed door, emerging onto the upstairs hallway. I then decided to head downstairs. If I had weighed anything at all, I was sure the damp, wooden floorboards would have creaked under my footsteps, but they were silent. Even without the living occupying, the house was always vocal. It certainly required a great deal of repairs. Perhaps even a woman’s touch. The faded wallpaper was spotted with mold, and it peeled in several corners. Undoubtedly, sections of the drywall needed to be demolished and replaced, but that would surely have disturbed the family of rats who dwelled under the foundation. After all those years, I’d finally come to welcome their company. Any bit of life force (rodent or not) helped remind me that I wasn’t stranded within the seemingly empty world.
I glided down the stairway, my feet a few inches from each step. My hand swept the banister, but the blanket of dust laid undisturbed. I landed in the foyer where a Tiffany chandelier dangled above me. A round, glass table was stationed beside me with a vase that displayed a bouquet of limp lilies, dried and crispy, so ancient their color was lost long ago. I imagined my own existence to be like the lilies: once ebullient with life, and now slowly wasting away to practically nothing.
I wandered through the sitting room—at least I assumed it to be the sitting room. A white cloth covered a bulky piece of furniture that I presumed to be a sofa. I had no need for doors so I sauntered through the wall, entering the kitchen which was nearly empty. The cabinets only contained jars of preserved food that weren’t able to spoil. Do you remember the family of rats I mentioned earlier? Well, several of them were scurrying throughout the carpentry, foraging a can, relishing over what looked to be a jar of mushy pickles. My presence never disturbed them, not even for a second. They didn’t even know I was there.
I drifted through yet another wall, passing the dining room table. Located beside it was a glass cabinet heaped with hand-painted dishes that hadn’t been eaten from in decades, their drawers filled with fine silverware. For a moment, I envisioned dinner parties that must have taken place there. I could almost hear faint laughter of gentlemen playing rounds of cards as they smoked their cigars. I could almost make out giggling from women in the adjacent sitting room, basking in each others’ company, gossiping over a cup of tea.
I walked through the cabinet and popped out from the other side. The library was by far my favorite room in the entire house. It was truly glorious. Every wall was lined with robust novels, hundreds of them—I’d read each and every book more times than I could count. I had ferreted through them all. I had no need for ladders to reach the highest shelves that climbed to the top of the vaulted ceiling. I merely levitated, soaring above the room as I scanned for a new novel to read. Sooner than expected, I spotted Moby Dick and plucked it off the shelf, already scanning the first page as I lowered to the floor. I was a voracious reader, so I assume it didn’t take me very long to finish the story; but then again, time didn’t exist for me so I could never be sure as to how truly fast I was.
I sat at the desk for what might have been hours, spending my time writing in my journal. Oh, I nearly forgot to mention the second and only other memory I ever remembered. About sixty-five years ago (years for me are a complete guessing game), after I finished reading every book in the library for the first time, I remembered how fond I was of writing. I gather that all of the wonderful tales I read of magical worlds triggered something inside my soul, reminding me of a story I once wrote. Soon after, I peeked under my bed and found a journal I must have kept hidden before I died. From then on, I couldn’t seem to put it down.
Halted by writers’ block, I headed outdoors, materializing in the backyard. I strolled along the edge of the pool, peering down into the filthy water that was nearly covered beneath a layer of auburn leaves. Because there hadn’t been anyone living there for quite some time, there was obviously no one there to tend to the grounds. Since I died, the woodlands on the Manor’s outskirts had practically reached the front doors. The grass was exceedingly overgrown, weeds sprouting at every turn, bushes as tall as the average tree. Vines managed to slither up the exterior of the house to the rooftop.
I wrapped around the Manor, passing the greenhouse where some sort of species of plant lived (a monstrous vegetation) which had grown ravenously, and had burst through the windows and crept across the grounds.
I walked down a cobblestone trail, setting off through a magnificent garden that overtook the front yard. The rose bushes were taller than myself, twice my size. They reminded me a great deal of the Queen of Hearts’ garden in Alice in Wonderland.
I roamed though the maze of hedges for a little while, wondering what the roses must have smelled or felt like. I gather most of you who are currently living don’t take the time to appreciate these sorts of things, but when you’re dead, you find marvel in everything you can no longer enjoy. I couldn’t tell you what I would have given to feel something again. Anything at all.
By the end of my day (however you would like to count the minutes of my existence) I sat at the old, oak tree I previously mentioned before. It was located down an untamed, carriage road, which began at the front doors of Buxton Manor and made its way to a set of iron gates (better known as the walls of my prison cell). From this tree, I gazed out between the bars even though there was nothing there to see. Like I’ve said before, beyond the Manor’s range, the mist became a fog—impenetrably thick. I sat there, writing in my journal and wondering what laid beyond the murk.
I would like to say that there was more to the story of my afterlife, but that would be unmistakably misleading. I spent my days reading and writing, roaming the Manor in hopes of discovering something from my past; but after these last hundred years or so, there were only two things I ever did recall. There was nothing incredible about my life after death. I simply existed. But then again, it’s always when you least expect it when something truly extraordinary happens. For me, it would be that very evening.
That’s when the gates of Buxton Manor opened for the first time in many years.
I remained there, under the shade of the oak, paralyzed with shock. I couldn’t believe it. I was sure my eyes were playing a trick on me, all those years of solitude were finally taking its toll. Was I losing my mind? I wasn’t sure.
The iron gates screeched, pervading ivy snapped as the gates divided. The strangest sort of automobile emerged from the haze, billowing clouds tumbling over the windshield as it drove onto the grounds. A woman sat in the driver’s seat, steering the horseless carriage with one hand as the other altered her complexion with some sort of cosmetic. She halted to a standstill right beside me. Until that moment, I hadn’t realized how long it had been since I’ve last seen a woman. When she rose out of the automobile, I took a moment to second-guess her gender. Her golden hair was cut shorter than a male and she wore a suit and tie that fit quite snugly on her—provocatively tight, you might say. I could clearly see her bosoms popping out of her low-cut top. Believe it or not, she wasn’t even wearing a corset.
“Mr. Scone, I did it.”
At first I thought she had initiated a conversation with herself, but after further examination, I confirmed she was speaking into some sort of cordless telephone.
“They said it couldn’t be done, but I did it! It’s time to uncork the good champagne. Tell the office we need to celebrate!” She ceaselessly smiled as she hauled a brick-red, rectangular board out from inside her vehicle as well as a hammer and a plastic sack of nails. “What am I talking about?!” she giggled. “I sold it! I sold the un-sellable house! Buxton Manor, the one that’s been on the market for decades now. Because of all those ridiculous ghost stories, I had to practically give it away, but I did it. It’s time we negotiate a raise.” She withdrew the phone so abruptly, I was sure whoever was on the other end of the receiver didn’t have a chance to respond.
With her sign tucked under her arm, the woman wrapped around her vehicle, struggling as her heels dug into the earth. She headed for a sign stuck in the dirt a few yards away from where I sat. All that time and I had completely forgotten about the ‘For Sale’ sign. After all, in the most recent decade, the sign had become no longer legible, beaten by foul weather.
The woman nailed something to the front of the battered sign, and before she turned away, her eyes lingered upon the Manor. For a moment, I could have sworn I saw her shiver. Seemingly a bundle of nerves, she hastily bolted back to her vehicle, locked herself inside; the car screeched as it reversed. The vehicle slipped between the gates, vanishing into the fog. And just like that she was gone.
Before I could jump to my feet, I disappeared, my body exploding into a shower of mist. Shortly after, my substance gathered, my shape reforming at the ‘For Sale’ sign. That’s when I saw it, the reason as to why the woman had come all this way.
Buxton Manor had been purchased.