REST OF CHAPTER 1

Last week, I posted the first half of the first chapter of one of the books I'm currently working on.  If you didn't read it and would like to do so, then just check out my Facebook or Twitter. The link is there on one of my recent posts. But if you're too lazy, then I'll provide you with a quick recap. The main character has just inherited his father's mansion. He left home at 17 and swore that he would never go back for reasons that are still unknown. At this point in the story, he is in a cab, in front of the mansion's gate.

Lots of people have given me feedback so I'd like to thank everyone who took the time to read and give me their opinion. I don't know if people realize it, but I put a lot of thought, work, and effort into every single word I write. There are times where I drive myself insane and spend an entire hour on a five sentence paragraph. So again, thank you all for reading. For those of you who take my writing seriously, I really appreciate it. Without further ado, here's the second part of the first chapter. Enjoy!

I rummaged through my pocket a bit more until I felt the icy touch of some forgotten loose change. I withdrew my hand. “Forty five years? What brought you here?”

“Curiosity, I suppose. Me and a few of my buddies would sneak over here. Just to get a look at the place. We were only dumb kids back then, ya know. But still…” Again, his voice trailed off as he absorbed the sight in front of him. “…it would amaze us every time.”

I stuck a hand into my other pocket. The first thing I felt was another set of keys. I smiled. This pocket held the keys to my Queens apartment, a small, one bedroom space that cost a mere $1000 a month. The other pocket contained the keys to my multi-million dollar mansion. It was as though each pocket represented a different world, a different life. Most people would probably toss away the former keys for the latter. I, however, didn’t plan on staying at McCormick Manor for very long.

At last, I found what I was looking for, buried beneath my leather wallet. My fingers closed on the slip of paper.  “I don’t suppose you ever got past this gate?” I asked.

“No, no. We didn’t dare climb the walls. Too high.” And after a brief hesitation, the cabby added, “And illegal too, of course. Besides, if we ever got caught, old man McCormick—I guess that was your grandfather—would’ve hung us by our feet from the highest window in the house!” His grin was reflected in the rear view mirror. “There were always the craziest stories about old man McCormick.”

“He was a tough man from what I’ve heard.” Though he couldn’t have been as tough as my father. I retrieved a clenched fist from the depths of my pocket and climbed out of the cab. The cold bit into my flesh and made me shiver. I sprinted to the main entrance. Just to appease my curiosity, I grasped the iron bars and pushed. The doors moved an inch before clanking to a stop. The gate’s lock was as secure as ever. My neck craned back so that I could glimpse the top of the gate. It towered a good ten feet above me. Well, nine feet and three inches to be exact. Even if the gate was unlocked, I doubt that I had the strength to push it open.

I hurried to the left column, where the intercom and key pad awaited. I could sense the security camera watching me overhead. It was like the eye of my father, glowering down at me with typical disapproval. I glanced at the piece of paper clenched in my fingers. 0523, it read. With shivering fingers, I punched the digits into the keypad. It felt…odd to hit those numbers. The code had always been 0124, my mother’s birthday. But that was eight years ago, before I decided to vacate the premises and never return. Never truly isn’t long enough…

The sound of slow, steady creaking drifted into my ears as the gate doors pushed open. It was then that I came to a sudden realization. I gaped at the paper, no longer aware of the cold, no longer aware of my emotions.

From behind me came a loud honk. Startled, I spun around to find the cabby waving me impatiently into the car. I followed his gesture and climbed back into my seat.

“Are you alright, kid?” He hit the gas, propelling us through the gate. Behind the right wall sat the vacant gatehouse, a shack that was probably nicer than most people’s homes. “What were you doing, just standing there?”

 I could hear the gate creaking shut behind us. Once the code was punched in, the visitor had about fifteen seconds to pass through the gate before the doors began to close. “Yes. I’m fine.” But that was a lie. Truthfully, I felt befuddled, lost. My father had never shown any indication that he loved me, not even a shred of concern for my existence. When his lawyer told me the numbers, it didn’t even occur to me that they coincided with my birthday. Does that imply that my father did in fact care for me? I stared at the slip in my hand, as if I were expecting to find the answer scribbled somewhere. Frustrated, I shoved the paper into my pea coat pocket, along with all of my thoughts and confusion.

“Holy shit. This place is huge!”                     

Huge was an understatement. I lifted my eyes to observe the land that I had never expected to see again. The driveway was long and wide, wide enough for two cars to drive abreast, and was comprised of red and grey pavers. But there was one thing that was sorely missing: the cherry blossom. It had been my mother’s favorite tree. In any other season, the cherry blossoms would stand on either side of the driveway, from the front gate all the way to the house. Their boughs, normally covered with gorgeous pink flowers, would converge overhead to create a sort of canopy. The cherry blossoms were almost like a welcoming party, ushering you into McCormick Manor. Their beauty seemed to promise the visitor happiness and good tidings. Unfortunately, the house had never given me much of either. But during winter, the trees were skeletons, bare and dead. There was a foreboding eeriness about them that made me feel like a trespasser, even though the house was now rightfully mine. And beyond these trees was nothing but acres among acres of brown grass, long and unkempt.

Finally, my eyes settled onto the main attraction. I didn’t want to see it, but we were now so close, or maybe the house was just so big, that it could no longer be ignored. The mansion had been in my view since the bottom of Pleasant Valley Road, like a permanent fixture in the horizon. Why anyone would want a house so large was beyond me, though I did know the who, how, and when of the story. Built in 1907, the mansion was the birth child of a lucrative oil business, a monument that was resurrected by Charles McCormick for Charles McCormick. The establishment stood daunting and humongous on approximately 3,000 acres of wasted land. The amount of trees that had to be chopped down in order for this monstrosity to exist is both astronomical and obscene. The house was constructed in a chateauesque style. Its steeply-pitched roofs and towers were grey, its walls a stucco beige. Some of these walls had a cylinder appearance, others rectangular. Its plethora of windows was dark as pitch, making the house seem gloomier than usual. But its most enormous attribute was its absurdity. Beautiful though it was, the house was a colossal joke. It was too huge for any normal mind to fathom, which would adequately explain my cab driver’s amazement.

“This is...I mean …excuse me, but holy shit…wow…” He shook his head and chortled, at a loss for words.

The dead cherry blossoms dwindled away as we reached the end of the driveway. It was a giant cul-de-sac with a fountain right in its center. I always thought of the fountain as creepy, especially now, without any water streaming down it. At the very top sat a little cherub figure who was anything but adoring. He had a mischievous grin and eyebrows that were as steeply-arched as the roofs of McCormick Manor.

The cab swung around the fountain and came to a stop at the front doors. I stared at them reluctantly. I couldn’t see his face, but I knew that the driver had joined me in my gaze. “This is really some place you got here. I can’t even imagine having something like this. You’re a lucky man. Hell, you must be one of the wealthiest people in the country!”

“I suppose I am.”

I suddenly felt the cabby’s eyes on my face. The faint stench of rum wafted into my nostrils. “Well, that’ll be $44.75. I bet that’s nothing more than a penny for you, huh?”

I retrieved the wallet from my jeans. I pulled out $100 before slipping the leather item back into my pocket. “Don’t tell anybody that you took me here today.”

The driver shot a greedy look at the money before focusing back onto me. “Kid, I don’t even know your first name. What is your name anyway? You another Charles?”

His assumption caused me to say, “No. I’m Andrew.” The greatest gift my father ever gave me, one far better than this oversized mansion, was not making me Charles McCormick IV. Although, I suppose I should really be thanking my mother for that. She despised the name Charles.

The driver took the money. “Well Andrew McCormick, you have nothing to worry about. I won’t tell no one that I brought you here, not a soul. You have my word on that.”

I thanked him, even though I knew he was lying. I was just about to exit the vehicle when the driver cried, “Hey, wait! How am I supposed to get out of here? I don’t have a code or anything.”

“The gates open automatically when someone approaches it from the inside.”

The cabby seemed both impressed and enlightened. “Ohhhhh. Got ya.” After wishing me good luck and mentioning “If you ever need someone to housesit, or if you ever just want to give away a million dollars, call me!” and handing me his phone number, I climbed out of the taxi and closed the door. I walked to the rear of the car to find the trunk already popped. I pulled out the navy blue suitcase, set it onto the red and grey pavers, and shut the trunk. Almost immediately, the taxi took off. It went around the fountain, around the cul-de-sac, back up the driveway, through the dead cherry blossoms.

I was now alone. Alone with the house and all of the memories we shared together.

I grasped the handle of my luggage and turned to face my old nemesis. The weather was cold, but I was in no rush to enter the house. Instead, I just gaped at those immense oak doors. They were like the jaws of a predator waiting to swallow me, its prey, whole. With a deep breath, I took my first step forward, and then another, and then another. Before I knew it, I was walking, walking toward the entrance. For reasons I couldn’t understand, my heart was hammering in my chest. I stormed out of those doors eight years ago, absolutely certain that I would never return. And now here I was, about to walk through them again, as if I had never left.