Deceptions

The Chadwick house sat on a hill, behind a rusting black wrought iron gate; a graceful Victorian that rose three stories into the October sky. For a long while Blythe stood at the foot of the steps, looking up at the house where the white side of her family had once resided. It was the first time she’d ever seen the house and she’d found it quite impressive from where she stood. Not even the weed-choked lawn and the overgrown hedges and bushes had taken away from the house’s appeal. It was easy to see that at one time, the house had once been quite majestic, a beautiful showplace. Blythe drew in a deep breath and began to climb the stairs. Her heart was banging in her chest, the palms of her hands had become clammy and she could feel a slight trembling in her knees but she gulped down more air and kept moving until she reached the porch. Up close, the deterioration of the grand house had been evident. The elements had cast a gray pall over the peeling paint; the windows were caked under layers of grime and the curtains were tattered and faded by the sun; dead leaves had gathered in deep drifts in shadowed corners of the porch. The huge fountain that had once graced the lawn with its majesty, was now covered with moss, its large bowl filled with dry brown leaves, dead bugs, and things that couldn’t have been easily identified. Even the flower gardens were lifeless, though Blythe had no trouble imagining how beautiful the gardens must have been years ago, in full bloom and drenched with colors. Yet, the overall atmosphere that prevailed had been one of sadness and sorrow. Of deep regret.