“There was timelessness to inevitability that saw to the destruction of the times ones once knew.
There was long locked evil beckoning to the fouls of existence
And forgotten morals, which upheld the security of them.
The departure of protection led the fate of two worlds in the hands of a boy.
For it is isolation that makes a true hero.
And that is what would shape into history an epic for the ages.”
The Corbin Manor
A light drizzle of rain topped the scraggly bushes in front of the Corbin Manor with droplets of water, and beams of breaking light shown through twirled gray clouds, splotching the earth with close patches of both light and dark. Jeremy Corbin, with his face pressed against his window’s cool glass, took note that the clouds looked like a giant had taken his fingers and swirled the sky. This moment of dark and light and rain was beautiful, with the angelic clouds highlighted with a frame of bright white. His eyes stung as he traced the bright spots with his gaze. He wished he could express someway how these clouds and rain made him feel so good, but was unable to concoct an idea of how. His lazy leaning position against the glass was shifted to a disoriented stand as a ring went off inside his telegraph machine, his bright red telephone. He picked up the receiver and sputtered into the mouthpiece a weary, “’ello?” It was his friend Carl Fergus on the other end of the line. They conversed about Carl coming over to the Corbin Manor, which they agreed on, and then their exchange ended.
Jeremy was a young adolescent boy of Seventeen, a young grown person as it were. His hair was brown, shaggy and unkempt, while his eyes and teeth were of moderate stature. He had blue eyes and almost pearl, straight teeth. He was fairly tall and slender, but was not muscular. Yet, he had well-shaped, athletic legs. He had just recently got out of high school, and was ready to pursue the career life in college. Most of these days he would sit around reading random books and jotting his recollections of them in personal notes. He was not sure what career he would be interested in, but had considered to perhaps be a journalist. He had worked in the high school’s monthly newspaper for a few years, and enjoyed the experience.
Carl came over shortly after their talk and they spent the remainder of the day lounging about the manor, watching television. The manor was of diminutive size, and wasn’t fancily embellished, but was filled with many technological treasures inside. Jeremy lived with his single mother, who supported him and herself with the money from her daily job, Jeremy worked part time at an Italian restaurant.
The manor itself was two stories high and aged. It was small for two stories. The structure wasn’t built very well, supported by a wooden frame and flimsy, rotted walls. It was many coats of paints and plasters that hid the decomposing essence of the elder home. Originally the manor was in the name of another family, but the Corbins had inherited it through legal terms. The history of the structure was pieced through tattered evidence that still leaked with uncertainties.
Hundreds of years ago the house had stood, compiled around an existing manor that was even more inferior. Through secrecy and closed drapes a home of suspicious occurrences became the target of witches and children’s imaginations. The elder locals claimed to hear obscure noises coming from within the manor, and it was often the collaboration spot of many shady characters. A squat, bony man was the owner at the time. His back was hunched and he walked with a quite irritating limp so neighbors have recorded. He hardly ever left the manor. But, for the few hours he would leave his secluded home from time to time, he would close the door and slip into his pocket a large rusty metal key, and would return to the manor later fingering the key as he disappeared inside. The key was not the one to open his front door, but he got it out anyway each time, his white knuckled grip locked on it, as if he was making sure it was still safe and with him. The children regarded the rusty key as an artifact of daemons and wizardry. It became an infamous gossip piece in the neighborhood.
At the present time of the Corbins, past hearsay had worn and deteriorated with the arrival of new families in the area, and the splitting of others. The manor was simply old, and nothing more but an antique to observe.