The Never Ending War

Mayfield manor sat majestically on a hillcrest overlooking the vast fields of Forty Acres Plantation.  Jasmine had never been to the famous landmark as a tourist.  Now that she’d been assigned a cleaning detail at the old manor, she’d get to see as much of it as she liked. 

         The winding driveway snaked under a procession of oak tree boughs, splattering sunbeams on the path in a musical pattern of light.  Jasmine drove her car to an inclined spot in front of the manor and pulled the parking brake. 

         The whitewashed columns on the front of the house were as round as the oak trunks she’d just passed and looked just as solid.  The southwest corner of the two-hundred year old house had been reconstructed at some point and the grand, old lady wore her age over her shoulders like a comfortable shawl.

           Jasmine flipped through the key ring the cleaning agency had given her, finding the one marked “FD”.  A latch clicked and the door released its grip on the frame.

         Inside, the sun streamed through the two story windows on the front of the house, setting spotlights on a dust mite minuet.  There were maroon velvet ropes hanging across doorways to guide touring visitors around the manor.

         The cleaning supplies were just where Jasmine had been told, in a cupboard under the massive staircase.  Her instructions were to dust surface tops and furniture first then move on to the floors.  Jasmine tucked a rag into the front pocket of her apron and, for good measure, a feather duster as well.  She pulled the ring of keys out of her pocket again and looked at each label.  There weren’t so many that if she had any trouble she couldn’t just try them all until she got the right one.  But one key wasn’t labeled at all.  It was a bright gold key that stood out from the rest, like a shiny dollar coin surrounded by tarnished pennies at the bottom of a well.       

         The sound of the cupboard door closing echoed through the open space, bouncing off the paintings and wallpapered walls like a racquetball.  Jasmine had cleaned office buildings, houses, even a funeral home once.  No other place had ever felt so empty.  So of the past.  A little shiver crept up her spine, setting her into motion across the wooden floor.  She made her way to the staircase.  The steps were wide, but Jasmine stayed to the side, clutching the smooth banister as she worked her way up the stairs. 

         The first room off the stairs was a bedroom on the front of the house.  The curtains were pulled open, letting that warm, comforting light pour in across the bed and floor.  Jasmine drew the feather duster with an accomplished flourish from her apron and began working its avian-based end across the dresser, nightstands, and a trunk furnishing the room.  The wooden planks of the floor spoke to her as she traversed the room, and the sound was comforting.

         The next door in the hallway was shut.  A sign on its face read, “Not Part of Tour – Do not Enter.”

Jasmine had been instructed only to clean rooms used during the tour, so she took a step toward the next room down the line.  But a glint of gold caught her eye.

         The doorknob on the door was the same shiny gold as the key on the ring with no description.  All the other knobs Jasmine had seen were bronze.  The spirit of the house that spoke to Jasmine in the creak of the floorboards urged her to satisfy her curiosity.  She slipped the key into the lock and turned the knob.

         The door led to another hallway.  As Jasmine stepped tentatively through, the door closed gently behind her.  She turned quickly, alarmed by the small click the door made as it closed.  She reached for the shiny handle, but on this side of the door, the handle was tarnished and dark.  Jasmine pushed the gold key against the hole under the handle, but it wouldn’t fit.

         The hallway looked just like the hall she’d just left, but there was no light coming from the foyer up the stairs.  Jasmine took a step to the landing and leaned against the railing overlooking the entrance to the house.  It was just like the foyer on the other side of the door, but the two-story windows had a set of magnificent, embroidered curtains drawn against them.  The dust mites danced unseen.

         Somehow, Jasmine decided, she’d gotten turned around in the house.  The foyer she looked down on was too distinctive to be another part of the house.  She could have sworn the paintings on the walls were arranged differently, that she’d seen a busier wallpaper pattern before, but it was clearly the front of the house she’d just come through.  She didn’t know how the curtains had been closed, or if they were even there a few minutes ago.

         Without warning, a crash that sounded like a bus being dropped onto the hull of a ship bellowed through the halls of the house, rattling the banisters and sending a fine dusting of plaster down from the ceiling.  Jasmine gripped the railing, her eyes going wide.  Something had struck the house, or close to it.  Whatever it was, Jasmine wasn’t being paid enough to stick around and investigate.  She flew down the staircase and flung open the massive front door. 

          The first thing Jasmine noticed was the empty spot where her car had been parked.  A horse stood in the spot, staring at her.  And the long driveway leading up to the house was curiously lined with saplings instead of massively trunked oaks.  The corner of the house that had been rebuilt at some point was a smoking, gaping hole.  Coming up the drive, a regiment of blue clad soldiers marched toward the manor, a horse pulling a cannon behind the formation. 

         Union troops were taking Forty Acres Plantation. 

         Again.