It had become clear to me now. If I was to ever find Sylvester Spence Palvine, I would have to go to the The Palvine Residence – a place which had scared me so much and confront the man himself. And if the man was indeed no longer in residence, then id hope the building itself would provide some answers. This prospect did not fill me with relish. Tomorrow night was the night. I would go alone. Armed with my wits, my camera bag and – if the situation required it – a swift kick in the balls with my stilettos.
As I walked down Old Oakbourne Street my eyes turned to the large manor house almost silhouetted against the whiteish sky. An odd chilled wind echoed as a concealed whisper through the twilight air, piercing it like a mirror hitting the hard ground and shattering into a thousand glistening shards of nothingness. The Palvine Residence. It stood detached between the empty cross road and the old nursery with two huge gates standing open as if to welcome unknowing visitors into their confines. The gates themselves, I noticed as I came to halt adjacent to them were comprised of tall wrought iron bars standing proudly, though harshly bent and disfigured in places with thick brown rust infecting their flesh.
I bit my lip as I stepped across the threshold to the pathway of sickly mud and grey rough cobblestones. Oddly, the mud was bone dry despite the subtle dew in the air. I walked softly. Suddenly very conscious of my breath rate. Why had I got myself involved in this? Couldn’t I just see the house on Halloween and think oh look, there’s a pumpkin like a normal person? It would seem not. I stood at the black front door which grew thickly with moss and leafy waxy green ivy and swallowed as I felt a lump growing to the size of a golf ball in my throat. I blinked in case I was about to wake up one last time and then I reached out an arm to knock on the door with he iron lion head knocker. Once. Twice. Three times I knocked. Nothing. It was at this time that it came to my attention that the door wasn’t locked. Or even closed. Gulping, I pushed the door open with a rusted creak and stepped into The Palvine Residence and closed the door behind me. “Hello…” I whispered, taking the phone out of my bag to use as a torch “Is anybody in here?” I continued walking through an old slightly dusty hall, as I cast the glow of my phone torch around, it came to my attention that someone obviously lives here. The place was in a fairly good conditio; no cobwebs or broken things or other items would one associate with an ‘abandoned’ house “Hello, I’m not here to hurt you…” I shouted. I started walking up a huge flight of stairs “I know who you are… You’re Sylvester Spence Palvine, you’ve been alone for so long… I’m just here to talk to you…”. The stairs creaked as I walked and as I assented into the blackness, I noticed a strange tinkling sound: the patter of grand piano keys playing Eine Kleine Nacht Musikperfectly. It grew louder the higher I climbed. I stood outside a door with brassy fixings which separated me from the source of the noise. Me from a murderer.