ROOMS OF MY MIND

I pressed on, my steps quickening despite the mud. As I struggled to suppress the shivers in the biting night chill, rain seeped from my disheveled hair onto my thin coat. The desolate, rugged road leading to my grandmother’s mansion was like an eerie corridor of memories, flanked by rows of skeletal trees. Spending every summer of my childhood here had once been an escape from the life I shared with my mother—a leap into an imaginary realm. I brushed my wind-swept hair back over my shoulder. My pace merged with the path; I chose to ignore the exhaustion. A flash of a memory crossed my eyes—the moment I fell while fleeing a deer that had darted from between the trees. I was only nine. My mother had come to my side, blowing on my bleeding knee with a tender smile. I shook my head, sweeping away those memories as they turned into ghosts.

Road was drowning me in recollections. Carrying the weight of them all on my back, I moved toward the fate that awaited me. Sometime after my mother died, I had become homeless, tossed into the crowded streets of Scotland. Every concrete slab, every street corner had closed in on me like an enemy. I wasn’t forced to move to Berge Mansion, inherited from my grandmother, but I refused to live inside a box in those cramped alleys.

It was not as short as I remembered. With every step, it seemed to stretch further, making me feel as though I weren’t moving at all. As I tried to fend off the raindrops lashing against me, I noticed the path narrowing. The trees began to thin, and the house started to reveal itself between them.

Getting to Corovie had taken three shaky hours after waiting for the bus for ages; and to reach Bergerth Mansion, tucked away in the remotest corner of the land, I had to walk for another hour through the mire. My ankle was throbbing. I shouldn’t have taken that giant leap when getting off the bus.

I pushed forward. Since no soul had traversed it for months, the road was practically ruined, looking as if it were in pain. Suddenly, I tripped over a mound. I stumbled, and one of my feet sank into the mud. I struggled to pull it out. My body lost its balance, and I collapsed onto my knees. My ill-fitting red plaid skirt was stained by the gray of the mud. If I had any other clothes to bring, I would have packed them in my suitcase. But they had all ended up in the trash bin of our old house.

My mother, in a moment of nervous breakdown, had thrown them away without a second thought, forcing me to wear neighbors’ hand-me-downs. The stain on my skirt didn’t matter. I had to reach the mansion. I didn’t feel like getting up from the ground. Slowly, I lifted my head. The iron bars stood tall before me, as if locking me away from the outside world. I realized I had finally reached the end of the road.

It was the moment an unexpected peace enveloped me.

I stood up from the sticky ground, bracing my hands against my knees.Standing before the iron bars, I threw my shoulders back.Ignoring the rain, I watched the house’s gloomy silhouette for a while.Gripping my leather suitcase tightly, I pulled the long, rusted iron gate toward me with all my strength.It opened easier than I had imagined.Red roses had surrendered their place to withered branches; the greenery had vanished beneath a misty shroud.Not a single living cell remained in the garden.It was just like me.

Lifeless.

As the rain intensified, my pace quickened.I ran up the stairs of the decaying wooden mansion.Upon reaching the veranda, I smiled as if I had claimed a victory.The walls were smothered in ivy; the mansion seemed surrendered to solitude.It stood resolute, determined not to let the world inside.Though loneliness clung to every corner, it resisted collapse.The aggressive vines surrounding the house crept through the window sills, weaving into the wooden skeleton like veins.It was as if they were providing the house with life, keeping it upright.

I straightened my clothes as if someone were waiting to greet me at the door.I exhaled a deep breath and, clutching my suitcase even tighter, I opened the carved door with the key the lawyer had given me.The moment I stepped inside, the haunting beauty of the house greeted me. Though the moss-covered walls stirred an urge to flee, the coat rack in the hallway was still in its place.

I fidgeted uneasily.A massive mirror placed at the entrance of the foyer caught my attention.I hadn’t looked at my own reflection in a long time.As I stared at my face, I sank into deep thought.I didn’t know why I had come here; I simply needed a place to take refuge.When I bumped into the lawyer on the street two days ago, his news that he had been searching for me for months and that this mansion had been left to me as an inheritance felt like winning the lottery.I couldn’t help but wonder: was this a stroke of luck, or a curse?

All I wanted was to sleep deeply without shivering from the cold.

I moved with slow steps toward the vast parlor. My grandmother’s armchair was still by the window. The throw blanket over it had been placed carelessly. For a moment, the sheer immensity of the space took my breath away. Brass chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, indifferent to the thick layers of dust settled upon them, extended their crystal stones downward like icicles. As I advanced, the creaking floorboards groaned as if trying to tell me something. I paid no mind to their noise. This was not exactly a house; it was an illusion of my fracturing mind.

Moonlight seeping through the window rose in the center of the parlor like a ghostly pillar. Wooden beams stretched over the room like a giant spine. The candlesticks and half-burnt candles atop the coarse, raw wooden table in the center gave the impression that someone had just left in a hurry. Turning my head, I saw a book with frayed edges lying on the table. As I passed by, I let my fingers trail over it

I had to go upstairs and leave my suitcase. I headed toward the long staircase, and as I climbed the steps covered in now-faded red carpet, the wood flexed slightly as if it recognized me. This familiar sensation brought a small sense of relief to my heart.

I was halfway up the stairs when I flinched at a sound coming from above. There was no one else here but me. There shouldn’t have been. Even as a child, I used to hear sounds that no one else could. Although my grandmother wanted to take me to a doctor, my mother hadn’t allowed it, letting me live in my own world instead.

I believed the mansion was speaking to me. I wondered if, at nineteen, it was still talking to me. I took another step and remembered my mother. The mansion had a way of bringing her peace. She would lock herself in her room for hours, writing incessantly in her notebook. Had I known the reason then, I wouldn’t have insisted on going back to our house in the city.

When I reached the upper floor, the long corridor further fueled my urge to flee without looking back. The doors were closed; it felt as though they were waiting to be opened. I moved forward in the darkness. I knew every inch of the mansion by heart. I stopped before the door at the very end. When I nudged it open, everything stood in the exact same order as I had left it the last time I stayed here. I stepped into the room and lit the candle beside the wide bed.

The desk aligned with the window caught my attention. It wasn’t supposed to be there. An empty notebook lay upon it, the edges of its pages yellowed with time. I walked toward the desk as if longing to feel its presence. When I touched it, the trembling in my fingers ceased. I didn’t want to write. The grief within me was too deep for words. I had lost both my mother and my grandmother. I had nothing left to write. I had come to this mansion like a stray, resigned to settling in. Had I not lost everything, it would have been easier to refuse. I had withdrawn into myself, losing my friends one by one because of the imaginary silhouettes I saw. After my mother passed, the landlord had thrown me out, leaving me with no other choice.

I left my suitcase by the side of the bed. I shed my clothes and took a warm shower. It was a great kindness of the lawyer to have the plumbing repaired before my arrival; I would have to thank him when I saw him. I threw myself onto the dusty bed, staring intently at the ceiling. As memories swirled in my mind, I slowly surrendered to sleep. I was finally ready for the night to envelop me.

Hours later, I jolted awake as the bed shifted beneath me. I must have been imagining things. I scanned the room in a panic and sat upright. Hesitantly, I climbed out of bed. The cold floorboards touched my bare feet. I slipped on my old bathrobe hanging behind the door—the one with the green stripes I had always loved—and opened the door. The corridor didn’t look nearly as frightening in the daylight. I headed toward the kitchen downstairs; I needed some coffee to wake up. I must have been exhausted; otherwise, I wouldn’t have felt the bed moving on its own. I tried to convince myself it was just a trick of my mind. That’s what my grandmother always used to say.

When I arrived at the kitchen, everything was just as I remembered, save for the dust covering the objects. I was glad I had brought coffee with me. I immediately checked the machine mounted on the crumbling plaster wall and made sure it was working. I placed the coffee capsule into the compartment. While waiting for the warm aroma to spread, I glanced around. A crystal carafe stood beside a copper pot, looking as though it might fall at any moment. The faucet was resisting its rusted plating. Suddenly, the sound of a door slamming made me jump. I rushed into the next room. There was no one. The mansion was trying to speak to me. I had heard so many sounds and seen so many non-existent silhouettes over the years that astonishment no longer took hold of me. I shrugged my shoulders indifferently. The sound of the coffee machine helped me reconnect with life. I stood on the threshold for a while, watching the coffee droplets fall into the glass carafe. I took a cup from the shelf and poured my coffee. Its scent made me feel as if I were home. I was intent on wandering through this vast mansion and remembering everything anew. I had set my mind to it before going to bed last night.

The rain was still persistent. A midwinter chill seeped in stealthily. I tightened the sash of my bathrobe, which hadn’t yet lost its softness, a bit more. The warmth radiating from the coffee wasn’t enough to heat my insides, but the journey of discovering the mansion had already kindled a flicker of excitement within me. As I wandered through the halls, I stopped involuntarily in front of my favorite room and pushed the door open. It was a small but warm room, filled with shelves of books from every era; it resembled a miniature version of a public library. In my childhood, I used to lock myself away in this room for hours, lost in reading. It possessed a mystery all its own. Once, I had witnessed my mother vanish from the room in a matter of seconds. She had always insisted it was merely my imagination. It was a room full of books, each with its own story. My grandmother had left all of this to me.

How strange.

I stood on the threshold and inhaled the scent of the room. I began to walk aimlessly through the space. Holding my warm coffee in one hand, I let the fingers of my other hand graze the books. Touching them always brought me comfort. Each book would reach into the most remote corners of my soul, carrying me away from this world. At times, I would challenge windmills; at others, I would soar through the skies with dragons. I lived in worlds of my own making.

As I passed softly by the books, a navy-blue bound volume caught my eye. Its edges were slightly frayed. With curiosity, I pulled it from the shelf. A sharpclickechoed from the bookcase, and I instinctively took a step back. The wooden shelves shifted, revealing an opening beside them. I glanced behind me, checking my surroundings as if someone might be watching. My attention snapped back to the newly formed gap. I set my coffee cup on the side table by the window and let my curiosity guide me. I leaned in, tilting my head. I slid my fingers into the narrow void and, with a struggle, pulled the heavy bookcase toward me.

It swung open like a door, unveiling a hidden, narrow space. Inside the secret, musty room stood nothing but a single armchair upholstered in tapestry. I moved toward it, my feet shuffling across the floor. The floral pattern of the tapestry had faded. Its backrest was worn from years of use, and resting upon the cushion was a fountain pen with a crimson-feathered tip. Though the entire mansion had surrendered itself to dust, it was strange that the gold engravings on the pen’s body remained untarnished. It looked as if it had just been used, staring back at me. Without a second thought, I plucked the fountain pen from the chair. With quick steps, I retreated to the main room and closed the bookcase behind me. Careful not to spill the coffee, I grabbed my cup from the table. I couldn’t take my eyes off the pen. It was so magnificent that even the footsteps following behind me had lost their terror. Keeping my gaze fixed on the pen’s crimson feathers, I stepped out of the room that harbored the treasure of books.

Fortunately, there was a carpet in the corridor. My feet had turned red from the cold, which slowed my pace. I entered my bedroom and closed the door behind me, as if hiding something from my mother. I placed the cup on the desk. I glanced once more at the engravings on the fountain pen and placed it beside the notebook, right where I felt it belonged. Perhaps I would start writing again sometime.

I took a sip of my coffee. I decided to wander more, hoping to discover another mystery. I descended the stairs, which groaned under my weight, and returned to the lower floor. At the foot of the staircase, a shapeless slipper was waiting for me. I was certain it hadn’t been there when I first entered the mansion. I slipped on the slipper, which was a bit too small for my foot. I walked to the massive windows in the parlor. The garden stretching down to the valley looked even more lifeless from behind the glass.Even more neglected than me, I thought. Withered flowers were fed by the rain and tossed by the wind. The clouds settling above had painted the sky gray, anchored in place. I had always loved gloomy weather—until I started living on the streets. Sleeping under the rain was agonizing.

I sat in my grandmother’s armchair—the one she had stubbornly forbidden anyone else to sit in throughout her life. I settled into it, pulling my feet up toward my chest. Surrendering to solitude, I hugged myself tightly. Tears began to stream from my eyes. I hadn’t cried in a long time. I had kept all the words inside, hoarding my broken soul to myself. I rested my head on my knees and turned it to the side. Sitting on the sofa two meters away was the black-haired, pale-skinned ghost who had followed me since childhood. The long black dress she wore never changed. She never spoke to me; she simply remained by my side. I was used to her constant presence.

Once, when I mentioned her to my best friend at school, she had looked at me as if I were insane; she stood up abruptly and walked away. She never came near me again. I hadn’t realized she had told everyone about my ghost until rumors began circulating throughout the entire school. It didn’t take long for me to earn the nickname ‘Freak’. Every time someone new joined the class, the others would immediately point me out, ensuring they stayed away from me. Over time, I grew accustomed to the way my classmates refused to speak to me, the way they treated me as if I didn’t exist. My ghostly friend never let me feel truly alone. When I gave her the name Daine, she had tilted her head. This meant she accepted it.

Why wouldn’t I give a name to someone no one else could see?

My old friend sat across from me, watching me in silence. I wondered how long she had been observing me. When I winked at her, she smiled. I felt no need to wipe away the tears streaming down my cheeks. The frail ghost, her hair falling over her shoulders, understood me. Even if no one else could see her, I always believed she was real.

She wasn’t human.

She wasn’t a ghost.

She was my friend.

I took my eyes off her and rested my chin on my knees. The sound of the rain was comforting. For a while, I just watched it. All those memories were eating me alive. As moments danced within my mind, the growl of my stomach merged with the sound of thunder echoing from outside. I remembered that the last thing I had eaten was something from a vending machine at the bus station before arriving here. I pushed myself up from the armchair and stood with difficulty. My feet led me to the kitchen. I needed to devour one of the sandwiches the lawyer had left in the fridge for me. I opened the refrigerator. I saw that he had left enough food for a month. It wasn’t just food; it was an empire of sandwiches. I chose one, took it out, and closed the door. At that very moment, I locked eyes with another ghost leaning against the wall. He was a young man in his twenties. Wearing a plaid shirt and corduroy trousers, he stood perfectly still. He looked at me with pitying eyes. I felt no fear of him. I was a master at seeing things that didn’t exist. Occasionally, I saw other silhouettes besides Daine, but I never mentioned it to anyone. Had my grandmother known, she would have thought I was mad and tried to have me institutionalized. At first, I thought these silhouettes were trying to tell me something. Over time, I chose to believe it was all an illusion. From that day on, they continued to exist as invisible friends wandering silently around me. Perhaps my mother, too, would appear to me again one day. I lived with that hope. At least, I wanted to believe it

I rolled my eyes, stuffed the sandwich into my mouth, and ignored the young man. The sky was gradually being painted in strokes of black. As I went up to my room, the sounds of doors slamming began to echo through the corridor. I shut my bedroom door firmly and leaned my weight against it. The door was being forced. I noticed the keys were still resting in the cylinder. While bracing the door with one hand, I frantically turned the lock with the other.

I grabbed my suitcase from beside the bed and threw it onto the duvet. No. I wasn’t losing my mind. These sounds were normal. This had always happened. While battling the thoughts within me, I zipped open the suitcase with a fury. I pulled out my mother’s diary and gripped it with all my might. Whenever the sounds started, I would cling to that diary to feel safe. I climbed onto the bed and closed my eyes. The noises diminished, but they did not cease. The old paintings hanging on the wall began to sway violently from side to side, as if they were about to tear themselves free.

I opened my eyes and looked around in terror. The notebook and the fountain pen on the desk were illuminated by the light seeping in from outside.

They were calling to me.

Clutching the diary tightly in my hand, I climbed down from the bed. My body was trembling. The pages of the notebook were curling on their own, and the pen was shifting back and forth. With great effort, I pulled out the chair and sat down. I tried to still the shaking in my fingers. The voices were drawing closer; the mansion was speaking to me, striving to make its presence known. The pages before me began to shimmer. I had last written nine months ago. My mother used to say that this was the only way I could silence the screams inside my mind. Yet, after she and my grandmother were gone, I had chosen instead to remain a prisoner to the silence of the words in my head.

The pages called out to me as the ground shook. I took the fountain pen between my fingers. Writing a few lines in the notebook wouldn’t hurt anyone. It was worth a try.

I placed the diary on my lap and began to write.

My heart aches.

I think I’m losing my mind.

I let out a low, bitter chuckle. I was rambling because I couldn’t find anything worth writing. I touched the sharp nib of the fountain pen to the page once more. The ink flowed smoothly, as if dancing upon the yellowed paper. As the words poured out of me, the tremors subsided. I continued to write. The only honest blood seeping from my fingertips onto the paper was the ink flowing from my hand; if it didn’t flow, the darkness surrounding every corner of my grandmother’s mansion would have long ago set the rooms of my mind ablaze. I was pouring everything that tore my soul apart—all my longing—onto the pages. It was as if by writing, these feelings left my body, leaving only peace behind. The voices ceased. The shaking stopped.

I tilted my chin up slightly, as if claiming a victory. The corner of my lip curled. I gently tucked the pen beside the notebook. Perhaps I would continue later. As I pushed the chair back, the floor groaned; the sound echoed throughout the mansion. With trembling legs, I walked slowly toward the bed. Still wearing my bathrobe, I lay down on the dusty bed. I sniffled, clinging to the longing knotted in my throat. I tucked myself under the duvet. Resting my head on the pillow, I wondered what the mansion was trying to tell me. I turned my gaze toward the window. The dim light reflecting from outside fell across Daine’s face. She was leaning over, reading what I had written in the notebook. She turned her head, looked at me, and smiled. She must have been glad that I was writing again. Feeling my heart soften, I slowly drifted off to sleep.