Angelfield was real. True, it was a house, but it was in all respects a human. It lived, breathed and told stories. This is just one of those stories.
My name is…Well, sometimes names are not important. For it is the tale I am to tell that has more value then a common name. Let us move on.
I came to Angelfield as a tourist, mostly to see Vida Winter's garden. You can tell so much about a person from where they lived and how they lived. Of Angelfield, there was no doubt that this was a place you could write novels in for as I told you before, Angelfield told stories. However, I was the last person to expect a story from its walls.
I had wandered away from the tour to fulfill my curiosity of a hallway our group had passed. "There are more interesting things to see." Our tour guide had said. That was to be the end of it. The group moved on, but my feet stayed glued to the floor, my eyes staring down the dark hall.
Then, and this is horrible to say…I defied the tour guide and walked down the hallway. There I found nothing but a locked door. This is where the story begins…