1. Whitestone Manor

"The stories are true," Mix said softly, as if she were scared to disturb the peace.

"Mix, the stories are just that – stories. There is no fact in them at all. If there were, wouldn't there be some sort of evidence? Some bodies? Blood? Missing persons?"

"But they can hide it. Change memories," Mix said. Her certainty scared me.

"Look, there is nothing in that house. Nothing except spiders, dust and maybe a few bats," I said, eying the old house and pitched roof.

"The how come my dog always goes crazy when we walk past?"

"Because your dog is crazy. Weren't you the one complaining because he barks at the sensor light that doesn't work?"

"Yeah, well," Mix muttered, looking at the ground.

"If this is such a big deal, I'll show you," I said defiantly. "I'll go into that house and show you there are no magical beings."

"They're not magical beings.," Mix said, looking away from me, her cheeks reddening slightly. "They're more like… real life faeries. But they're evil." She almost sounded… bitter.

"Is that so?" I was only a little guilty for being so scornful of my best friend. What can I say? I'm a sceptic.

"Yeah. Haven't you ever read anything about fey or faeries?" Mix asked.

I knew the word, but only vaguely. "Nope."

I knew Mix would have. She was totally into myths and legends. Especially about magical creatures. Faeries, vampires, werewolves, demons and whatever. It scared me to think she believed in all that stuff. I thought she would have grown out of it, but as the years flew by, and she found the internet full of crap like that… well, the obsession grew. It didn't help that our rather small town, that was some settlement in the sixteenth century, was rife with stories of witches and ghosts.

In particular, there was a large run down mansion, called Whitestone Manor – made no sense to me since the house was made of black stones, but, whatever – that stood on top of the only hill in our flat town. It was said that this was where the owner or mayor of the town used to live – on top of a hill, in an intimidating mansion – so he could watch over the village. And anywhere in our quaint little city this house can be seen. The land it sits on is huge – at least a good fifty or so acres – the house standing in the centre like some kind of trophy. Around the land is a massive, bluestone fence with large iron spokes adorning the top of the eight-foot stonewall. At the front of the land, hanging off rusty hinges, were wrought iron gates that were forever chained up. From the gaps in the gate at the driveway, the front and sides of the house were visible. A long over grown drive wound up to the mansion, where a fountain stood in the centre of the curved part of the drive that came back around again and met with the first path in a circular shape. Along the path, huge pine trees hung over the road forming a dark tunnel that whispered life. I personally thought the whole effect of the over grown garden, driveway and fountain to be very beautiful. Mix just thought it was creepy.

But it was the house that most people noticed first. It was massive, at least four stories with large windows and a pitched roof. The whole house was a dark grey stone – sort of like the stuff churches and convents are made off – the roof made of small tiles. The front doors were large and wooden, swinging inwards, with a huge knocker on the front. Steps lead to the front door, two large stone dragons guarding each side of the stairs, also made of dark smoothed off stone. To the side off the house were some stables and what I assumed to be servants quarters. The back garden was never seen beyond the fence, though it intrigued me. The whole mansion and land was extremely run down – dragon statues with large chips out of them, windows broken, vines creeping up the stones, tiles fallen off the roof, fountain dirty and mossy – but I thought it just made the whole illusion even more intense. The council didn't seem to have the heart to tear down the piece of history, yet, they didn't have the money to fix it up, either. So it stayed as it had for the last few hundred years – huge, menacing and rotting.

As the town had grown around the mansion, so had the stories – affecting the price of the real estate that was stuffed on either side off the large iron fence. My parents – never having much money – took the chance at the cheap housing prices and bought a four-bedroom house just one street down from the huge mansion. That's what was so strange about driving though our town. It seemed like normal suburbia until you reached Whitestone Manor. House, house, house, apartment block, convenience store, pizza shop, house, house, house, huge creepy mansion, house, house, house. I had grown to live with it. And love it. I walked past it everyday on the way to school. Growing up as kids around the mansion, my brother and I had always tried to sneak in through the gaps in the large fence. But we never got further than halfway up the drive before one of us – namely, my brother, Adam – got too scared and came back.

"Well, fey were said to be faeries of the land," Mix began. "They come in all kinds of shapes. Trolls, pixies, mermaids. Some are as big as trees or have vines for arms. Others have tentacles for hair or hooves for feet. Some are green with wings or shimmer like diamonds. They live in courts – sort of like tribes or gangs – and play with humans. Make fun of them. Steal babies and make people fall in and out of love–"

"Like A Midsummer's Night Dream," I put in.

Mix ignored me and continued. "Abduct young girls and hold them for entertainment."

"So basically evil, like you said."

Mix gave me a look. "Fey don't like iron. Anyway, I heard that there is a faery in that house. And he can't ever leave because of the iron gates. Supposedly he steals young girls, teenagers, to work for him for the rest of their lives. When one dies, he abducts another."

Yes, I'd heard this story too. It bored me. "If he can't leave the house, how does he steal the girls?" I pointed out.

"He lures them in. Takes them from their families and distorts the memories of loved ones so they forget."

"And if no one remembers, where do the stories come from?" I asked.

Mix clearly hadn't thought that through. She frowned, her chubby features turning sour. "You're too sceptical," she said bitterly.

"You're too gullible," I shot back. "I'll prove it to you. I will go into that house, look around and bring something back just to show you. I won't be abducted by some evil faery and be his hostage until I'm old and grey."

"No!" Mix looked alarmed. "You can't go in there. What if you get hurt?"

"You know exactly where I am. Just call the police if I'm not back in two hours," I shrugged. I walked along the side of the fence, away from the gate, trying to find a place I could climb or squeeze through. I didn't find either – instead I found a large tree that hung over the side of the fence. I easily swung myself onto a low branch and stood.

"Don't even think about it, Giselle," Mix called. I was already half way up the tree. I had always been good in gym with fairly good muscle tone from playing basketball most of my life.

"Too late," I shouted back, standing carefully on a trunk hanging precariously over the iron spokes. "Give me two hours and I'll be back. See ya."

"Giselle!" Mix screamed, bordering on hysterical, as I jumped onto a stone with the iron spoke broken off leaving a gap for me to stand on.

And yes, my name is Giselle. My mother had always been a fan of ballet and Giselle was her favourite. (A very cheery story about a girl falling in love with a guy who proposes to her, but forgets to mention that he was already engaged. He was some rich guy pretending to be a peasant. When she finds out that her betrothed was engaged to this rich important person she promptly goes mad and commits suicide before the end of the first act. Then as the guy, who actually loved Giselle, visits her grave, Giselle's ghost has to save him from the other ghosts of women – who had also been cheated by guys – and want to kill Giselle's man for revenge, by making him dance until he dies of exhaustion. Giselle saves him and they dance a pas de deux before he leaves and Giselle is able to go to heaven – she wasn't before because she committed suicide and that's not allowed by God and whatever. Like I said, a cheery story. My mother obviously didn't see anything morbid in naming her only daughter after this ballet.) She tried to get me into ballet when I was young, but I bluntly refused. My mother was always really disappointed because she said my beauty was wasted on basketball. I said that that was just plain stupid. Whatever.

The fence was way too high to jump from without breaking something, so I decided I could hang myself from the edge and drop the rest of the way. Then I would only be falling three or so feet. I turned around and climbed slowly off the side of the fence, hanging dangerously off the ledge with my hands. There were no footholds in the smooth stone, so I let go, pushing myself away from the wall, falling with a thud on my feet and collapsing to the ground. I stood and brushed myself off. That was when I realised I would have to find a new way to get back over the fence without the aid of a tree. Oh well. I'd figure that out when the time came.

I began walking up the long drive, and I swear it took me over ten minutes. Still, the dark tunnel of pine trees, that enclosed me like a living corridor, awed me. I turned once to see Mix's small, plump form watching me from the gates. I waved at her as she gestured for me to return. I laughed and kept walking. When I reached the fountain and stared upon the beautifully melancholic house, I realised just how big it was. From a distance it looked huge, and close up it was even bigger. A massive monster staring down upon me from the dark skies beyond it. I noticed how cold it was and pulled my jacket around me tighter. And the sky did actually look very gloomy, giving the whole effect so much more emphasis, and making me worry that I would have to walk back in the rain. But then, I doubted much rain would get through those pine trees. I walked around the dilapidated fountain and stepped close to one of the dragon statues that guarded the few stairs to the door. I hadn't really noticed the size of them from the gates, but standing next to them they were a good foot taller than my 5'8 feet (and a whole lot more menacing). I touched the dragon's face, mouth, bared teeth, small eyes, long snout, and thought that he was a very beautiful creature. Agile and lean. If not for the fact he was stone and non-existent. Still, he was beautiful.

"Do you have a name?" I asked softly. He didn't answer. I didn't take it personally.

I took my time climbing the few stairs to the door and knocked loudly with the rusty knocker, just for kicks. I was only slightly surprised when I didn't get an answer. I pushed lightly on the door, but it didn't move. I hadn't expected it too. I knew the hinges would be rusted and broken but I still wanted to be careful. This time I pushed harder, putting more force and banging my shoulder against the door. It moved a fraction, releasing some dirt around the cracks in the door.

I pushed again, even harder, and the doors swung inwards, throwing me forward with the force of the blow. It didn't even occur to me that perhaps it was strange that the door came open with only two heaves. As I took a step forward into the gloomy house, the sky opened up behind me, releasing the sun in all its glory. I smiled, glad that even though it was the middle of winter, the sun felt it necessary to make an appearance every now and then. The dark clouds moved away and soon the sky was only spotted with a few wisps every so often. My mood improved immediately and I strode into the mansion confidently. As the sun came out, the house didn't seem so creepy. In fact, sunlight filtered through the slightly frosted windows and opened up the room I was now standing in.

It was a foyer type thing, a coat rack near the door and marble floors. In fact, the whole room was made of marble. It surprised me, considering I expected to see black stone. Apparently not. Everything was made of white and grey marble. Now I understood the name Whitestone Manor. It was fleetingly beautiful, and extremely cold at the same time. The room had high ceilings with a large chandelier hanging from the roof. If I had paid attention to the lighting instead of just skimming my eyes over it, I would have noticed the seventy-five watt globes in place of candles. And considering the house was supposed to have been empty for the last five hundred or so years any electrical work would've seemed strange. But I wasn't paying attention. I was awed by the beauty. I also should have deemed it strange that the house was impeccably clean. Another small detail that should've sent alarm bells ringing. I'm not sure if this is because I'm terribly unobservant or because of my no-panic-skim-over-important-and-scary-facts thing. Either way I figure it's a bad thing.

Other than the coat rack and a few small tables that harboured vases, there was nothing in the room. I decided to move on. From the foyer, there were three options. A door leading to the left, a door leading to the right and double doors opening in front of me. I picked the door that lead straight ahead. I figured I couldn't get too lost if I was moving in one direction. It opened easily – another fact I missed – and showed a dim corridor that seemed to go on forever. There was a long royal blue rug that had been laid over the cold marble floor. Along the walls were brackets I assumed would have held candles when the mansion was in its prime. Now that I was away from any windows, the corridor seemed much darker, shadows flitting in and out around shapes and objects.

I stepped carefully onto the rug on the floor, the carpet muffling my footsteps, and began my journey down the never-ending corridor. I should have been surprised that no dust came from the carpet as I stook wary steps. But once again, my brain eluded me and I didn't notice anything except the terribly amazing paintings that hung from the walls at even intervals between doors. Some of the paintings were of people. Other times they were landscapes. Each one was painted as if seen through opaque glass or misty water; lines smudged, far away objects indistinct. I got the feeling each painting was done by the same artist, but I didn't know whom, since none of them were signed.

The paintings that stood out the most were the ones of young girls. They were all standing in the frame – as if it were a window they were standing next to – with a black boarder. They all stared out of the painting at an unknown object, as if the meaning of their life was there. Maybe it was. The background was dark, the objects around the girls vague and hard to make out. Perhaps it was a room. I thought I could see the end of a bed, and the outline of a mirror. I wasn't sure.

I'm not sure how long I stood in that corridor, squinting to see the paintings through the darkness. Sometimes I had to use the light from my phone to see the paintings, especially as I got deeper into the corridor. I walked past all the doors that led away from the corridor, not wanting to make too many unremembered turns and getting lost in this huge dark house. At least I had a little common sense. Just not enough.

I was so distracted scrutinising each of the beautifully exquisite paintings I was surprised when I reached the end of the corridor. When I did, I could see light coming from underneath the cracks of large wooden double doors within the marble walls. I opened the outward swinging doors slowly and slipped though quickly. It took my eyes a moment to adjust to the new brightness. But once all the white spots had disappeared from my sight I gasped aloud – not from shock or fright, we have already discussed my slight panic problem – it was so beautiful. I was standing on a landing type thing – made of marble – that led down gorgeously serene white marble stairs to a large room with huge floor space. The whole room looked more like a church than a house, and deserved to be a tourist destination in some European country, not in my small town with unworthy citizens who were too scared to see such beauty.

The light I had seen under the door had come from sunlight filtering through high stained-glass windows along the back wall. I realised that at no time had I moved upwards, so most of this room would have been partially underground. In fact, the windows would've only just made it above ground level. That also meant that I had walked along the whole width of the house.

Each stained glass window was different, with all kinds of abstract shapes. But one stood out. It was placed in the centre of the far wall, much larger than the rest. The background was black, with a large geometric rose in the centre. The petals were a deep red, stem bright green and thorns a dark brown. The rest of the room was made of beautifully carved white stones, intricate patterns and designs swirling over them. Above the windows were balconies on the back wall and around the sides of the room, hanging over spaces I assumed be used to place a strings group or a piano. I guessed the balconies on each side of the room must lead off to different parts of the house. I was intrigued as to how to get up there. The room was simply furnished, but the furniture was antique, all elaborately made down to the last detail. Light filtered through the windows, casting eerie coloured shapes around the room, making everything seem even more surreal.

I stood at the top of the marble stairs with a straight back, head tilted upwards. I took a step to the right and sunk into a low ballet curtsey – Mum may not have been able to make me take lessons, but I'd seen enough ballets in my short span of life, trust me – holding out an imaginary skirt. Linking arms with my imaginary partner I walked down the stairs, nodding and smiling to my imaginary audience.

"Thank you," I said graciously. "I thank all of you. Without you, I would've achieved nothing. Thank you." At the bottom of the stairs I made another curtsey to my audience, then to my partner. I took large ballet-like walks to the centre of the room and stood with my feet in place, as if I were about to perform. In my head, I tried to summon music. It didn't work.

I dropped my posture and scuffed the floor with my shoe, enjoying the squeal it made. It reminded me of basketball. With an imaginary ball I dribbled the length of the room and did a lay-up under one of the balconies. I cupped my hands around my mouth and made a cheering noise. I slapped the hands of my imaginary teammates and walked back to the centre of the room.

I took another look at the large room from the new angle. Looking up, there was a large chandelier that hung above my head, attached to a white marble roof with the same patterns as the walls. In the left corner I noticed a beautiful grand piano, looking so delicate that I was worried it would fall apart if I touched it. Other than the piano there were only small tables placed against the wall. The centre of the room was bare.

A ballroom, my mind suddenly clicked over. I took a ballroom stance with an invisible dance partner and began a waltz I didn't know the steps to. I closed my eyes and let the piano play in my head. Light, fleeting notes over heavy, drawn-out deep ones. One, step, step. Two, step, step. Three, step, step. Four, step, step. I stopped moving and opened my eyes, letting the music fade out in my head. It echoed around the room before it grew as faint as my footsteps.

I turned slowly, taking my bearings and looking at the amazing beauty of the room again. I shook my head in awe and took a deep breath. And that is when I realised something was wrong. The air smelt fresh. Clean. Even fragranced. In fact, the whole house had smelt like that. There wasn't the musty, damp, mildew smell that should have hung around. I looked around the room again and noticed things I hadn't because I'd been too awestruck.

There was no dust.

No dirt.

No cobwebs.

The chandelier above my head housed light bulbs, not candles.

And the weirdest thing was that on each of the tiny tables scattered against the walls was a small vase with one black rose in each.

Okay, this was not good. I didn't panic, but something in my brain registered that it might be best to get out of the creepy house that seemed to have been cleaned recently and installation of fairly involved electrical work. I got the feeling there was definitely something wrong here. And while I didn't believe in fey or faeries as Mix did, I did believe in crazy humans who lived in creepy old mansions and waited for stupid teens to wander in and get themselves hurt. I may not have panicked, but I had enough sense to get out of that house. Or I thought I was going to get out of the house.

It was about here that my whole life ended.