After crossing the threshold, it took possession of me. Before cocoa, she was eager to give me a tour.

From the foyer, she led me into the left wing, which might have been a garden room or parlor. Built-in shelves waited to display glass and china. A tired couch faced a white marble fireplace and floor-to-ceiling windows without curtains. Ceiling fixtures cast a flat, steady light.

We continued left into the library, cloaked in dark wood and lined with leather-bound books. The quiet felt older than the furniture.

At the far end of the wing, we stepped into an octagonal ballroom. Tall gilded mirrors scattered the muted afternoon light. Wide-eyed cherubs floated among clouds across the blue ceiling. It was the grandest yet emptiest room I had ever seen.

That moment prompted me to spread my arms and twirl. Alexa caught my hands, and together we waltzed across the mosaic floor, our reflections multiplying in mirrors. I grew dizzy from spinning, from joy larger than the moment, feeling I had done this before.

Circling back to the entry, I no longer craved hot chocolate. I hungered to discover more. She ushered me up the staircase. The paisley runner was soft beneath my feet. The white banister led us in square turns, forward, right, then back, until we reached the second floor.

A hallway stretched the length of the left wing, with six bedrooms in a row and a corner guest room, each with an en suite, seven in total. Doors with glass panes opened onto wrought-iron balconies overlooking green acres bordered by oaks.

We returned to the staircase for the final ascent. The steps grew steeper, the air warmer. At the top, we entered a musty attic. A maroon velvet couch sagged as though occupied. Nearby sat a cradle, cracked dolls, and a dollhouse beside a bowed shelf of forgotten books. The ceiling sloped on all sides.

“This is my favorite room,” she whispered, “especially when it rains.” We retraced our steps to the foyer before heading right. We passed a dining room with a wooden table and high-backed chairs beneath a low fixture of bare bulbs. Wallpaper traced faint vines on the walls.

We entered a kitchen with stainless counters and a blue enamel Wedgewood stove, once meant for staff but now silent.
“Ready for your hot chocolate now?” she asked. “Oh yes. I am ready.”

It was the most delicious hot drink I had ever tasted. That was when we truly became acquainted, two lonely girls who had found each other. Her parents were often gone, leaving her in that vast house until weekends. I sensed in her the same emptiness I carried.

I realized we had something in common. We were both lonely little girls. My family had just relocated; my father still worked in the city, my brother was away at college, and my mother was readjusting to an isolated suburban life.

We exited the kitchen and followed a long, narrow hallway parallel to the dining room. Closed doors lined the corridor, each waiting to be explored. One opened to a room with a twin bed and dresser. Another revealed a den with a television, a tired brown leather couch, and a coffee table. Farther along was a small utility room, then a laundry room scented with detergent and fresh linens. At the end, a green door opened to the side driveway. This wing felt different and less ornate.

I was nearing exhaustion, sure the tour was over. “There is still the cellar,” she said, almost casually.

She led me to a black wooden door near the back, heavy and ominous, meant to keep something out or in.

Behind that black wooden door waited something neither of us could name, a darkness that called to be faced.