Such à beautiful house!

By Lorenzo di Gaio

A couple of students rent a house for the holidays from an old man who lives in obscurity. He and she are surprised, in the middle of the day, the curtains are drawn, there is a smell of mothballs, candles are lit, no trace of electricity. He is pale, almost stiff.
At the resort, they discover a mansion, the rent would be acceptable for a studio. The park is immense, an insane number of fruit trees, a garden with abundant vegetables. They will have to clean the house. It has no running water, electricity or gas. Sewerage is not provided, perhaps a luxury that the owner could not afford.

From the first days, strange things happen, a ghost seems to haunt the place. It's a haunted house, and yet they are far from Wales. It's not Halloween. Unexplained phenomena, they are paranormal, the word paranormal is dropped. It is not a castle, at most a manor, a beautiful bourgeois house. For some, the paranormal is also an attraction Appearances in the corridors, fear rears its ugly head.
Thrills, a labyrinth where you go in circles, ghostly terror, frightening facts, spending the night in this house is worse than sleeping in a cemetery. A white lady walks into the living room. They almost want to call a Sir Stephen and a lady named Mary. This residence is an enigma. Maybe a legend exists.
A monster which is undoubtedly only supernatural walks in the middle of the garden, a pack of wolves accompanies him. He wears a harlequin mask. It's a funny idea to have such pets.
A demon is surely shaking this world, he must have escaped from Edinburgh, a survivor of the Stuart clan. It would be easier to make a nocturnal visit to an asylum than to stay in this house at the stroke of midnight.
Wandering alone at night in the catacombs would be less frightening.
The inhabitants of the village tell them that the tenants of this place do not stay more than a week, they disappear during one night. The next day, the owner appears and locks the house. They hide behind the curtains to see him. Seeing him gives them chills. Being afraid is common among people down there. A pack of zombies is probably following him, a hypothesis, he's so weird.
The terrifying being appears to be the ghost of a nun belonging to a family who lived in this mansion. It undoubtedly has a history, you have to be a historian to find it among the myths, legends and slander.
The inhabitants seem to know the reason for the mysteries surrounding the house, but they remain silent.
A village shrew, a bad tongue, a rumor-maker, gets angry because they don't leave. The custom has broken, they stay inside the devil's house, yet everyone is really afraid of them. This building is haunting.
The couple of students seem to be living a horror film, thrills guaranteed, in this abandoned house. They become ghost hunters without wanting to. They will become masters in the art of spiritualism.
Not only that, but they look for the reason for the abnormal manifestations. It's not really a fairy story, but rather an escape game.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lorenzo di Gaio
• Release date: Dec 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9798224989638

Book preview

Chapter 1

WITH JULIANNE, I’M leaving Paris, not permanently, we’re going on vacation. The month of July has just arrived, we do not want to stay stuck between asphalt and concrete, with one voice we cry out:

—Chao the big city! For us, the little flowers, and the intoxicating smell of hay, we will oxygenate our lungs! Living peacefully far from the anxieties and torments of the capital is a door open to paradise!

We are not very fortunate students. However we benefit from a supervisory position, so we navigate between poverty and just enough, if the slightest problem arises, and here we are starving.

We live in Nanterre, a two-room apartment which is enough for us, a bed, a space to work and to eat. Why should we pay more?

My thick black mane stands out in Paris, my average height accommodates my musculature, as for her, her blonde hair matches the size and finesse of her body. The perfect couple, we’ve been living together for a year. She is my feminine ideal, I hope to be the man who lives in her dreams. The male is a rooster who likes to show off on a pile of manure.

I met her at a party where I had drunk too much, she helped me get home, I was staggering like a drunk who lives in an unfrequented bar. She stayed the night, but I was off duty, sleeping imitating a dormouse. In the morning, my mind, still foggy, had difficulty understanding her presence there, naked at the bottom of my bed; however, she represented a beauty straight out of the adult magazines that I bought when I was a teenager. My mother did not appreciate it, she shouted when she saw them, invoking God and all the saints on earth that her son was only a pervert. My God, he’s going to roast in hell when he comes to the age of reason, it’s not possible to gouge out your eyes with these creatures. Santa Claus must have placed it on my stake, and I was picking like a log. I observed it for long minutes, lingering on the hills and valleys, geography has always fascinated me. My tongue went to discover the feminine treasure, the moment she moaned, I jumped on her, she laughed and said hello to me. After a few back and forth, I offered her a coffee, I didn’t dare ask her her first name, she must have told me last night, but I had forgotten it. She brought her bag with her clothes two weeks later. I started sharing my bed, abandoning my single selfishness. When I’m angry with her, I curse my wine drinking sprees, promising not to touch another drop of alcohol.

We wanted to go on vacation, but our bank statements reminded us of the harsh realities of existence, escaping the big city by living on love and fresh water, that’s good for poets. In addition, we do not own a car, bicycles which allow us to circulate through the streets of Paris, a significant distance while pedalling would have given us calf cramps. I’m out of breath just thinking about it.

She found an advert, a Parisian was renting a house in Périgord. Despite having a special name, she called him. He asked her to meet us. His name is Pierre de Carnac, the France of old regimes which never stops dying makes her uncomfortable.

He lives on the sixteenth floor. A plush building, a large apartment, inside which a pile of old junk is piled up, the home of an antique dealer would be no different. A dark home, in which he had drawn the shutters, candles provide adequate light. He is an elderly person, dressed in black, his voice wavers, he walks with a twisted wooden cane. Wrinkles deepen the skin of his face, the furrows of a ploughing field seem less deep. The rental price seems modest, it is a small cut stone house far from the village, he describes it as an unpretentious residence, I picture it wedged between lime trees and chestnut trees. He needs to open the windows and sweep the broom, this will clear the dust. I ask him about the reason and what is stopping him from going.

‘Just think, I no longer have the strength to go there,’ he whispered in a trembling voice.

We accepted and signed the lease.

—But where is Périgord? I asked Julianne when she returned.

—Somewhere south of Paris, we will have to take the first right when leaving the capital, it is the shortest route.

With our bikes and our backpacks, we take the train to Austerlitz station, we have four hours and twenty minutes to contemplate the passing landscape. He will drop us off at Brive-la-Gaillarde. This city name evokes the sun and rugby; however, I prefer handball, and Julianne basketball. The round ball fights the oval one, who wins in the South-West? I don’t dare answer, hearing the truth scares me. A bus will take us to our destination after an hour and twenty minutes of travel.

Our bikes stored in a wagon reserved for this purpose, we sit in front of us, two places remain free. Our phones in hand, we placed our backpacks above our heads and the railway ticket under our buttocks, they will be warm.

The train fills up with families, a few single people are the exception which proves the rule, people talk about vacations and sunshine. In front of us, a couple in their thirties goes to Orléans, the man looks at Julianne’s thighs, and the lady stares at me. They go to the woman’s parents, they discuss it among themselves. Monique, the wife’s mother is unwell, she is worried. He sympathises by not leaving my girlfriend’s crotch. I learn about people’s lives without initiating a conversation other than a hello which befits civilised people. They go down to Orléans, he gives Julianne a big smile, and grimaces while looking at me. Two old, stiff-looking gentlemen replace them, but they travel second class. They avoid talking to each other. The first look to the right, the second to the left. Julianne and I stare at each other, smiling. We are bored on this train. We try to listen to music, the phone’s internet services cut off every two minutes due to the changing network, the tunnel is not the chopper, but its stunner. They go down to Bourges, no one in front of us spoils our horizon. I ask Julianne if she thinks it was a homosexual couple, she tells me that two guys together don’t necessarily go in the same bed. She adds that they look a lot alike, maybe they are brothers going to a relative’s funeral. I agree, it’s possible, that would explain the funeral expression they had. We have completed half the journey. Children run through the corridor, they create a din, as loud as a hundred bugles sounding the charge, it shakes everyone. I have a headache. After Limoges, we drink coffee, my thermos gets lodged between my legs, this drink constitutes a real addiction.

In Brive-la-Gaillarde, our bikes in hand, we wait for the bus, we have to wait for two hours, we despair. Fortunately, it is not raining, the rain is always melancholy. People born on a rainy day are without exception sad, taciturn and solitary. This station compared to that of Austerlitz seems tiny and old-fashioned. We wait, pacing back and forth, a woman of around sixty with a singing accent approaches us.

—Where are you going? She asks us.

‘We rented a house in Saint-Amand-de-Coly,’ I replied.

—This village seems dead when you arrive from Paris.

—We are looking for a month of calm and sunshine, pollution and asphalt are tiring when we endure them continuously.

She stops talking. This city bathes in the rays of the golden star; its colours and architecture match it. On the train, I didn’t see the landscape passing by; the speed prevents it from becoming imprinted in the memory. By bus, I will have the opportunity to discover it.

—Is a market open this morning? Julianne asks.

—Not today, but about a hundred meters from here, you will find a few stalls selling local products. But it is held on Saturday; plus the prices are more affordable in Saint-Amand-de-Coly.

She stops talking. She probably lives there, I hope the bus hurry up and deliver us from this gossip. Gloomy and chubby, enormous hips give her the appearance of a pear. Even covered in chocolate, like Saint Helena pears, it is still just as repulsive. The bus arrives, I sigh with relief.

I store the bikes and our bags inside a luggage compartment. The chatterbox is waiting for us, we go to sit down, she takes the seat next to us, a corridor separates us, it only constitutes a thin barrier in front of her unhealthy curiosity. What have I done to the good Lord? I must have cursed him a little too much. I almost beg him to forgive me.

—Are you married?

—No, we are too young, we get along well, we share a part of the road together. Maybe it will last a very long time.

—I met my husband when I was fifteen, we are still together. We have a small farm, we produce hay and a little foie gras, this work allows us to live. In the fall, he goes looking for truffles; otherwise our usual harvest sells poorly and prices have collapsed. We constantly penalise those who work hard, we almost give a medal to those who do nothing.

She stops talking. I turn and admire the landscape. Julianne seems to be captivated by this woman, she comes out of me through every pore.

—My name is Odette, and my husband, Mathieu, she tells us.

—I’m Julianne, and my boyfriend is Marc.

I give Odette a wide smile that shows her my white teeth.

—The bus stops at Montignac, by bike, in a few pedal strokes, you will reach Saint-Amand-de-Coly, Mathieu comes to pick me up. I’m no longer old enough to ride like this, the doctor even strictly forbade me to do so.

Arriving at Montignac, I sigh, Julianne continues to chat with Odette, I take the bicycles and backpacks out of the luggage hold.

A stocky, mustachioed individual approaches Julianne and Odette. I walk towards them, they introduce Mathieu to me. His Bacchante is a work of art, almost identical to Dali’s. However, his is thicker, rougher, one would judge it carved from rock, Dali’s was comparable to a work of art, each one made according to his possibilities. Around here, all the men are proud of it, the hair system under the nostrils undoubtedly proves their virility, I have a little down, but I take no pride in it. My reproductive organs are not related to this, far from it.

We leave them, and we leave by bike. Mathieu advised us to take the departmental road 704. We will pass through Le Bousquet and Mansac.

‘They rented the cursed house,’ Odette whispers to her husband.

—It’s a shame, they seemed very friendly, murmurs Mathieu with a voice full of regret.

—They might not end up as sausage meat.

—Yes, they are very skinny, they are takers without fat, although the girl’s ass seems very plump, you would get good ham from it.

He licks his lips as he finishes his sentence. Odette looks at him, he tells her that he reacted by thinking of Bayonne ham.

We pedal with enthusiasm, we only have eight kilometers to go, at the beginning, the flat makes our task easier, but after the Bosquet, an incline appears. If it’s not terrible, it’s not a mountain region, my thighs are swelling, I feel a sharp pain. I want to scream, I’m in too much pain. Julianne whispers to me that she’s at the end of her rope, it’s too painful. Taken with compassion, I suggested that we stop, she accepted. We sit in the grass, the bikes lying at our feet, we drink and we eat some fruit. Fortunately, we had some planned for the trip, and even dried apricots. My mother always told me that they are a vitamin bomb. Half an hour later, we leave again. As I observe the omnipresent forest, I realise that it often gives way to meadows and fields. Farms seem to have got lost in the middle of the greenery. She turns pale to yellow, is it when she sees us?

A slight decline is offered to us with a view to reaching Saint-Amand-de-Coly, I sigh, because I no longer felt my thighs again, confessing that would have thrown me from my male pedestal. Climbing on this bulwark, I could not recognise a weakness, unless it was only a pedestal.

Arriving in this small town, I am amazed, all the houses were built of cut stone. I have the feeling of immersing myself inside a history book, especially one that, a priori, was built in the medieval period. The others appear more recent, however, although they are young, they were undoubtedly built in the 19th century. My watch says three o’clock, we have to find our accommodation before buying a little something to eat.

—We hurry, I have fangs, and I don’t know where this house is located, I’m sick, I would eat a wild boar to calm the cries of my stomach, I declared.

—Odette explained to me that she stays away from the village.

She calls the gossip by her first name, so much so that a feeling of disgust overcomes me. As soon as I saw it, I felt a repulsion deep within me, just his voice exasperates me, his words annoy me, his laughter irritates me.

She passes in front of me, I follow her, I’m really starting to get tired. Arriving in front of the house, I am shocked by its reality, it is not really a small house with a mediocre appearance. It is anything but a cob construction, far from it. It is neither a tiny dwelling nor a hovel whose thatched roof threatens to give way due to the poor condition of the rafters on which it was placed. No, it’s none of that, quite the contrary. It has two floors, an impressive building. What can I name it? Manor, manor house, or chatelet, I don’t know. I open the door, the key squeaks, I enter, Julianne follows my steps. This house is dusty. The furniture looks old, the first room seems huge, a gigantic library contains an incredible number of books, a fireplace certainly provides heating on winter days. The freshness reigns there, outside, the temperature happily exceeds thirty degrees. A second is a dining room of surprising dimensions, a table ten meters long sits there, twenty chairs surround it. Perhaps it is a home for numerous siblings or a boarding house? We visit the first floor, it consists of six large empty rooms. The second has ten. We transformed five of them into bedrooms, I discovered a living room, an office, a library. But also a boudoir which undoubtedly belonged to an elegant woman. On a pedestal table, pearls lie around, silk placed on an armchair, reminiscent of the delicacy of ladies of yesteryear, someone has placed a jewellery chest on a small table. Watercolours in shades pleasing to the eye hung on the blue wall bring a touch of softness. Perhaps there is a missing perfume note, the smell of an exquisite eau de toilette. I yawn as I observe an empty room with barred windows, could it be a cell? The last one has a wooden tray, it is a more rudimentary bathroom, in fact, it consists of a fireplace, a chair, a table and a stove. We choose a room at random furnished with cherry wood, it gives off a natural warmth which delighted us, we put our bags there.

—Why does the rental price not correspond to its value? I ask.

—Odette told me that the owner is crazy.

—I counted an impressive number of rooms, fireplaces everywhere, it is estimated at twenty times more expensive than the rent that the landlord is asking.

—The house turns out to be devoid of electricity, gas and running water, we will have to draw some from the well. Whoever built this house located the toilets in the middle of the garden. The bathroom has no shower or bathtub, just a wooden tub. We did not arrive at a five-star hotel. A suburban hostel has more comfort than here.

I had forgotten these little details, I kept silent for a few minutes.

—However, we have access to the park, the vegetable garden and the orchard, we will have to visit it, before doing some shopping.

—We will need wood to prepare our meals, she confides to me, looking at the cook who sits like a queen in the kitchen.

In fact, a stove, an old cast-iron model, today, with the ecological crisis, we see more and more of it. The anachronistic, the most fashionable, the archaic, what we have driven out of our homes becomes the ultimate.

I’m not used to this ancestral world. This dive into this ancient universe will teach us again to live in contact with nature while respecting its requirements. I hope that the latter will not behave like a sadistic mistress. I imagine her dressed in latex smiling while brandishing a whip.

Outside, in the heart of the orchard, I believe I am treading on the Garden of Eden, apricot trees, sin trees, plum trees, plum trees and pear trees offer us fruit. As I walk through the vegetable garden, I marvel at the strawberries, raspberries, watermelons, radishes, cucumbers, broccoli, tomatoes and so many other fruits and vegetables. We are not in danger of starving.

I bite into some peaches, because I feel my stomach twisting, they are juicy and sweet, I have never eaten one so delicious. They can only be a gift from God.

We go down to the village by bike. These have a luggage rack, I found two wicker baskets, securely fixed with tensioners, shopping will not be a problem.

We enter inside a small grocery store. We buy some