How I Loved Your Mother

Today I feel like a love story. And no, it's not because it's February and Valentine's Day is coming. I've always hated that bullshit. I feel like one of those impossible love stories. With a touch of supernatural too. What I have below is a short story I wrote a couple of weeks ago on the Daily Prompt app, my go-to place for prompts and inspiration for stories, poems or just thoughts.

The prompt was: "You've inherited a notoriously haunted house from a great uncle you've never met." For some reason I thought of Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte and the old Victorian houses and fancy English names when I wrote the below. Heathcliff is my favorite villain too, by the way. Enjoy!

How I Loved your Mother

I couldn’t say I was looking forward to my first night at Ainsworth Hall. Not that I believed in ghost stories. I didn’t believe for a second that the spirit I of my uncle haunted the house. That was just folklore. I wasn’t afraid to sleep 20kms away from the closest town either. However, I somehow felt unworthy of inheriting the house of an uncle I had never met. My parents never really spoke much of Auguste Ainsworth and as I grew up I realised the matter bothered them. Hence, I learned not to ask questions.

It was also the first time I saw the house so I took my time to tour around the place. It was a big house with many spare rooms. Even though everything was covered with dust, I wondered what stories that old furniture and decorations had witnessed and what secrets they would tell me. But what puzzled me most was my bedroom. My uncle had made sure I knew his bedroom would be mine for my name was hanging on the door in a yellowed card: Edward. This made me feel uneasy, yet honoured. I turned the knob and my eyes looked straight into something that made my chin drop. On the wall above his bed - my bed - was a perfect painting of someone I knew very well. My mother. Suddenly, a suspicion bursted in me. My father was the twin brother of Auguste Ainsworth. Was that painting the proof they had loved the same woman?

The wind started blowing outside and I looked at my watch. It was only 9pm. Another surprise came not long after the shock of seeing my mother on the wall. An envelope on the bedside table. It had my name handwritten on it. I immediately picked it. I wanted to find out more about my mysterious uncle.

“Dear Edward,

I don’t think you must have heard my name often in your life. I cannot blame your parents for their silence, yet please know I am very fond of you, hence why this house is yours. I leave no descendants either so the house and whatever in contains are for your enjoyment or withdrawal from society’s demands.

Your father Anthony and I were twins, this is a fact you must be aware of. And by the time you read this letter you will have seen your beautiful mother on the wall. She was the most cheerful, benevolent and kind-hearted person I have ever met. Her innocent smile would keep me captivated until my last breath. As children, the three of us never grew tired of playing together.

After we grew up, things changed. Of the two twins, I was definitely the one who knew how to make money. I went to college, got a degree and eventually bought Ainsworth Hall. Anthony was the handy-man. He loved working with his hands, especially carving wood. Your mother liked that. As the two of them grew fonder of each other, jealousy spread in me like poison. I showered your mother with riches. Jewels, expensive dresses, all that I thought her heart desired. Initially she accepted with a smile. “Oh, I am unworthy, Auguste.” she would say with cadence. Then she started respectfully refusing my gifts and withdrawing from me. Anthony was clearly the favourite twin and, as much as I racked my brain, I couldn’t understand why she would choose the handy-man when she could have the world with me. I am, after all these years, ashamed to say I felt superior to your father and couldn’t accept that Juliette preferred what I arrogantly believed was a loser.

I refused to attend their wedding. That was the worst day of my life. When you were born, they didn’t invite me for your christening either. Initially it didn’t bother me but when you turned 3 I thought it was time to put our old grudges aside and asked if I could meet you. But later on I realised the grudges were still within me.

I tried to be as friendly as possible on that afternoon when I visited your parents - and you - for tea. Things didn’t go well. I was still using my wealth as a weapon to impress your mother. And to humiliate your father. I took expensive presents for you that your father probably saw as me showing off. The jealousy, resentment and spite came back a moment later when Anthony put his arm around your mother’s waist right in front of me as if marking his territory like an animal. Maybe it was just me, but I seemed to have seen defiance in his eyes. To alleviate the ever-growing tension between the two of us, Juliette put you, Edward, on my lap. Your beautifully innocent eyes - Juliette’s eyes - had a soothing effect on me. They would captivate me forever, just like hers had.

Unfortunately I was told never to go back. I would send you presents for your birthday every year but your parents always returned them. Once, a short note from your mother came with them and I read: ‘When will you understand, Auguste, that wealth isn’t the most valuable treasure?’

I stopped sending you presents. I just locked myself in this house, hoping to go into oblivion. I was so reclusive that rumours spread that Ainsworth Hall was haunted. In good truth I often moaned and lamented my misfortune, which I was entirely to blame for. I missed Juliette. I never married and never loved anyone else again. I missed you too, my little Edward. I never forgot you and the very least I can do for you is to leave you this house. I don’t want to impress you though. If you even wish to burn it all down, by all means, do it. I just wanted to let you know how I loved your mother.

With love from your uncle Auguste”

I was dumbstruck and had to admit I sympathised with this man despite his arrogance and petulance. I heard a howling somewhere, more like a moan, but thought it was the wind. Suddenly, from the corner of my eye, I thought I saw the shadow of an old man by the door. But when I turned my head, nothing was there. It was definitely just my imagination.