Driving home yesterday I saw something mysterious. It’s still winter here–though the grass begs impatiently that it needs to get about its work–and the trees all stand starkly at attention, naked and old, like corpses waiting to be shrouded. But the shameless trees allow me to see further and deeper with a curious unencumbered gaze (yet not for too long, for the road winds so).

That is why I saw it.

Just before the road wanders past the old Natural Gas outpost, off to the left and partway up a gentle hill, a brick Victorian monolith intercepted my gaze. I snatched as many glimses as possible before my path carried me away and the trees clustered closer as if to protect an ancient secret. But my mind was stirred: does someone live there, or is it a bastion of the bygone era of “mental retreat” centers? Had an old stuffy Rockefeller retreated into brick-lined country oblivion leaving only an abandoned manor as evidence of his imposition?

Today I am resolved to get closer, to daringly maneuvre nearer the inevitably haunted structure and see if candles burn in the windows and a gardener prepares the grounds for spring…