― Vladimir Nabokov
I'm leery of going back to the heritage house that inspired a flashback or vision for me that involved being among strangers in a different time.
There's something about the house that is familiar yet threatening and evokes confused emotions within me. My gut tells me to run but that would invalidate my whole purpose in returning to West Harbour. Besides, I've committed myself to doing whatever I can to recover my memory along with my identity and there's no denying there's a mystery here that must be explored.
But the moment I set foot on the walkway leading up to the front entrance I feel nauseous and the hair on my arms begins standing on end.
Not a good omen.
There's a notice on the front door that instructs me to ring the bell and wait to be admitted―that's a strange instruction seeing this is a historical site open to the public, but I put aside my reservations and comply.
Five minutes pass before a middle-aged woman appears dressed as a maid from a bygone time and she informs me I must wait outside another fifteen minutes until the current tour is finished before I can be admitted.
It's a strange request but I assent and dutifully stand outside the house for the required time period. Thankfully, the weather is dry and mild.
Eventually, the door opens and a small party of people exit the house and the woman who spoke to me earlier beckons for me to come in.
The woman is mousy looking with short dark hair and black framed glasses and is is dressed all in black with the exception of a white apron and a white linen maid's hat.
She rattles off a list of rules advising against setting up photography equipment to take photos and various other minor prohibitions the sum of which amount to my agreeing with her way or the highway.
I can't believe the strict sense of control, but I'm eager to see through the house, so I accede to her wishes.
The interior of the house is gas-lit, dark and gloomy. There's a stifling, oppressive atmosphere even as we stand in the dark panelled foyer and I gaze up the imposing staircase toward an impenetrable darkness above.
I notice the main floor rooms are roped off limiting us to merely being able to peer in.
The woman begins her set tour speech by explaining she's a descendant of the family that lived in the Late Classical house since the 1850's.
That might explain her sense of possessiveness, I muse.
I didn't know what I was expecting to find in the bleak house but it struck me as the antithesis of the happy scene I envisioned in the gardens and more of the brooding atmosphere of Satis House in Dicken's Great Expectations.
Unlike Satis House, Whitehern had been completely restored, but was so unlike the shadowy Dickensian manse I couldn't imagine a dramatic reunion with the girl in my dreams re-enacting love among the ruins.
My anticipated happy ending would not be fulfilled by the spirit of this place.
I began feeling restless and frustrated as the woman droned on, dwelling upon the minutiae of the changing fortunes of the McQuesten family that occupied the house.
I expected a hands-on experience of being able to reach out and touch the past and by some kind of psychometry be able to channel whatever traces of the past remained within the walls.
Being prevented from a tactile experience, I took out my cell phone and began snapping photos hoping something in the house might spark a memory or some type of recognition.
"I must ask you to cease taking photos," The guide reprimanded sternly. "We have only a limited amount of time and there's a great deal of family history that remains to be covered."
"I thought I could take a few photos while you talked so I could recall the information more readily later."
It was a lame excuse I hoped would work, but my hopes were abruptly quashed.
"We have a set program we must follow, I'm afraid. The historical society has a website where you can peruse pictures of te house on-line."
I had no recourse but to put away my phone and allow her to continue her interminable monologue.
A half hour later, we were descending the main staircase when I felt pushed from behind and somehow managed to brace myself against the wall to avoid plunging headfirst down the stairs.
The guide who had been before me leading the way was startled and cried out. In that instant, I caught sight of a grey and shadowy human figure in front of her.
We both watched him run down the stairs and attempt to reach the exit, but disappeared before he could open the front door.
"What was that?" I shouted, but instead of supporting me, the woman grew angry and red-faced.
"You have to leave," she insisted.
"I will, but first I have to know what the hell is going on here. Is the house haunted?"
"That's preposterous," she replied angrily. "How dare you make such an insinuation! I must insist that you leave immediately."
She threw open the door and refused to budge until I exited the premises, and then slammed the door behind me.
As I stood open -mouthed, staring dumbly up at the manse, I realized I was standing in pouring rain and becoming drenched.
I walked back in a daze to my SUV, parked in a nearby municipal lot, trying to make sense of what just occurred.