The ebon sky blinked its myriad eyes in dreary condescension. On an odyssey thousands or millions of light years long, the photonic remnants of possibly-dead stars trickle through the atmosphere into the night; the only vestiges of events that happened before the first single-celled organism developed on the little backwater planet of molten rock and steam and vapor called Earth. Passing flares like roman candles littened the sky with platonic bursts of streaking light: fire and trailing ice and hundreds of miles long running through the sky in elliptical embraces around the galaxy like a wandering paramour.
Lazy grey clouds slid across the sky like a cavalcade of cyclopæan mollusks. The cold and melancholic wintry pall of emptiness clung to the desiccated vacuum of the desolation. Every visible piece of sky was gleaming in chiaroscuro contrast; the blazing dreary night sky pin-pricked into light from millenniums away.
Against the eldritch backdrop of the nascent eerie nocturnes, the decrepit mansion bore mute witness to the ravages of decay and abandon. Around the derelict manse deep white snow piles up shoulder high; the crown-high snows of years past leaving but eventual demonstrations of their presence.
It rose high and powerful into the sky like gargantuan gingerbread house; battered and decaying, the frosting falling from the sky covering the dismal exterior of a delicious desert that's gone spoiled. Tall elephantine towers reached into the sky directing a single iron proboscis towards the unyielding and uncaring stars. Slate grey sharply-angled roofs trapeze above the high ledges and balconies; the shingles missing in places and the gaping empty bay windows --how they nip at the sky like the bared fangs of some monstrous fairy tale home brought to life-- are barely discernable in the night, yet the feeling of unease is fed by their masked and quasi-invisible presence all the more.
Melting snow seeps into cracks of the rock face only to freeze again, thus cleaving the stone like a wedge of Dihydrogen Oxide molecules stilted into non-activity. After years this causes the stone to crack, to become twain after many repeated cycles of freeze and thaw, freeze and thaw, freeze and thaw; an endless repetition of destruction at a minute microscopic level. The steps now lay cracked and fractured after many years with albic snow filling in betwixt the peaks, betwixt the jagged snaggle-toothed teeth of old granite.
All around the property the sylvan walls surrounded and oppressed the very fabric of space like a barrier of pure black wilderness. The depth of the surrounding wood was unfathomable and it expanded into oblivion so that nothing else could be imagined, reaching into the depths of the most expansive limits infinity. The leaves rustle almost imperceptibly; a shudder passes through the night in a serpentine flood of terror. Sharp thin branches reach out into a thousand different directions from each tree like the scratchy tiny legs of so many insects; arachnid arms reaching toward invisible gossamer filaments suspended on frail moonlight and immutable in the iridescence of the great solitary satellite.
A thin razor-straight walkway leads from the house to the great black iron gate that connects the tall red brick walls of the mure that listlessly surrounds the lethargic property. Atop the walls statues dance frozen in mid-step every few dozen feet: Pan erotically playing his instrument, one knee bent ever so slightly in springy step; hither a muse missing an arm and thither with an absent arm; the green forms of oxidized copper revealing a life now gone from everything within sight.
From inside the house the nigritude spills out from the shattered windows like a jetty plug of pitch about to explode into the night. The darkness inside is deeper than that outside. The space becomes a despairing gulph yawning into the æons forever, unending and perpetual into the vast regions of the dangerous nethers of fear. Madness looms inherent and deadly there; the great cap of lunacy crowns a pitchy Loki, mad and drunk on insanity, sceptered upon an onyx throne.
Hermetic, the thick door seals the outside, possibly for its own safety, from the inside. The great black portal presides in gargantuan glory dwarfing the bronze knob set low and small into the wooden belly of the behemoth seal. Nigh perfect junctures bring the slabs of wood into being as a whole awesome one; the silent sentinel: mute acephalic Cerberus.
The hours pass as the sky gradually lightens into the demure violet, an imperial sky clad in regal purpura cloaks. The dawn begins to break in the eastern horizon as it throws the lances of light through the body of darkness engulfing the world; the leaden night taking the nascent babe of the day by the hand and leading it across the sky till naught but the vestiges of the last remaining stars shine faintly in the dark corners of the western horizon. A panorama clothed in purest white begins to discover and reveal itself.
Slowly, the amaril orb breaks the line as dawn is fully birthed, beheld by the great dilated landscape ready, hungered and famished, for the life-giving emission of photons. A cold world accepts the tepid gift with relish; slovenly devouring the short hours of sunlight available till the dusk shrouds the panorama in deepest inky night once more.
While the stars disappear the morning progresses and the entirety of the world's caelus torns the albiceleste of the diurnal hours. Creeping warmth spreads like melting butter across the horizon's panorama as the eldritch quality the night inflicted upon the landscape oozes back into the very earth, frozen and hardened by the unforgiving brittle icy chill that turns black soil into nigh-solid and dense black rock. The last wine-colored clouds become rare bleached-out strands of cotton floating across the sky as the brilliant day matures from the icy cocoon of the night.
Against the bright blue daysky the mansion reveals its true form: dignified and austere yet in the final stages of stately and regal decay; the decrepit remnants of a once-proud location in space and time shows the slow decomposition of grandeur into sordid annihilation. In the light the lonely house appears less lugubrious, less imposing; an oeuvre in radiating ruddy reds, browns, and mottled grey. A green sea stretches out into the diaphanous forest, its somnolescent greens grasping into the phantastic depths.
Lazily, dust floats up to the door, up to the degraded walls, and against the windows, knocking lightly and bouncing off. The frost-stained windows gather what dust floats up to it, making them a transparent brown. The tiny particles echo inside the deep labyrinthine halls, amplified by the sterile hardwood floors and distorted by turns and doors in the floorplan. Sibilant aural designs form deep in the heart of the house, the result of sound transforming, evolving, mutating into a whispering susurrant monologue.