House of the Damned
A New Home
All of us stood aimlessly outside the ruined building as the caretakers flew back and forth. A few of the babies cried, and the other girls my age went to soothe them, but I stayed.
Saint Joan’s Orphanage was very poor. There was no way we would be able to get a new place to stay in time. There were only fifteen of us, but it was enough that no hospital or other charity could take us in on such short notice. Especially in a city like San Francisco.
The numbness still stayed with me as I gazed upon the wreck for what seemed like hours. The sun was out, making my short brown hair almost appear red. It seemed a cruel thing, for the weather to be so perfect after what had happened. At least no one was killed, although a few of us had scratches and small burns.
No one really seemed to know how the fire started. Everyone had their own reasoning, probable, ridiculous, and in between. Some said that one of the young boys, Jason, had found some matches and accidentally dropped them. I even heard that an arsonist had been planning this assault on our building for months.
The worst part of all was that I had lost everything. I had less than a month to go until I left the orphanage and made my way into the world. My savings, my belongings, my everything was in there when the fire started. And now it was just a pile of gray dust.
We were there for hours while the caretakers tried to settle affairs and get us somewhere to stay. I helped with the younger children after a while, with my friends Amanda and Carey. It was midafternoon, by which time the sun was beating down heavily and our stomachs were groaning, when Miss White commanded our attention.
“All right,” she said, voice trembling slightly with exhaustion. “I have arranged for you all to stay at a certain home until we can get this rebuilt. It’s just a few miles out of the city. It’s called Everett Mansion.”
They brought out a school bus for us about an hour later. Before I got on, I looked back longingly at what had been the only place I'd ever really known.
Hopefully, this Everett Mansion would have something better in store for me.
It was hot, smelly, and cramped on the bus. My two friends and I were shoved up against each other, sweat sticking our bodies together. But then again, that was California for you. Even in fall, it was warm enough to need shorts and a T-shirt.
We traveled out of the city, far away from the big buildings and roar of civilization I’d become so accustomed to. Soon we were making our way across rolling hills.
After a while, the bus creaked to a halt. Not sure whether I wanted to see my new home or not, I peered out the window.
A rusted old gateway at least eight feet high, cloaked with chipping black paint stood at the front. Two fat cherubs glared down from the gate top. Behind it, and across a wide stone pathway, was the mansion.
Clearly it wasn’t called a mansion for nothing. It was painted a pale gray color, and looked at least as big as the swimming complex they used to take us to on trips. The walls looked at least three stories high. Every part of the architecture seemed very delicate and detailed, making it eerily beautiful.
The windows, doors and pillars on the porch were all done in a gothic style. Even from the bus, I could see weaving spirals adorning each with iron that had rusted long ago.
Although it was beautiful, the whole thing seemed very ominous. It was as though the house was daring us to come in. Even the Venetian blinds were narrowed to slits, like they were soulless white eyes narrowed in intense anger.
Quickly we skittered off the bus. We lined up in single file, austere and silent, and Miss White marched us inside.
Saint Joan’s Orphanage was very poor. There was no way we would be able to get a new place to stay in time. There were only fifteen of us, but it was enough that no hospital or other charity could take us in on such short notice. Especially in a city like San Francisco.
The numbness still stayed with me as I gazed upon the wreck for what seemed like hours. The sun was out, making my short brown hair almost appear red. It seemed a cruel thing, for the weather to be so perfect after what had happened. At least no one was killed, although a few of us had scratches and small burns.
No one really seemed to know how the fire started. Everyone had their own reasoning, probable, ridiculous, and in between. Some said that one of the young boys, Jason, had found some matches and accidentally dropped them. I even heard that an arsonist had been planning this assault on our building for months.
The worst part of all was that I had lost everything. I had less than a month to go until I left the orphanage and made my way into the world. My savings, my belongings, my everything was in there when the fire started. And now it was just a pile of gray dust.
We were there for hours while the caretakers tried to settle affairs and get us somewhere to stay. I helped with the younger children after a while, with my friends Amanda and Carey. It was midafternoon, by which time the sun was beating down heavily and our stomachs were groaning, when Miss White commanded our attention.
“All right,” she said, voice trembling slightly with exhaustion. “I have arranged for you all to stay at a certain home until we can get this rebuilt. It’s just a few miles out of the city. It’s called Everett Mansion.”
They brought out a school bus for us about an hour later. Before I got on, I looked back longingly at what had been the only place I'd ever really known.
Hopefully, this Everett Mansion would have something better in store for me.
It was hot, smelly, and cramped on the bus. My two friends and I were shoved up against each other, sweat sticking our bodies together. But then again, that was California for you. Even in fall, it was warm enough to need shorts and a T-shirt.
We traveled out of the city, far away from the big buildings and roar of civilization I’d become so accustomed to. Soon we were making our way across rolling hills.
After a while, the bus creaked to a halt. Not sure whether I wanted to see my new home or not, I peered out the window.
A rusted old gateway at least eight feet high, cloaked with chipping black paint stood at the front. Two fat cherubs glared down from the gate top. Behind it, and across a wide stone pathway, was the mansion.
Clearly it wasn’t called a mansion for nothing. It was painted a pale gray color, and looked at least as big as the swimming complex they used to take us to on trips. The walls looked at least three stories high. Every part of the architecture seemed very delicate and detailed, making it eerily beautiful.
The windows, doors and pillars on the porch were all done in a gothic style. Even from the bus, I could see weaving spirals adorning each with iron that had rusted long ago.
Although it was beautiful, the whole thing seemed very ominous. It was as though the house was daring us to come in. Even the Venetian blinds were narrowed to slits, like they were soulless white eyes narrowed in intense anger.
Quickly we skittered off the bus. We lined up in single file, austere and silent, and Miss White marched us inside.