Chapter Twelve

Hastily making my way around the aging stone brick and wooden beamed structure, I noticed all the glass-paned windows were still intact. Which is at complete odds with the obvious unmaintained state of the aging mansion. From the windows I've seen so far, not one has appeared to have a crack or any noticeable damage. On the other hand, over half of the window shutters I've seen so far have either fallen off and are lying in a broken heap on the ground or are hanging on for dear life by a single rusty hinge.

Rounding the rear corner at the backside of the mansion, I stopped, seeing a brief reflection of my headlamp out of the corner of my eye near the ground at the foundation of the mansion. Pivoting to my right, both of my knees pop, stiff from the chilly temperature as I crouched down in search of whatever bounced the light of my headlamp off of it. Yes! There's a rectangular window big enough for me to climb through leading to a lower level or basement that's partially covered by weeds and overgrown brush.

Ripping the overgrowth away from the window, I lean in close, peering through the glass while pushing in around the seam, checking for any give. I'd rather not break the original glass of the three horizontal paneled windows, but desperate times call for desperate measures. The decision was made when I saw that the slide chain latch on the inside of the bottom of the window frame was definitely locked.

“I really hate to do this.” I muttered to myself, leaning back on my bottom and propping myself up on my elbows for leverage in preparation to kick through the window. My heavy-duty leather hiking boots are mid-calf in height and will offer plenty of protection from any shards of glass that could easily slice through skin and flash.

Bending my knee up to my chest, I released a louder-than-intended grunt from the force of my stomping foot against the window. Two powerful kicks break through the wooden panels and shatter the majority of the glass. Discovering a decent sized rock nearby, I used that to knock away the remaining sharp fragments of glass from around the window frame. Bleeding to death while trying to break into an abandoned building in an attempt to seek shelter is the last thing I need right now. How embarrassing would that headline be? A stranded local female hiker was discovered deceased from an apparent accidental, self-inflicted severing of her femoral artery while seeking shelter. Yeah. Absolutely hilarious--. I refuse to go down like that.

Scanning the window frame, ensuring there are no glass shards poking out that could slice through my thigh like butter while climbing through the window, I take the rock I used to clear away the glass and drop it down inside the window, listening for how long it takes to hit the floor and if it bounces off of anything. Within a second there's a sharp thwack followed by a smaller one as the rock lands and bounces once on the floor.

Sticking my head inside the busted out window, I inspected what I could see with my headlamp of the space below the window. Unsurprisingly, what I found was a stone and brick walled basement with stone brick flooring. The distance from the window to the floor below is surprising, which is at least eight or more feet. Having been inside dozens of old abandoned buildings to film and search for paranormal activity for my YouTube channel, finding a lower level or basement in a building this old with a ceiling height of over six feet is unheard of.

The height from the window to the floor below poses a major challenge. There isn't an edge that I can grab onto while I slide down the wall and after kicking the window in, I can't trust the sill or framing to hold my weight. Backing out of the open window, I scan my surroundings outside, searching for a tree or bush sturdy enough to support my weight. I packed seventy-five feet of paracord which I could secure around a tree trunk and use to lower myself down into the basement. Reaching up, I wrapped my hand around my injured shoulder, praying I had the strength to keep a hold of the rope.

Securing the paracord around a nearby tree, I lower the rope with my backpack attached at the end down into the basement, noting as I peer inside that the several knots I made along its length to hold are in just the right locations. Laying face down in the mud, I carefully scooted myself feet first through the window with a death grip on the paracord. Hand over hand, I feel my weight tipping further over the wall and release a quick breath when my feet locate the spaces between the bricks on the wall, offering additional support. I can't help closing my eyes, silently praying in my head. Please, please let this be uneventful. I have had more than enough adventures today to last me for the rest of my life.

"Oh, thank God." I mutter aloud, opening my eyes when my foot reaches the basement floor after what seemed like an eternity. I know climbing into a dark, creepy basement with my eyes closed wasn't the wisest choice, but at this point if I'm going to die, I'd rather not see it coming.

Letting go of the paracord, I turned around and leaned my back against the wall, catching my breath for a moment. Both of my arms are shaking from the exertion used to lower myself down the wall. Glancing around from side to side, I discovered under the beam of my headlamp that the wall ten or so feet across from me is lined with shelves filled from end to end with glass canning jars and tin cans of food.

"Huh... that's weird." I mumbled out loud, now standing directly in front of the food-filled wall, studying the labels of the tin cans. The label designs are very old-fashioned. Every can is wrapped in labels designed with beautiful ornate artwork, bold curved or slanted titles with intricate fonts and descriptions of the contents in fine calligraphy.

Finding old jars and cans of food in an old house isn't at all weird. It's extremely weird, however, that there are zero signs of aging. The metal of the tin cans is shiny and reflective, free of even a speck of rust, and the thick paper labels are fully adhered to the cans without any yellowing or brittleness. Switching my attention to the glass canning jars, the contents of various vegetables and fruits inside are bright and colorful, showing no obvious signs of advanced degradation or spoilage. I lick my lips hungrily at a row of a dozen or more delicious looking whole plump red tomatoes stuffed in glass jars.

Removing a jar of the tomatoes from the shelf, I rotate it around inspecting its contents. On top of the metal and wax sealed lid is a small piece of torn paper used as a label adhered with a dab of blood-red wax. Written in elegant cursive, the label contains the following information:

"Whole Brandywine Tomatoes, - 84"

As in 1984? There's no way the food in this jar is nearly forty years old. Placing the jar back on the shelf, I wandered down the length of the wall examining the other items stored on the shelves in a pleasingly organized manner. There's a wood crate filled with tapered beeswax candles, neat stacks of paper wrapped ivory soap bars, metal tin boxes containing borax and washing soda, large beige ceramic jars featuring stamped labels for flour, sugar, salt, oatmeal, rice, coffee along with smaller ones containing various spices and ingredients.

I huff out a chuckle while reading an elaborately designed illustration on a tin box containing 'Celluloid Starch' which claims it eradicates germs and protects from all forms of diseases likely to be carried through the clothes. Interesting...

Reaching the end of the wall, I find a closed wood-paneled door with an ornate black iron round door knob. Twisting the cool metal knob, anticipating it to be difficult to turn and stiff with age, but it turns easily in my hand, releasing the latch with a smooth click. Sucking in a quick breath, I cautiously pushed the door open having no idea what was on the other side.

I could set up camp here in the storage room that I climbed down into, but with the window now wide open, that room is exposed to the elements outside. It's a shame I had to break the window because the air inside this abandoned manor is oddly ambient and dry. Could that have helped preserve the jars and cans of food from succumbing to deterioration? The surrounding space is also void of the usual smells I’ve detected before in other abandoned buildings. There are no offending odors of stale uncirculated air, mildew, mold, dampness or decay. It's actually comfortable inside, particularly for a basement.

Stepping through the doorway, my headlamp illuminates a vast open space before me. On the right-hand side of the basement is a row of heavy-duty workbenches with several different-sized peddle-style antique sewing machines, a monstrous press of some kind, and stamping equipment and tools, with strips and pieces of leather scattered in between.

The other side of the space is lined with trunks, crates, and barrels containing who knows? If I had more energy, I would open every single one to nose around and see what's inside. Just thinking of what little effort is needed to lift a trunk lid makes my muscles ache worse than they already do.

I sigh with relief, stumbling upon a cozy seating space tucked in a corner on the other side of the trunks and crates. There's a pair of ornately carved mahogany wood and rich brown leather padded armchairs angled towards each other. Between the chairs is a small matching wood drop-leaf table that could easily double as a dining table for two if needed. Dropping my heavy backpack on the ground beside me, I examined the top of the table, appreciating the unique hard leather inlay with gold leaf filigree accent along the edge. Glad I noticed the fancy tabletop before almost plopping my sopping wet, muddy backpack on top of it.