Burden Mansion Novels & Stories

Only Pallor would have been idiot enough to cross him, provided he was bribed by literature. Yards from the mansion, I questioned why I was here. Skeletons held a ball in the attic. The mansion's stone face was mortared with graves. I stood a yard from the entrance, an intimidating sweeping thing with a portico that bested the White House. Devils and fantastical beasts were carved into its wooden pillars. Wolves swallowed the crenelate. It was like a pipe dream from Hell. The door knocker yawned. It was a brass lion. Lionheart. Again.

The car idled for only a moment before the gate slid to the right. James rubbed his sweaty palms on his jeans and tried his best not to hyperventilate. Much of the course of their relationship would be decided tonight. As they broke through the trees, a massive, white-stoned turn-of-the-century mansion filled the entire view. He was awestruck at the sheer size of it. The house—or mansion, rather—reminded him of those huge estates the super-rich showcase. But not the newly wealthy. No, those that have had money through several familial generations. The crushed gravel driveway looped around to the south side of the house and circled a small courtyard that served as a sort of uncovered garage.

We pull into the driveway that’s empty, save for the black Jeep mom visited us with three days ago. I step out of the cab, craning my neck up to look at the familiar mansion. It is a grand and imposing structure, with tall white columns and a wide portico. The windows were large and arched, and the roof was made of slate. The mansion was surrounded by a large garden, with flowers and trees in bloom, exactly as I remember. It hasn’t been that long anyways. But one thing I do not remember; that feels new and unsettling, is the deathly silence. The pack house is home to about fifteen of our pack members, many of which are rowdy and loud. The place has never been this quiet.

“You’re wife was trying to ground me. Because I have to research the Bellefonte mansion. It’s my summer project from my professor. History is my major Dad I can’t fail.” “I know, I will talk to her. I love you and be careful, okay.” “Okay, bye Dad.” I went to my apartment and laid down in my bed. I sighed finally it’s summer time. My history project is the Bellefonte mansion. Let’s see what do I know about Alexis D. Bellefonte. He is a famous musician from the romantic era. He was born July 15, 1898. He will be 124 this year. His house is still standing to this day because it is considered a national treasure. But no goes in there because they say it is haunted.

Now Emily's clothes hung in the closet where my mother's dresses used to be. The Henderson mansion sat on two acres in the nicest part of Brooklyn. Three stories. Eight bedrooms. A pool in the back. It was obscene for two people. But Richard liked showing off his wealth. Liked reminding everyone that he was Beta. Second in command. Powerful. I pulled the truck into the circular driveway. Dora stared up at the house with wide eyes. She had only been here once before for a dinner party. Seeing it as her new home was clearly overwhelming. "Come on. I will show you to your room."

He tried to kill Vanessa. It will be my pleasure to take him down. The Debrassy mansion is large in that obtrusive, new money way that shows off how well he can spend money and how little he understands true value. My home is a fraction of the size, but it is old, reaching back to the American Revolution. Very few families could afford the land it sits on, and a family like his, no matter how rich, could never afford it.

Perfect. She felt none of those things. As she studied her reflection, a strange thought occurred to her. Perhaps the saddest part was how convincing the illusion appeared. A stranger looking at this woman would assume she was happy. Guests began arriving before noon. From her balcony, Meera watched luxury vehicles stream toward the estate in an endless procession. Politicians emerged alongside industrialists, celebrities, former royals, diplomats, and business leaders whose photographs regularly appeared in newspapers. The guest list had become a source of pride for both families.

Rising from a past I don’t remember or want to remember. I arrived at the mansion in the quiet part of Bel Air. The mansion is stunning. It is modern looking and hidden away from prying eyes; the mansion has seven bedrooms and thirteen bathrooms, an elevator, a media room, home theatre, gym, spa, lap pool. All the modern fixtures and fittings. It just screams opulence and money.

she whispered the word like a fragile thread connecting her to a recollection slowly resurfacing from the depths of her fractured memory. IN THE HEART of the affluent suburbs, nestled behind ornate wrought-iron gates, lay the opulent mansion of the Emerson. The sprawling estate was surrounded by manicured lawns and vibrant gardens, a testament to the family's prosperity. At the center of this world of privilege was young Blanche Lucille Emerson, a child born into the lap of luxury.

Madelyn laughed, relieved, and secretly thrilled her sister would be staying. The Bennett mansion, located about twenty minutes from the city, had once belonged to their parents. It was enormous, with about ten bedrooms to say the least. Fatima had initially wanted to sell it after their parents passed, but Madelyn refused. It wasn’t just a house, it housed a state-of-the-art museum, which charged admission. Madelyn insisted it was their father’s wish to keep it intact, and Fatima, seeing her formal garden thriving with plants she had grown up with, agreed. With Madelyn willing to live there, it made sense to keep the estate. They didn’t need the money, but selling it would have fetched bill