The Tale of the Mansion

The Manor

Mr. Cheese sighed as he set his bags on the floor of his new room. It would be the first time he lived alone, because even in college he had a roommate. The sheets, silky and orange, went very well with the black curtains that were already there. He really loved the sheets.

The sheets... They were his grandfather's. Were is the keyword here, seeing as his grandfather was now dead. Dead and gone.

Gone...

Tears well in Mr. Cheese's eyes, but he blinks them away. After all, he couldn't cry now. Crying wouldn't bring his grandfather back. The grandfather that loved him, sung folk songs by the campfire, and sing those same songs to him when he would cry about the monsters in the closet. The grandfather that loved him for who he was, even if he felt like a "woser" in his own words sometimes. Even if he did cry and feel pathetic. His grandfather always loved him.

Mr. Cheese looked at the fiddle in the corner and went to it. He touched it, shuddering at the feeling it gave. "I should play something on this... Maybe gramps would like this." His voice broke between words. He almost wanted to go to his mother's room, but then remembered he was alone. Alone and no one to comfort him.

And so he cried. He cried like no one was there. Because there wasn't anyone. He cried of grief, of sorrow. He yelled into his pillow, just to get the awful, suffocating feelings, the ones that wouldn't quiet, out. But after, he felt relief.

He felt a relief he hasn't felt in a long time. He could cry and be alone. He didn't have to worry about the judgement. He didn't have to be happy. He curled into his blanket, that his grandmother had sewn before he was even born. It had the name Ethan Havarti stitched into the blanket, his birth name. It was a name he loved, but he loved who he became much more. He was Mr. Cheese, always being called that by his best friends at school.

VMr. Cheese looks at the clock and sighed, giving a soft smile as the clock ticked. "My name Mr. Cheese." God, he loved saying that. Sometimes he loved it so much he'd say it repeatedly under his breath, sometimes for minutes on end. He looks at the clock again, and the hand ticks backwards and then forwards again. He blinked.

"What?" He looked around, then wringing out his hands. "What the actual fuck?" He looks again, but the clock was normal. He shudders, getting into bed. It was late after all, he thought, maybe I should sleep.

Mr. Cheese then scrunched his nose after noticing a sweaty smell. "Nevermind on sleep, I need a shower. Eugh." He got up, picking out a shirt. It was a custom T-Shirt that one of his friends had designed. It had a block of cheese and the words My name Mr Cheese! written in a font. He chuckled at the gag-gift he had gotten from said friend, then getting a pair of pajama pants with various base-balls and bats. He opens up the rickety bathroom door and goes into the shower.

To his surprise, the water comes out cold. He yelps, almost slipping after trying to get away from the cold. He turns it off. "Damnit, turned the wrong knob." He turns the right knob and the water comes out a nice temperature. He feels all the dirt and grime get off of his body. He washes his curly hair, after not doing so for a few days. He looks at his freckled body and flexes his arm, giggling a little.

Soon enough, he gets into his clothing, and heads into bed. He falls asleep, dreaming of reaching a thousand subscribers. Then, he awakes with a smile.

Mr. Cheese gets ready, then goes downstairs, dusting the furniture. He enjoyed the gothic look of the place, something he wishes to keep. After all, that's what his grandfather loved. His grandfather loved the old classic authors, especially of the gothic genre. Especially Hawthorn, that being his his grandfather's favorite.

Soon enough, the house was spotless, the mahogany floors having a nice new shine and the furniture almost looking new. He stretched, spine cracking a bit. "That felt fucking fantastic!"

To his surprise and horror, he heard some laughter, but not of his grandfather. "What the fuck-" He looked around, picking up the baseball bat he had forgotten to bring to the bedroom. "This isn't funny! Get out of my house!"

Unfortunately, or fortunately for him, the laughter stops. Mr. Cheese began to frantically search the rooms of the house, up and down, left and right. But there was and always will be no one. He was going fucking bonkers. Mr. Cheese shook and gripped the bat tighter. "What the fuck- What the fuck?!" He sat on the couch, exhausted from the frantic search. "I'm not alone here... But... But who could be here. Mama's back in Cali and dad's with her. Fuck..."

Mr. Cheese contemplated to call his mom, shaking. But then he crossed his arms. "Look at you, Mama's boy. Can't even get through a day alone. And you thought you could move away!" He muttered and paced. He makes soft noises, muttering under his breath. He softly pulled at his his hair, which was a stim of his. "Get a grip, get a grip!"

A scent soon catches his attention, snapping him away from the murmurs of self hatred and fear. He slowly walked to the kitchen, grasping his baseball bat, preparing to hit. For a split second, he sees a silhouette of a tall, lanky masculine figure, holding a cup of tea.

Suddenly, all he could see was a shattered cup on the floor and the "man" was gone.