Gwen Butcher unleashes dark forces into the once grand estate. She quickly loses control over them causing everyone in the mansion to experience frightening paranormal activity.
Most of the servants flee. Her marriages ends,
but not the way she expected.
Lane, her husband, retreats to the cellar believing he can never emerge from the cold, dark basement if he wants to keep whats left of his sanity.
A distant relative and his wife are sent as caretakers to both the estate and Lane Butcher, but soon the young wife finds herself abandoned in the sinister house.
She's left to take care of the declining mansion and the reclusive madman in the cellar...
Most of the servants flee. Her marriages ends,
but not the way she expected.
Lane, her husband, retreats to the cellar believing he can never emerge from the cold, dark basement if he wants to keep whats left of his sanity.
A distant relative and his wife are sent as caretakers to both the estate and Lane Butcher, but soon the young wife finds herself abandoned in the sinister house.
She's left to take care of the declining mansion and the reclusive madman in the cellar...
A note from the author:
I often get asked where I got my idea for this book. As with many of my stories, the idea started with something visual, followed by a flash of inspiration, and then continued onto full-blown obsession. A real mansion inspired me to write Mansion on Butcher Lake. The eerie house had been built in the 1700's by a wealthy ironmaster who owned the iron forge across the street. The once-gorgeous estate was passed down for a several generations, but then was sold. Years later, it was abandoned. After a few decades of falling into disrepair, it was once again purchased, renovated and reoccupied. However, it wasn't long until it had been abandoned again. The gloriously spooky mansion had a story to tell. I was mesmerized by its crumbling magnificence. This house called to me. I listened. |
The Forgotten
by Kristine Goodfellow
Knee deep in weeds and standing under hanging vines,
my blazing imagination ignited a firestorm of story possibilities.
In that singular moment, the faded splendor of the mansion
cast me within shackles of fate.
She refused to free me; and I, her willing victim,
never struggled against such sweet captivity.
Her denigrated ivory columns left me in wordless awe.
Gaurded by a ghostly haze of danger, she called me forth.
Tall and proud in unbowed posture, she radiated anger
about her hateful abandonment.
Her honor had wilted under neglect and desertion.
Yet, her edifice stood strong against unrelenting elements.
We were once strangers, this mansion and I.
Before long, I was hers and she was mine.
I accepted the daunting task of restoration.
Using words instead of tools,
and bracing the walls
with the sturdy implements
of storytelling--
she reclaimed her rightful place.
In the end, I have the reassurance that
The Mansion will stand with dignity,
safe inside the shelter of my dreams, long after
Time and Mother Nature have reclaimed her.
by Kristine Goodfellow
Knee deep in weeds and standing under hanging vines,
my blazing imagination ignited a firestorm of story possibilities.
In that singular moment, the faded splendor of the mansion
cast me within shackles of fate.
She refused to free me; and I, her willing victim,
never struggled against such sweet captivity.
Her denigrated ivory columns left me in wordless awe.
Gaurded by a ghostly haze of danger, she called me forth.
Tall and proud in unbowed posture, she radiated anger
about her hateful abandonment.
Her honor had wilted under neglect and desertion.
Yet, her edifice stood strong against unrelenting elements.
We were once strangers, this mansion and I.
Before long, I was hers and she was mine.
I accepted the daunting task of restoration.
Using words instead of tools,
and bracing the walls
with the sturdy implements
of storytelling--
she reclaimed her rightful place.
In the end, I have the reassurance that
The Mansion will stand with dignity,
safe inside the shelter of my dreams, long after
Time and Mother Nature have reclaimed her.
Birthplace of an Idea or The Day I Met Fate
After my husband finished reading my manuscript for Mansion on Butcher Lake, he locked me in his gaze and said, “You scare me.”
And he meant it.
He could not have given me a bigger compliment.
As with all of my books, there is a story behind the story.
In 2007, my husband and I lived in rural central Pennsylvania. I fell in love there—not with another man, but with a mansion, an extraordinary mansion. My hubby and I often visited a public park a mile from our house in the ‘historic section’ of the village. The wooded area surrounding the placid blue lake always intrigued me. I’d wondered what secrets lay within the shadow of the majestic trees.
The underground springs that fed the lake kept the water at 52-degrees and worked as natural outdoor air-conditioning, so we frequently walked our dog around the water. Very late in the afternoon, on a cloudless day, I glimpsed what appeared to be a hidden mansion nestled in the woods. The roofline included dormer windows, Georgian columns, and a filigree wrought-iron ‘widow’s walk.’ Giant oaks and towering pine trees concealed the rest of the house.
I grabbed my husband’s elbow. “Look at that house! Let’s go see it!”
We left the walking path and tromped through overgrown grass, ducked under masses of ivy, and slipped between dense bushes. The moment the mansion came into view, unobscured and in its entirety, I froze.
It was love at first sight.
I had a dizzy, heart-racing, my-life-is-about-to-change-but-I-have-know-idea-why moment. I gazed on this glorious, decaying, mansion wearing a wistful smile. “Oh, honey, isn’t it wonderful?”
“Umm, are you seeing the same wreck I’m seeing?”
Wreck? He saw a wreck?
I saw something different.
Ideas circled the house like fog; story-plots rose up from the porch and swirled around the massive columns. Nineteenth-century gentlemen congregated in small groups on the porch; a lady wearing a mourning gown, her identity concealed by a black veil, roamed the grounds. Pale-faced beings with sad eyes peered through the torn lace curtains in the upper windows. They all begged me to tell their stories. That’s what I saw.
“Ohmigod! This is amazing.” I sighed and tried to come up with the right word to describe the house, a word befitting my new love. “It’s so…"
“Creepy?” my hubby offered.
“No, no. Well, yes, but wonderfully creepy.”
The chipped red paint on the front door drew me like a magnet. Lost in the moment, I began moving closer—until a hand gripped my arm and stopped my progress.
My husband wrinkled his brow. “Where are you going? That’s private property.”
“But, it looks abandoned.”
“That doesn’t make it any less of a crime.”
“Okay. You stay here. I’ll be right back.”
“Are you crazy? That phrase is uttered at the beginning of every horror movie I’ve ever seen.”
“You big chicken. Come on. Nothing to be afraid of.”
“The only thing I’m afraid of is getting arrested. C’mon, let’s go.”
“Just let me admire it a bit longer.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” He shook his head.
We stood knee-deep in weeds as I turned and grinned at him. “Just a little closer. Please, please, please.” Using a disarming little pout, I managed to lessen his reluctance to participate in my slightly illegal-endeavor.
A few yards to our left, the dog began digging with great urgency. I secretly hoped she’d dig up a skull, but I kept that to myself. I didn't want my husband to know the frightening possibilities this house conjured up in my twisted mind.
Bathed in the rays of the impending sunset, the mansion glowed like an apparition. Ivy had wound itself up the white columns on the front porch. Vines dangled from the roofline like a row of nooses quivering in the twilight breeze. Centered above the front door, a chain suspended a massive chandelier made from ornate black wrought-iron, and opaque glass.
I stared in captivated silence until my husband said, “All right, let’s go.” He turned around and whistled for the dog.
I didn’t move—I couldn’t.
A few feet away, he stopped. “Are you coming or not?”
“Not.” I marched toward the house. I was quickly losing daylight and needed to get closer to this residential magnificence—my crumbling muse.
He hurried to catch up to me. “You are insane. You know that?”
“Uh-huh. And, conveniently, that can be used as a means of legal defense. That’ll come in handy.”
Our footsteps became quicker, more self-assured, as we walked hand in hand. The screech of a distant train whistle broke the strange silence surrounding us.
Halfway up the once-terraced lawn, hidden beneath wispy branches of a huge willow tree, and nestled between pines, we found a small crumbling footbridge spanning a mossy koi pond. As we drew closer, we discovered broken stone birdbaths and shattered wooden bird feeders. We followed a line of Japanese lanterns, some standing, some fallen-over, to a brick terrace hidden beneath trees. Within the secreted courtyard, a disarray of red Asian lawn furniture created an eerie seating area. Ivy had staked its territory, inch by inch through time, weaving itself through the intricate designs of the filigreed tall back chairs.
After my husband finished reading my manuscript for Mansion on Butcher Lake, he locked me in his gaze and said, “You scare me.”
And he meant it.
He could not have given me a bigger compliment.
As with all of my books, there is a story behind the story.
In 2007, my husband and I lived in rural central Pennsylvania. I fell in love there—not with another man, but with a mansion, an extraordinary mansion. My hubby and I often visited a public park a mile from our house in the ‘historic section’ of the village. The wooded area surrounding the placid blue lake always intrigued me. I’d wondered what secrets lay within the shadow of the majestic trees.
The underground springs that fed the lake kept the water at 52-degrees and worked as natural outdoor air-conditioning, so we frequently walked our dog around the water. Very late in the afternoon, on a cloudless day, I glimpsed what appeared to be a hidden mansion nestled in the woods. The roofline included dormer windows, Georgian columns, and a filigree wrought-iron ‘widow’s walk.’ Giant oaks and towering pine trees concealed the rest of the house.
I grabbed my husband’s elbow. “Look at that house! Let’s go see it!”
We left the walking path and tromped through overgrown grass, ducked under masses of ivy, and slipped between dense bushes. The moment the mansion came into view, unobscured and in its entirety, I froze.
It was love at first sight.
I had a dizzy, heart-racing, my-life-is-about-to-change-but-I-have-know-idea-why moment. I gazed on this glorious, decaying, mansion wearing a wistful smile. “Oh, honey, isn’t it wonderful?”
“Umm, are you seeing the same wreck I’m seeing?”
Wreck? He saw a wreck?
I saw something different.
Ideas circled the house like fog; story-plots rose up from the porch and swirled around the massive columns. Nineteenth-century gentlemen congregated in small groups on the porch; a lady wearing a mourning gown, her identity concealed by a black veil, roamed the grounds. Pale-faced beings with sad eyes peered through the torn lace curtains in the upper windows. They all begged me to tell their stories. That’s what I saw.
“Ohmigod! This is amazing.” I sighed and tried to come up with the right word to describe the house, a word befitting my new love. “It’s so…"
“Creepy?” my hubby offered.
“No, no. Well, yes, but wonderfully creepy.”
The chipped red paint on the front door drew me like a magnet. Lost in the moment, I began moving closer—until a hand gripped my arm and stopped my progress.
My husband wrinkled his brow. “Where are you going? That’s private property.”
“But, it looks abandoned.”
“That doesn’t make it any less of a crime.”
“Okay. You stay here. I’ll be right back.”
“Are you crazy? That phrase is uttered at the beginning of every horror movie I’ve ever seen.”
“You big chicken. Come on. Nothing to be afraid of.”
“The only thing I’m afraid of is getting arrested. C’mon, let’s go.”
“Just let me admire it a bit longer.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” He shook his head.
We stood knee-deep in weeds as I turned and grinned at him. “Just a little closer. Please, please, please.” Using a disarming little pout, I managed to lessen his reluctance to participate in my slightly illegal-endeavor.
A few yards to our left, the dog began digging with great urgency. I secretly hoped she’d dig up a skull, but I kept that to myself. I didn't want my husband to know the frightening possibilities this house conjured up in my twisted mind.
Bathed in the rays of the impending sunset, the mansion glowed like an apparition. Ivy had wound itself up the white columns on the front porch. Vines dangled from the roofline like a row of nooses quivering in the twilight breeze. Centered above the front door, a chain suspended a massive chandelier made from ornate black wrought-iron, and opaque glass.
I stared in captivated silence until my husband said, “All right, let’s go.” He turned around and whistled for the dog.
I didn’t move—I couldn’t.
A few feet away, he stopped. “Are you coming or not?”
“Not.” I marched toward the house. I was quickly losing daylight and needed to get closer to this residential magnificence—my crumbling muse.
He hurried to catch up to me. “You are insane. You know that?”
“Uh-huh. And, conveniently, that can be used as a means of legal defense. That’ll come in handy.”
Our footsteps became quicker, more self-assured, as we walked hand in hand. The screech of a distant train whistle broke the strange silence surrounding us.
Halfway up the once-terraced lawn, hidden beneath wispy branches of a huge willow tree, and nestled between pines, we found a small crumbling footbridge spanning a mossy koi pond. As we drew closer, we discovered broken stone birdbaths and shattered wooden bird feeders. We followed a line of Japanese lanterns, some standing, some fallen-over, to a brick terrace hidden beneath trees. Within the secreted courtyard, a disarray of red Asian lawn furniture created an eerie seating area. Ivy had staked its territory, inch by inch through time, weaving itself through the intricate designs of the filigreed tall back chairs.
As we approached the front porch, I shivered with excitement. A couple of enormous, twisted-wire Christmas angels stood beside the front door like silent sentinels with broken wings. I began to climb the wide steps. Hubby tugged my arm. “What are you doing? We’re close enough.”
“I’m going to knock.”
“Have you lost your mind? Do you really think someone lives here?”
“No, I don’t. If it’s abandoned then we have nothing to worry about. If, by chance, an eccentric recluse lives here, we’ll simply tell him we’re lost.”
“Seriously? Have you never watched slasher movies? That eccentric recluse is really a maniac with a chainsaw wearing a tunic made from the hides of trespassers.”
I giggled. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“How is that ridiculous?”
“The chain-saw guy lives in Texas.”
Realizing there was no deterring me, he sighed. “You are lucky you’re good-looking.” He and the dog continued up the last few steps beside me. “The best-looking ones never die in these kinds of films. At least you’ll survive.”
“Don’t worry. We’re completely safe.”
“Oh, yeah? How do you know that?”
“Because we’re not teenagers and we’re not going to have sex inside this abandoned mansion. Everyone knows you have to be young, nubile, and half-clothed before a serial murderer finds you worthy of hacking to death with a machete.”
At the top of the stairs, I realized the door handle had been removed. A piece of flat wood had been nailed across the gap. The old-style keyhole and doorbell had been filled-in with some sort of caulking putty. That’s odd. Obviously someone doesn’t want visitors.
So, I knocked.
“No answer. Let’s go!” He and the dog headed down the steps.
“Wait. That’s perfect. Now that we know no one is here, I can peek inside.” I cupped my eyes and peered through the wavy glass of the arched window panel.
I will never forget that moment.
I had discovered a writer’s dream.
Inside that glorious timeworn house was a story! The tale practically wrote itself right there.
The house had been abandoned with everything inside.
Everything.
A large stained glass window paralleled the curved-mahogany staircase. The last of the sun’s rays cast a mosaic of color on the floor. Dust coated everything. Cobwebs hung from the entryways leading to the other rooms. All the large portrait frames lining the foyer were swathed with intricate webs. But, what fascinated me the most? A half-decorated Christmas tree, its artificial branches powdered with neglect, stood to the left of the grand staircase. A box of ornaments sat near its base. Garland hung suspended from the banister as though someone stopped midway through wrapping the handrail. Other boxes marked ‘Christmas’ lined the walls. The antique entry table held a couple of porcelain angels, a ceramic nativity, a toy carousal horse, and an array of other seasonal ornaments.
I could hardly breathe. “Omigod! I can’t believe this.”
When his curiosity got the best of him, my husband joined me at the door to visually trespass inside the mansion. “Wow! It looks like the residents started putting up a tree and they just stopped.”
My writer’s brain engaged with manic excitement. “Yes, as though they left and never came back. But, the question is: Who (or most likely what) scared these people away in the middle of decorating?”
An idea struck like a bolt of lightning.
"Yesss! Something dark lived in this house…in the basement. Yes! The basement. Uh-huh. Someone lived down there. Maybe he was trapped in the dark…maybe imprisoned. Of course! That’s it! He was imprisoned—by his deceitful wife!”
My husband’s eyes widened as distress flashed across his face—whether it was fear of the house or me, I’ll never know. He turned around and began climbing down the stairs. “All right, it’s time to go. It’s getting dark. C’mon!”
I wanted to stay, but I followed him. As we made our way back to the walking path, a narrative had already begun forming in my mind—an ominous idea had forced itself into my subconscious. I knew it would not let me go until I wrote the story.
Whenever the muse called to me, I would return and sit on the edge of the property and write. Several months later, I let my ever-patient, always-loving, husband read the first draft.
And it scared the crap out of him.
“You wrote this?” He turned the page. “I thought you were writing a romance.”
“Well, there’s a love story woven in there."
Yeah, I guess. But, I was too freaked out by the demons, the tortured souls of the damned, and the witchcraft!”
“Yeah, well, there’s that.”
He stared at the prose resting on his legs for a moment. When he raised his eyes to meet mine, he simply said, “You scare me.”
I grinned. “Thank you!”
***********
Writing this fear-provoking story coincided with my husband’s six-week-long business trip. And his business trip coincided with a series of violent spring thunderstorms that plagued central Pennsylvania. Obsessed, I wrote until deep into the night, thunder shaking the window panes as the sun went down, and shadows crept up the walls. Sometimes the house creaked and moaned after a storm.
A few times, I’d become so lost in writing, I hadn’t noticed time passing. I would look up and realize the room was completely dark except for my computer screen. Often, a crash of thunder would jolt me back into reality. One time, I paused to think for a minute and heard something fall in the basement. I didn’t move a muscle, but I certainly trembled in my desk chair. My watchdog was nowhere to be found—probably hiding under my bed. The next clap of thunder made me slam my laptop shut. I flew up the stairs, turning on every light along the way. That night, I fell asleep with the lights and television on.
Of course, the next day I continued writing—and scared myself all over again. Every day, I vowed to stop working when it got dark—and every night, I regretted not stopping. Eventually, I finished that first draft.
We moved from Pennsylvania about a year later. I really miss visiting my beautifully tragic mansion.
Will I go back to my muse someday? Yes! I might even coax my man to go with me again. I can almost hear him say, “You’ve got to be kidding me!”
*Note: When I internet-stalked, uh, I mean, did some online research and found the owner of this mansion, I had several very bizarre interactions with him. Had the encounters not happened to me, I would accuse the person telling the tale with embellishments or of having a rampant imagination. But, it really happened, folks. Truth is stranger than fiction…
However, that’s a tale for another day.
“I’m going to knock.”
“Have you lost your mind? Do you really think someone lives here?”
“No, I don’t. If it’s abandoned then we have nothing to worry about. If, by chance, an eccentric recluse lives here, we’ll simply tell him we’re lost.”
“Seriously? Have you never watched slasher movies? That eccentric recluse is really a maniac with a chainsaw wearing a tunic made from the hides of trespassers.”
I giggled. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“How is that ridiculous?”
“The chain-saw guy lives in Texas.”
Realizing there was no deterring me, he sighed. “You are lucky you’re good-looking.” He and the dog continued up the last few steps beside me. “The best-looking ones never die in these kinds of films. At least you’ll survive.”
“Don’t worry. We’re completely safe.”
“Oh, yeah? How do you know that?”
“Because we’re not teenagers and we’re not going to have sex inside this abandoned mansion. Everyone knows you have to be young, nubile, and half-clothed before a serial murderer finds you worthy of hacking to death with a machete.”
At the top of the stairs, I realized the door handle had been removed. A piece of flat wood had been nailed across the gap. The old-style keyhole and doorbell had been filled-in with some sort of caulking putty. That’s odd. Obviously someone doesn’t want visitors.
So, I knocked.
“No answer. Let’s go!” He and the dog headed down the steps.
“Wait. That’s perfect. Now that we know no one is here, I can peek inside.” I cupped my eyes and peered through the wavy glass of the arched window panel.
I will never forget that moment.
I had discovered a writer’s dream.
Inside that glorious timeworn house was a story! The tale practically wrote itself right there.
The house had been abandoned with everything inside.
Everything.
A large stained glass window paralleled the curved-mahogany staircase. The last of the sun’s rays cast a mosaic of color on the floor. Dust coated everything. Cobwebs hung from the entryways leading to the other rooms. All the large portrait frames lining the foyer were swathed with intricate webs. But, what fascinated me the most? A half-decorated Christmas tree, its artificial branches powdered with neglect, stood to the left of the grand staircase. A box of ornaments sat near its base. Garland hung suspended from the banister as though someone stopped midway through wrapping the handrail. Other boxes marked ‘Christmas’ lined the walls. The antique entry table held a couple of porcelain angels, a ceramic nativity, a toy carousal horse, and an array of other seasonal ornaments.
I could hardly breathe. “Omigod! I can’t believe this.”
When his curiosity got the best of him, my husband joined me at the door to visually trespass inside the mansion. “Wow! It looks like the residents started putting up a tree and they just stopped.”
My writer’s brain engaged with manic excitement. “Yes, as though they left and never came back. But, the question is: Who (or most likely what) scared these people away in the middle of decorating?”
An idea struck like a bolt of lightning.
"Yesss! Something dark lived in this house…in the basement. Yes! The basement. Uh-huh. Someone lived down there. Maybe he was trapped in the dark…maybe imprisoned. Of course! That’s it! He was imprisoned—by his deceitful wife!”
My husband’s eyes widened as distress flashed across his face—whether it was fear of the house or me, I’ll never know. He turned around and began climbing down the stairs. “All right, it’s time to go. It’s getting dark. C’mon!”
I wanted to stay, but I followed him. As we made our way back to the walking path, a narrative had already begun forming in my mind—an ominous idea had forced itself into my subconscious. I knew it would not let me go until I wrote the story.
Whenever the muse called to me, I would return and sit on the edge of the property and write. Several months later, I let my ever-patient, always-loving, husband read the first draft.
And it scared the crap out of him.
“You wrote this?” He turned the page. “I thought you were writing a romance.”
“Well, there’s a love story woven in there."
Yeah, I guess. But, I was too freaked out by the demons, the tortured souls of the damned, and the witchcraft!”
“Yeah, well, there’s that.”
He stared at the prose resting on his legs for a moment. When he raised his eyes to meet mine, he simply said, “You scare me.”
I grinned. “Thank you!”
***********
Writing this fear-provoking story coincided with my husband’s six-week-long business trip. And his business trip coincided with a series of violent spring thunderstorms that plagued central Pennsylvania. Obsessed, I wrote until deep into the night, thunder shaking the window panes as the sun went down, and shadows crept up the walls. Sometimes the house creaked and moaned after a storm.
A few times, I’d become so lost in writing, I hadn’t noticed time passing. I would look up and realize the room was completely dark except for my computer screen. Often, a crash of thunder would jolt me back into reality. One time, I paused to think for a minute and heard something fall in the basement. I didn’t move a muscle, but I certainly trembled in my desk chair. My watchdog was nowhere to be found—probably hiding under my bed. The next clap of thunder made me slam my laptop shut. I flew up the stairs, turning on every light along the way. That night, I fell asleep with the lights and television on.
Of course, the next day I continued writing—and scared myself all over again. Every day, I vowed to stop working when it got dark—and every night, I regretted not stopping. Eventually, I finished that first draft.
We moved from Pennsylvania about a year later. I really miss visiting my beautifully tragic mansion.
Will I go back to my muse someday? Yes! I might even coax my man to go with me again. I can almost hear him say, “You’ve got to be kidding me!”
*Note: When I internet-stalked, uh, I mean, did some online research and found the owner of this mansion, I had several very bizarre interactions with him. Had the encounters not happened to me, I would accuse the person telling the tale with embellishments or of having a rampant imagination. But, it really happened, folks. Truth is stranger than fiction…
However, that’s a tale for another day.