Crescent Venus here, with my first one-shot. I was folding towels, when this idea popped into my head, and sunk its tiny sharp little claws into brain, refusing to let go. So I ran upstairs and typed this. I've always felt so bad for the Bride in the Attic; you know, the one who has that beating, glowing red heart?

This is based off of doombuggies.com's 'unofficial biographies' page, and specifically centered on the character of Emily Cavanaugh Gracey. Here's a quick explanation of her fan-created background (Notice that Disney did not make this, but other people, who love the ride, did): Emily is the second cousin of George Gracey, who owns the Haunted Mansion (Gracey Manor). Her extremely wealthy parents die, George marries her for her money (at Madame Leota's insistence; she embezzles money off him), and she is killed on her wedding night by suffocation (She's playing hide-and-seek with George in the attic, she climbs into a trunk, and Leota locks her in.)

Disclaimer: I do not own Disney's Haunted Mansion, nor will I ever, unless I stage a hostile takeover of Disney. Sssh! You didn't hear that…

Although I love the house, in so many ways, it seems evil…because doom is the end for all who tarry in Gracey Manor…

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The True-Life Confessions of a Damned Soul

I think to myself sometimes that we will never be free. The Mansion calls to us, always lingering in the back of our minds, subtly influencing our every move, our every thought and deed. I think we are being called together…that as if we are being drawn together, to be damned for eternity in this place of evil.

The Gracey family is cursed. We have been cursed since the dawn of time, since the creation of the race of Man. This curse will not end until every Gracey has been brought to the Mansion and destroyed. That is why it calls; it is a horrible, twisted parallel…a shepherd calling his sheep to their doom. Birth is a joyless occasion for us; for this house rejoices in death.

Everyone who is touched by the life of a Gracey, every mortal brought to live at Gracey Manor, any Gracey who dares seek happiness…is doomed.

It is a cursed existence that we lead: to reach out to those in the light, desperately wishing to join them…only to pull them into the darkness in which we live.

My mother thought she had escaped. My mother fought its influence with every breath she took. She believed that she…and I…would be safe, free from the Gracey curse. But she was wrong. She was so horribly wrong and misled. It still called, haunting our dreams and our lives.

Maybe that is why the carriage with Mama and Papa overturned?

…No. No. I must not think these things. No.

But, nevertheless, Cousin George—the current "Master Gracey"—has insisted on bringing me here, to the family Mansion. It is my home now, he claims. I fear to demur.

Yet, I hate it here. This house is not right. There is evil in every mortar, every brick. Sometimes I think this place is alive; eyes watching in the wallpaper, eyes watching in the portraits. Sometimes at night, I think that the doors are breathing.

But what can I do?

There is no one here in whom I may entrust as a confidant. Cousin George would most certainly dismiss my feelings as merely superstitious rubbish, magnified by my recent illness. George often loses his patience with what he calls my "flightiness." I am trying harder to fulfill my role as the Cavanaugh family heir, but I am still a child. I do not think George understands. There is much George does not understand. He has no patience for anything he cannot see or touch.

Madame Leota is brusque, almost to the point of blatant rudeness, and I must confess that I do not find her a pleasant companion. Her…obsession, one might put it…with the occult plainly frightens me. Thankfully, she keeps to herself, spending most of her time in her boudoir. Her daughter, Little Leota, is almost as worse, despite being roughly my age. The girl has no breeding whatsoever; Madame simply lets her run wild. There are stories of her frequenting taverns by the river—but I will not indulge in such gossip. Needless to say, she is a social inferior…and she frightens me, like her mother. No. Neither of them would do.

Prudence, Little Leota's personal maid, is only a year younger than I am, but she is still a servant. If I could, I would steal her away for an afternoon to play hide-and-seek…but then again, she is a servant. It would not do to form friendships with one's inferiors. Mama had trained me so well in how to become a lady, and yet I sometimes long to throw it away, and run away, run away from this life.

There is nothing for me here. Nothing. No friends. No love. No life.

There is only death here.

Which I assume, from what I've heard of former residents, will soon be my fate.

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If you like the Haunted Mansion, please consider reading my Haunted Mansion story, "Tribute." For any further proof that you should read it, hop on over to Flashbeagle's "When You Hear the Knell of a Requiem Bell," (A very good HM fic in its own right) for her critical review of "Tribute."

Reviews are appreciated.