Candles
The candle flame whirledto and fro casting a symphony of light upon the imposing white marble walls of the grand mansion, which was perched atop the highest point of the Whitehills Estate.Through the cascading torrent of rain, the midnight darkness pierced the mansion’s glass façade, though failed to thrust itself beyond the candle light. The flame wavered upon an intricately detailed slender stem, the bronzed edges licked with dried wax.
The Whitehills estate was known for a myriad of reasons, ranging from political ignominy and prestige to being home to the wealthiest (and most scandalous) family in the land. Walter Whitehill, the youngest living Whitehill, at eighty-nine years old, was the single most accomplished, wealthiest[JC1], arrogant and egotistic (though quite deservedly) man in the entire country. He had settled wartime conflicts between the most powerful countries in the world, and had also started them, although the end always justified his means of getting there[JC2]. All three of his sons died in battle and were posthumously bestowed the highest military honours attainable, which essentially served to boost Walter’s reputation. Walter’s wife, Mary Whitehill,however[JC3]simply [JC4]died of pneumonia ten years ago; it hit him particularly hard, although she didn’t do much for his reputation.
The vast floor of the vestibule was much like a chess board; the squares were slabs of marble and granite, equipped with decorative fissures; the pieces corresponded to the sculptures that gazed upon the room; whilst the king and queen were embodied by Walter and Mary, who married fifty years ago, this very night, in this very room.[JC5]Many people were invited. Walter remembered the [JC6]holding the hand of his beautiful wife. Mary had long strands of fine, black hair running down her small, delicate body and was wearing a long white dress.The love they shared intoxicated their very lives with passion more heated then the sun itself.[JC7]
Whitehill wiped his stringy grey hair from his rusting face and fixated [JC8]his eyes upon theopposing marble wall which[JC9]towered over the main vestibule. The wall was garnered with elegant golden detailing and bronzed and marble statues, which stood in their own ancient beauty along with the colossal brass clock that was fixed to the wall. Whitehill himself was like this wall, repute with various decorations to his name. Although Walter, beyond his arrogance, realised thatall but one of his honours were attached to Sir Walter Whitehill, not Walter Whitehill; and that was Mary Whitehill.[JC10]The large clock on the wall skipped a beat with a deafening silence[JC11].
With the candle casting light upon the eternally dark halls with a blood-red like radiance, Walter passed through the endless flights of stairs. He was noticeably indifferent to the ominously sinister world surrounding him, which was usually enough to make one’s blood run cold, but Walter[JC12] however, was simply impervious to horror.
Walter approached the large, heavy, thick wooden double doors that opened to his large bedroom. Turning the weathered old brass door handle he pushed on the door, having to shift his own weight (albeit quite low) to push open the door, which dragged its bottom across the floor. All of the furniture in this particular room was constructed from ornately patterned wooden beams and gold and silver plated metal crosspieces, struts and supports.In the corner of the room was a very large (and dusty) [JC13]wooden desk that was obscured by various memories; memoirs, documents, pages thoughtlessly torn out of books, all recorded the comings and goings and ups and downs of Walter’s life in the Whitehill mansion.
Turning towards the enormous window on the wall, Walter creaked on the floor boards, and slowly made his way to the large pane of glass, which had an astonishingly large crack in it. He held the candle up to the fracture, hoping to see a world outside the mansion, though only a kaleidoscopic array of candle light was reflected back into his squinted eyes.
The pounding of the cyclonic wind shook the glass. Walter took a mere step back, and the glass exploded towards him with a tremendous surge of torrential downpour of rain. Walter sped out of the room into the seemingly un-ending corridor of which was totally consumed by the darkness, except for a small section in which Walter was running with the old candle, flame in tow. The deafening howl of the cyclone tore through the countless corridors and rooms in the house.
The corridors weaved around the mansion as is [JC14]they were ribbons flying inwind[JC15]; the crimson wall paint melted off the walls it had clung to for centuries; a gale force of wind raced through the passageways with no apparent destination; Walter was in a waking nightmare[JC16][JC17].
As he was running through the corridor, a slender figure stepped out from a side room and into his path. He stopped. He was frozen with fear. The figure glided out of the doorway, the light of the candle barely illuminating her ghostly features; it was Mary. Mary Whitehill.
Not a word was said. Not a word needed to be said. The two just gazed at each other, eye to eye, soul to soul. The only changing feature of the entire scene was the flickering candle flame, casting light upon the walls and a pool of melted paint; a scene only seen in the realm of fantasy.
Upon the extension of his hand (he only [JC18]to caress her body once again) she faded into back into oblivion. Walter dropped the candle (though not a sound was made) and collapsed to the ground, unconscious, the candle wax was strewn across the wooden flooring, and the candle flame ignited a fallen portrait of his eldest son. The burning portrait set fire to the wallpaper. Soon the walls were being consumed by a blaze that stood out in the dark like the moon in a starless sky.
Walter never awoke, having been cooked alive in the Whitehills mansion. The flames engulfed the palace and danced in a chaotic rhythm, under the descent of the rain, as Mary’s [JC19]body was slowly gradually reduced to cinders . . .[JC20]
[JC1]I’m not sure about the use of this word. I think it should be wealthy since you used the word most prior. “was the most wealthiest” does not work, “was the most wealth does. I think the sentence would be better worded as:
“Walter Whitehill, the youngest living Whitehill, at eighty-nine years old, was the single most accomplished, wealthy, arrogant and egotistic (though quite deservedly) man in the entire country.”
OR
Walter Whitehill, the youngest living Whitehill, at eighty-nine years old, was the single most accomplished, arrogant and egotistic (though quite deservedly), and wealthy man in the entire country.
[JC2]These words are not really necessary and could be deleted without changing the meaning of the sentence.
[JC3]Comma after this.
[JC4]This word is not really necessary and makes the sentence somewhat awkward.
[JC5]This is a very long sentence, Consider breaking it up.
[JC6]Delete.
[JC7]Nice descriptive sentence.
[JC8]This should be ‘fixed’.
[JC9]Either precede ‘which’ with a comma or change ‘which’ to ‘that’.
[JC10]Problems with this sentence. ‘Although’ is suggesting that there is a condition coming up or something contrary to what follows ‘although’ yet nothing comes. And that was Mary Whitehill does not seem to fit. Re work this sentence to make it clearer.
[JC11]I really do like this oxymoron, but it is borderline cliché.
[JC12]Comma
[JC13]Remove parentesis.
[JC14]‘if’
[JC15]‘the wind’
[JC16]This paragraph is one long sentence that should be broken up. Watch your semicolon use.
[JC17]This is exactly what I was thinking while reading it.
[JC18]‘he only wished’?
[JC19]Don’t you mean Walter’s? Mary is already dead and buried presumably.
[JC20]Very Poe-like ending. I like it.