Are you a family searching for an escape from the hustle and bustle (or current lack of electricity and running water) of city living? A young novelist, seeking the isolation and inspiration of the rural countryside? Or perhaps a group of spring breakers and/or recent high school graduates and/or documentary filmmakers, young and nubile and in no way expecting anything out of the ordinary, out for a weekend of beer and sex and fun?
Then look no further than this fabulous, one of a kind Victorian mansion, located on several prime acres of remote fog-shrouded swamp-forest that, for some peculiar reason, doesn't exist on modern maps. With its soaring ceilings, mahogany finishes and original fixtures (666 of them in all), you could positively, inescapably get lost in this 13 BR, 13 BA gem! Perfect for children, pets, living entities of just about any kind, it's the luxury of peace and quiet (which in no way arrests or obstructs the laws of nature as you know them despite any anecdotal evidence to the contrary) that you truly deserve!
As you enter the front foyer, you may have noticed the curious stained-glass windows, the alarmingly life-like portraitures of previous residents, the peculiarly dim track lighting or the eerie Béla Bartók symphony being piped through a hidden set of speakers at volumes not loud enough to hear, but just loud enough to frighten. This is to complement the magnificent handiwork of the renowned yet somewhat troubled architect who built much of the house when he was suffering from one of his "spells," and to muffle what could easily be mistaken for human-like voices that seem to be carrying through the ventilation shafts. And forget about cell phone reception.
Children, you're probably already exploring the playroom! Which reminds us: Do not listen to the goblin-like creatures living in the ventilation shafts that come from the cellar of the abandoned Victorian mansion located on several prime acres of remote fog-shrouded swamp-forest that your parents have decided to move into. Do not attempt to feed the goblins, or set them free in any way. The goblins are not your friends, even if they attempt to become your friends, because they are not. In fact, it might be best to leave your children with an aunt, uncle, grandparent, Native American shaman or Haitian witch-doctor right before you move into your new home. There's a fairly sporting chance that whatever forces may or may not occupy your new home won't find them there. May the lord help you if you have twins.
Speaking of the goblin-like creatures that live in the ventilation shafts, we forgot to mention the cellar! Do not go down into the cellar. Once you're in the cellar, please don't open any of the boxes. And once you've opened the boxes, do not put on any masks, amulets, clothes or any other tokens of former residents that you may find there. Ignore the canisters of old home movies or the projector that's conveniently set up nearby. Do not play with any Ouija boards, monopoly sets, chainsaws, hatchets, ski masks, croquet mallets, scissors used as gloves, scissors used as scissors, or anything else you might find in the cellar. And do not try to dig up the floor. We told you not to dig up the floor. Why are you digging up the floor? Only worlds of trouble await once you dig up the floor.
You also may have noticed the hedge maze. We cannot emphasize more strongly that you should not go into the hedge maze. Avoid the staff quarters, pantry, media room, gazebo with the funny symbols carved into its post, any doors that are locked, any doors that are unlocked, the cupboard under the stairs (or any under-stairs areas, for that matter), the cemetery (or "sematary," if it's the one for pets), ruins, monuments, burial grounds, the abandoned psychiatric prison or the pond out back, which certainly does not feed from the Atlantic, thereby causing whatever problems with alligators, crocodiles, piranhas, killer orcas, great white sharks, arachnids of alarming size, pterodactyls, velociraptors or quasi-living variations thereof that you may be experiencing.
In these old houses, shadows sure do look like shadows of other very scary things, don't they? And so, feel free to completely ignore the old woman in the downstairs guest bathroom -- not to be confused with the old woman wearing a bonnet who carries a lantern while hovering outside the upstairs master-bathroom between three and four a.m. -- or any other people you might see peering through the windows and/or wallpaper.
These, of course, aren't to be mistaken with the Actually-Living-Frightening-People, the Possibly-Living-Frightening-People, the Frightening-People-of-Undetermined-Trans-Alivedness-State, or the Most-Certainly-Not-Living-Japanese-Schoolgirl -- including but not limited to vampires, zombies, witches, Golems, werewolves, anyone wearing a people-skin suit, escaped psychiatric patients with masks, escaped psychiatric patients without masks, orphans that just happen to show up on your doorstep, clowns, dolls, wax figurines, curtains, chairs, refrigerator magnets, the thing now living inside of you, members of your own family and, of course, the Japanese schoolgirl who inhabits your dreams except when she comes through those dreams via mirrors, television sets, puddles of water or pretty much any reflective surface -- that may or may not inhabit your new home, if there were such things, which there are not.
And even if there were, do not try to shoot them. This is a purely futile act, one that causes a hell of a racket, and wakes up the neighbors (who won't help you). Do not fetch a priest, as this will only make matters worse. And don't bother with the local police. They're certainly not stupid enough to set foot on your property. State and federal officials, as well as international peacekeeping forces, will set foot on your property, but they're in wayyyy over their heads, the decapitated portions of which will soon be on your lawn. And, because of several local land ordinances established on account of all the witches that were tortured and burned on the property, blood stains left on the front lawn after the first Tuesday of every month will be met with a fine, per square yard of blood-spattered grass. And do not check yourself into the motel down the road. It's even worse there.
The local shopkeeper, barber or bartender may tell you funny things about the people/victims who once lived in this house, doing so in quaint yet ominous local accents. Do not listen to them. You may be tempted to go to the local public library and do a microfiche search on the house. This is truly a bad idea. First of all, ask yourself, why are you doing a microfiche search? Given that internet searches are far less cinematographic than those conducted at the local library, in this day and age, unless the telephone wires have been cut, which they have not, and even if they were, there's certainly nothing standing... right... BEHIND YOU!
Ignorance is bliss, and bliss is your new home.