The Phantom Manor is a giant, crumbling old Victorian mansion facing north near the back of Disneyland Paris' Frontierland. High on a hill overlooking the Rivers Of The Far West, the structure is a looming monstrosity of a house. Wood siding has long been faded of paint, and is crackling and falling off the walls. Shingles have been swept away in winds, and windows are cracked or broken. The one-magnificent terrace that graces the mansion's catwalks has been bent and rusted.
All of the manor's grounds are untended. The grass is dead and the plants have gone untrimmed for centuries. They run wild, and only weeds dare grow in the cursed soil. Strong winds have uprooted trees and they lay rotting in the front lawn.
Yet somehow, you can still get an impression of the houses' former magnificence. Much of the stone pillars and iron fence has survived somewhat intact. And the beautiful, carved stone staircases and structure that Henry Ravenswood paid for so dearly in life have braved the decades well.
Near the entrance to the manor's main courtyard, there is a delicately carved bronze plaque set into a stone column. Set into it, in bold, gothic text, are the words PHANTOM MANOR. A leering visage of a demonic face is carved into the top, perhaps an indication of what is to come.
Stepping into the manor's main courtyard, one can proceed towards the manor's veranda, towards a third courtyard, or towards the winter garden. The gate to the veranda has apparently been locked for many years, and so one usually proceeds up a staircase and towards the winter garden of the stately home.
On reaching the Upper Courtyard of the house a lone, slender gazebo rises into view. It is a stately structure for such a rustic location, with leaded glass windows for stormy winter nights. A dimly flickering light still burns inside the small garden house, and the door has swung open over the years. Or did somebody open it?
Inside the small, secluded building is a wicker chair, tea kettle, and draperies. Through the night air, and possibly from the direction of the building, the faint sound of a music box still echoes. It plays a soft, sad, and vaguely heartbreaking tune, never having wound down for all these years.
Proceeding towards the winter garden, the sound of voices catches one's ear. The winter garden apparently used to house the exotic plants kept by Mr. Ravenswood; today, they are all overgrown or dead. Near the back of the cavernous structure a crumbling fountain rises out of a murky reflecting pool. It still spews water by some miracle. Almost as if somebody still lives here. Flanking the fountain to each side are a number of elegant statues, each one weather-beaten and ghostly white.
Through the tall roof of the winter garden, eerie, spectral music plays. Wind chimes tinkle in the background as voices seem to materialize out of the music, whispering, barely audible, before fading away into the howling wind. Some might say they are lost souls, warning mortals of the dangers inside the abandoned mansion.
From the winter garden we may pass along a twisting, winding breezeway that meets the house and wraps around the front of the stately mansion, forming a veranda. Leaded glass chandeliers that once held burning candles are now draped with cobwebs, and all of the curtains are drawn in every window, for somebody apparently still wants to keep the secrets of the house as secrets. Moving along the high, vine-climbed terrace, a chilling sound rises out of the howling wind... a soprano, lonely and distant, sings in grief from somewhere far away, her voice drifting over the desolate front lawn, through the overgrown bushes, gently swaying the dead leaves still clinging to overturned trees.
The front doors slowly creak open, and we are left to wonder what horrible things may await us inside Mr. Ravenswood's abandoned estate. Left to wonder... and await.
