THE

NESTING

HOUSE

FRANCISCO IBARRA

THE

NESTING

HOUSE

FRANCISCO IBARRA

CHAPTER I

Graveswood, 1886

I didn’t want to end up here.

Edmund told me it was going to be okay, his hands soft as silk brushing mine. His gaze fixed on me; his smile faintly appeared. I trust him. I love him. But I barely knew his family.

The carriage wheels groaned as they churned through the marshy road toward Ashcroft House. Mist clung to the windows like breath on glass, and the trees lining the path bending inwards, as if whispering secrets to one another. The estate loomed ahead, its silhouette jagged against the grey sky, a structure that seemed too dark rather than welcome.

The house looked isolated, it loomed with a darkness that never lifted. It stood firm in the grass and weeds. I noticed the house was quite far from the town, maybe miles away. I browsed the house’s infrastructure. It looked old, decaying, but you could notice someone was living here. Edmund grasped my forearm and lifted his stride to the opening steps. A maid, who looked far too exhausted to be working, greeted us with careless politeness.

My gaze fixed on the house's interior, I couldn't believe how large and pretty it was. The chandelier above me must be worth millions. The carpet beneath us gave the illusion of richness, yet the threads felt coarse beneath my hand. The maid stepped towards us.

‘My name is Bess. Bess Turner.’ She spoke, with a timid smile.
  ‘Good day to you, Bess,’ I said with a smile, offering my hand. She backed away, her timid body

trembling with an emotion I couldn't quite identify. Then, a tall, elegant man appeared through one of the many doorways to the entrance. Edmund's father.
  ‘A fine morning, is it not? I am Alistair Whitlock. Enchanted to make your acquaintance.’ He said with an advanced attitude. I drew closer.
  ‘The pleasure is mine, sir. I am Lilly Whitlock.’ I reply, attempting to draw the same respectful tone. He smiled, folding his hands. 

‘Why don't you show them the house, Bess?’ Alistair speaks, while tugging her sleeve.

She nodded, that unknown fear still present in her figure. She took quiet steps, each room greeting us in different themes. We walked for a while, when my head started to get irritated. We made our way up to the stairs, where the main bedroom for us was. There stood two other maids and a tall man, who was the housekeeper. He smiled and greeted himself as Pete. One of them walked towards us.
 ‘Good morning. My name is Nellie Graves. I cook, I clean, I bake. I make no allowance for misbehaviour.’ She stood, confident, her voice clear.
  ‘Understood,’ I murmured. I wanted to smile, but something didn't let me.
  ‘You must comprehend, madam, you have set foot in Ashcroft House. Its rules must be observed.’ She finished, her tone greeting me with such coldness. Another maid stepped in, a reassuring tone softening her features.
  ‘Indeed, they remain most warmly welcome, Nellie.’ She says reassuring. I glanced at her. She

gasped lightly. ‘Pray forgive me for speaking out of turn. I am Margaret—Margaret Hale. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.’ She shook my hand fiercely, her nails piercing my skin. I smiled, hastily dragging my hand from her grasp. ‘Splendid,’ I said. All the maids had gone, besides Bess. She scuttered her thin feet across the chintz carpet, her hair braided up into a small, tight bun. She almost toppled over the end of the carpet. She stood, stared. We stayed silent.
  ‘They think I'm a fool,’ she began. ‘Do not go near the attic. Not ever.’ She shortened her breath; a loomed wash scurried her tone. Her cheeks tinged in red.
  ‘Pray return to your duties,’ Edmund said, waving his hand with a note of annoyance. She stepped away, her footsteps hushed, like a sleeping infant.
  ‘I love your home, Edmund.’ I spoke, but an unknown feature of disapproval betrayed my speech. 

‘Indeed. Quite large, is it not?’ He smirked, his dimples pressed deep—although thin. I smirked back, but my smile didn't reach my eyes. ‘That one maid,’ He paused. ‘She’s quite strange.’ He brushed his facial hair. 

I sat on the bed. It squeaked faintly. The sheets were blushed with scarlet, a colour that hurt the eye. The pillows were thick, puffed. Across lay a vanity. A mirror so perfectly reflected it might even be clearer than the human eye. The walls were limewashed in a soft hue, calming in its simplicity. I leaned back, letting the silence settle around me. Somewhere above, a floorboard creaked. I told myself it was the wind.

But the air felt too still for wind.

The rest of the day passed like a muted rhythm. I found myself sitting at the dinner table. The clamour of the utensils slipping, screeching irritated me again. My head began to ache once again. Roasted lamb, gravy, and mashed potatoes served to my appetite. I was starving. Alistair grumbled. 

‘Edmund,’ Alistair began. I was barely listening, as the tremble of my fork blurred conversation.
  ‘Yes, Father?’
  ‘See that you tell your wife about the attic. It is not to be entered.’

I stepped in quickly.
  ‘Pray do not trouble yourself, sir. Bess has already assured us on that matter.’

Bess cast me a dark, lingering look.

‘Bess, you are not to express the attic to our guests.’

‘Apologies, sir.’ 

Edmund sat beside me, his fingers stroking my loose braids. I cocked my head. ‘Do you not miss your mother?’ I asked.

He paused; his hand fell still, and for a moment I felt no movement in my hair.

‘Indeed, I do,’ he said at last. ‘Yet what is done is done. It comes to us all in time, and I cannot alter it.’ 

‘You're right.’ I fluttered. I blew the candle out. And off we went to sleep. 

_____________________________

The morning light in Graveswood was pale and reluctant, as though the sun itself hesitated to touch Ashcroft House. 

I awoke to silence—not the peaceful kind, but the sort that presses against your ears, waiting. Edmund had already risen. His side of the bed was cool, the sheets smoothed. I sat up slowly, the scarlet fabric rustling like dry leaves. The mirror across the room caught my movement, and for a moment, I thought I saw someone else reflected there. A trick of the light, surely. 

I made my way downstairs, the aroma of pancakes and absinthe tea fluttered between my nostrils like moth wings brushing against the wind. I sat down, my spine slouched, my face worn with tiredness. I could barely pick up my utensils, but the sound of cooking woke me up. 

‘Wherever is Edmund?’ I asked, sipping my absinthe tea, which definitely brought me to the morning. Nellie began to come closer, her face never brought anything other than attitude.

‘In the drawing room.’ I took my absinthe tea and strode to the drawing room. The entrance was large with door frames and wall panelling. I sat down, quiet but noticeable enough. Edmund seemed to be focused on something. I stroked his leg, but his attention seemed to be drawn to something I couldn't figure out. I tapped his chin. My absinthe tea’s aroma began to smell so strong. The candle guttered slightly, barely, but everything at this point was irritating me. I stood up, almost toppling my tea. He still was focused, his gaze caught on something that made my skin crawl. I finally had the energy to speak. 

‘Good morning to you as well.’ I spoke, almost chuckling. He breathed slowly, his facial hair dancing in a slight breeze. He chuckled. ‘Apologise, sometimes I think too hard.’ A pause settled. ‘How fared breakfast?’ He tilted his head in a slight turn. I smiled.

‘Delightful.’ I murmured. Edmund shifted. His pupils flexed like slits, narrowing and widening as if breathing. 

_____________________________

The rest of the day passed like a thick, oppressive fog, swallowing the light and dragging time itself into a slow, suffocating crawl. The air seemed to press upon me, heavy with foreboding, and every moment stretched interminably, as if the very house itself conspired to keep me trapped within its walls.

_____________________________

Bess was folding laundry, her pale, motionless face betraying a quiet, eerie stillness, the lines of age carved deeply into her features as though they had been shaped by some long-held sorrow. She was the quietest amongst them all. The one I concerned about the most. She looks lost, helpless. She stumbled upon the disembodied tiles, with a velvet button-up spilling out of the basket. She cussed, bending down, reaching for it. 

‘Everything okay?’ I asked softly. She took a pause, and she stayed still for a moment. The air shifted in awkward positions. She finally glanced at me, although her eyes lay strange upon mine. She

murmured something under her breath; her eyes still fixed on me. I heard a creak from above. She stood up taller, firmer. Her courage was gone. 

I almost slipped when I attempted to leave, but she grabbed my arm firmly, tightly. I swallowed, loud enough for her to hear. Her fingers started to loosen, but the grip still stung me. Her expression remained still, but her eyes betrayed a quiet dance of exhaustion, flickering with the weight of fatigue. I tried to make her let go, but her grasp was strong. She murmured, almost whispering. I felt uncomfortable. 

‘Has he told you?’ She spoke softly, as though she was forbidden to ask the question. I smiled, until I realised this was no game. My smirk vanished.  ‘Beware.’ She said, fluttered. A tickling crawled in my throat. I groaned softly, my head aching once again. ‘Everybody has a dark secret.’ She whispered. Unease crawled my spine. What did she mean? I brushed a strand of my hair, when I heard another creak. 

Without another word, she left, leaving me no time to respond. I wanted to speak to Edmund, but something told me he would be dismissive of the matter. Yet the warning still lingered, a weight that held me back from confiding in him.

I roamed the house’s emptiness for a while. Nothing compelled me to do so, although tedium sneaked. Alistair was sitting in his office. The smell of absinthe tea struck again, this time stronger. Piles of paper engulfed his desk. I took steps upstairs, where my bedroom was. The creaking above didn't

dare to halt. I peeked out the window, and carriages filled the quiet streets. Further, I saw a market of some sort. Its vibrant colours gleam. I coughed, where my head began to ache with that familiar unease. 

Edmund leaned askew against the doorframe, his smirk unsettling in its quiet confidence. He stepped nearer.

‘What do you see that holds your gaze so intently?’ he asked—but there was little curiosity in his tone; it felt more like an accusation wrapped in silk.

I offered him a faint smile and turned fully to face him.

‘The town,’ I said simply. He looked outside too; he was awed by the town. ‘How long will we stay here?’ I asked. 

‘A little time.’ He spoke; his pockets swallowed his hands. I nodded as he walked away. 

I strolled in peace to the kitchen, where I saw Margaret and Nellie cooking. Nellie was bossy, yelling at Margaret to do things properly. I frowned, and seized a seat, and sat. Alistair was still in his office. Something about this home was silent, dreadfully boring. I wanted to roll my eyes for no reason at all. The food came at last. Edmund sat as well, next to me. I heard a chair scrape against wooden floorboards, which startled me. It was Alistair’s office chair.

‘We might visit the market fair tomorrow,’ Edmund said softly, stroking my hand.

Nellie emitted a groan.
  ‘Ah,’ she muttered, ‘naught but swindlers and beggars, a lot of them. Nonsense and trickery dressed up with ribbons.’ I scoffed. Alistair came. 

The candles guttered low upon the wooden table, their flames giving off more shadow than light. Before I knew it, evening had settled over the town, not so much descending as creeping in, slow and inexorable, like damp rising through stone.

The creaks did not stop. They carried a silent subtleness that made my skin crawl with unsettledness. I’m sure Edmund didn't mind. Maybe he was used to it. Maybe the same thing happened when he was a child. I sighed, which he heard. 

‘Everything all right?’ He spoke, his voice soft as milk. I turned over slightly. 

‘The noises…’ I said. ‘They are quite bothersome.’ I say in concern. He chuckled. ‘It’s the old home. Full of age.’ He chuckled once more, which made me chuckle too.  I sighed again as he rested his palm on my thigh. 

CHAPTER 2

The morning rose like a reluctant guest, pale and shivering, unwilling to cross the threshold of Graveswood. Once again, the opposite side of the bed was quiet, quite cold. I stretched and made my way to breakfast. I yawned. Pete stood dusting objects in Alistair’s office. I couldn't find Nellie, which

was strange. She was always the one who cooked in the morning. Margaret and Bess were there. I dared to ask; ‘Where is Nellie?’ 

Silence fell upon us. The air churned in subtle silence, a sharpness that stung my arm. Another creak emitted above. ‘I don't have a clue.’ Margaret said. ‘Come on, sit down,’ She spoke, clear and harsh. I sat down while Margaret brought me a plate of scrambled eggs with sourdough toast and absinthe tea. ‘And Edmund?’ I muttered, sipping my tea. 

‘He’s helping his father.’ Margaret coughed into her sleeve. Through the half-open door, I glimpsed Alistair at his desk, a pale figure in the lamplight, his nail tracing ceaseless patterns over sheaves of paper—as though he sought to etch his will upon them.

I lingered over the eggs, though each mouthful seemed to swell in my throat. The silence pressed down, heavy as the beams above. Bess would not meet my eyes. Her hands moved mechanically, folding linen that did not require folding.

Another creak disturbed the ceiling. This time it was followed by a faint scrape, as though something were being dragged across the floorboards. I set down my fork, when Edmund came over quietly. He kissed me. I munched on my food, swallowed hard. 

‘What are we doing today?’ He glanced at me, before he laid his hands on his plate. ‘I was thinking we could go to Graveswood market. Like I said last night.’ He mutters. I nodded, managing a faint smile, and carried my plate to the counter. It was then that the maid’s closet creaked open and Nellie

emerged, her figure pale against the shadows.

I drew breath to speak, but she forestalled me, her voice rising with that imperious tone that turned every room into her stage. ‘I have spent the entire morning setting the closet to rights. No one else troubles themselves with such duties. Now, if you will excuse me, I must attend to the hearth before the whole house takes a chill.’ Bess smiled. Margaret scoffed once more. 

‘Shall we depart to the markets now?’ Edmund asked.  I gently lifted myself upon my chair. ‘Indeed, let me get dressed foremost.’ I rushed upstairs.

_____________________________

I took time looking at myself. I smiled. For the first time in a while, I looked beautiful. Until I heard another creak, followed by a reflection, a figure in the mirror that didn't belong to me. I glanced behind my shoulder until I heard Edmund yell, ‘Sweetheart? Is everything alright up there?’ I stumbled, made my way to the door to open it. ‘Aye. I am almost done, don't worry.’ He didn't speak back. I imagined him just nodding or muttering something. 

I finished getting dressed where I made my way back downstairs. Edmund took my hand. ‘Farewell. We will be back soon.’ 

Edmund called for a carriage, where the wheels screamed upon the thick mud. A deep light ripped through the damp clouds. ‘A ride to the market, if you may.’ Edmund spoke, handing money to the

driver while pulling himself up upon the carriage. I stood there, and Edmund helped me up. 

‘Beautiful morning, is it not?’ The carriage driver spoke, half his face fell upon ours. Edmund nodded. The wheels had an awkward pace; the trees blissfully discharged their oxygen. Residents perambulated softly through the downs landscape. 

I rested my fingers upon Edmund’s leg. The market lay but a short distance ahead, its awnings sagging beneath the morning mist—strips of faded canvas in dun and crimson, stirring faintly as though uneasy in the wind.

A peddler pressed forward, his voice cracked and urgent. ‘Charms, madam. Wards to keep the spirits at bay.’ He held aloft a string of trinkets, bones bleached and wired into grotesque shapes. I shrank back, but his gaze lingered on me with unsettling insistence, as if he knew something I did not.

‘Do not heed him,’ Edmund murmured, drawing me on. Yet I could not help but glance over my shoulder. The peddler still watched, his lips moving soundlessly, as though mouthing a warning meant only for me. How did he not topple?

At last, we arrived. The Ashcroft house was no longer visible from here. Not even the fog was visible. Yet mist crawled from riverbeds here. The air shifted as I lifted myself from the carriage. ‘Thank you.’ Edmund spoke. 

‘My pleasure.’ The driver replied. Silence fell for a moment, but we did not move. ‘Good day to you sir,’ He spoke, the silence falling for a shorter moment this time.

Edmund held fast to my hand as we entered the market. The stalls blazed with colour, bolts of cloth and jars of sugared plums vying for attention beneath the dripping awnings. Traders pressed forward, their voices raised in a chorus of persuasion—some coaxing, others near to bribery—as though our customs were a prize to be fought over. The air smelled of damp canvas, spice, and something faintly sour, like fruit left too long to rot.

Market, after market, after market. It felt endless. The sky formed pale upon us. ‘It might rain soon.’ Edmund mattered, his gaze fixed on the sky. 

‘Let us just stay for a while longer.’ I hushed, while grasping his arm. Markets started to pack up, but many still stayed. I marched upon the many different stalls, different-coloured awnings, food, sweets, scarves, and more.

A woman in a faded bonnet pressed forward, offering ribbons the colour of dried blood. Her smile was fixed, though her eyes slipped past me to Edmund, and then quickly away, as though she dared not linger.

At the next stall a boy held out sugared almonds in a paper cone, his small hand trembling as he urged me to take one. I thanked him softly, though he flinched as though I had uttered some curse.

‘They are kind folk,’ Edmund said with an air of finality, steering me onward. Yet I could not ignore the glances that followed us. Furtive, pitying, almost fearful. It seemed to me that every bright awning, every glittering bauble, only served to mask a silence that thickened the longer we stayed.

At the far end of the row stood an elderly man with a stall quite apart from the others. No sweets, no cloth, no trinkets adorned his table, only a small wooden box, plain and unassuming. His eyes, pale as milk glass, fixed upon me the moment I drew near.

‘For you, madam,’ he croaked, as though he had been waiting. I politely declined. 

Rain started to pour. I rushed to Edward, as he bargained for a carriage ride. We sat upon it, while the mud started to loosen to an even worse, even stickier, even thicker mud, which slowed us down. The damp rain dreaded me, as I leaned my head on Edmund’s shoulder. I rested my eyes. The sound of marsh breathing drifted me to sleep.

_____________________________

I awoke to the sound of the carriage halting. Edmund seized my arm and told me to get up. As I trotted to the house’s entrance, Nellie opened the door for me. ‘You were gone for far too long madam.’ Nellie says firmly. I muttered an apology. 

‘Very well. In you go.’ She stood out of the door frame. Cold air hurried in, as the rain violently poured in harsh manner. 

I passed by Alistair’s office and glimpsed him once more, seated amidst his papers. Yet he did not truly work—his eyes lingered upon the paper sheets without moving, as though the words themselves had withered beneath his gaze.

Bess appeared in the corridor, her hands clasped tightly at her apron. She offered me a smile—faint,

uncertain—the first I had seen from her since my arrival. Its suddenness unsettled me more than her usual silence, for it seemed less an expression of joy than a mask poorly fitted.

A sharp, though thin air seemed to settle as I stayed. I heard another rattle from above. Then another headache came to play. I lifted my palm to my forehead, and emitted a painful, but soft sigh. 

Thumping was heard above once more. I finally couldn't help it. ‘What is that racket above? It is quite intolerable.’

Bess’s smile faltered. Her fingers tightened against the fabric of her apron until her knuckles whitened.
  ‘Pay it no mind, madam,’ she whispered. ‘The house… it makes sounds of its own.’ A silent hush of wind hurled beneath my feet, trembling them slightly. 

Another thump followed, heavier this time, like something dragged across the floorboards. My pulse quickened despite myself.

‘That is no settling timber,’ I said.

Bess lowered her eyes. ‘Then pray, do not ask me to speak of it. I beg you.’ I scoffed, this time rolling my eyes. I dismissed her beg, it was pettish of me, somewhat incredulous. That blunt stinging ache echoed in my head like a wasp trapped in glass. 

Despite all that pressed upon me, the rattling above, the ache in my skull, the strange unease that seemed to seep from the very stones of Ashcroft House—at least Edmund was still here, a figure of

elegance and courage who drew me into his arms as though his very embrace could shield me from the creeping dread that threatened to claim me. And, though I clung to that strength with all the fervour of a drowning soul grasping at driftwood, some shadow of doubt whispered even then that no human touch, however steadfast, could banish the darkness that lived within these walls.

_____________________________

I needed to rest. Not even sleep was enough to put my tiredness to a halt. I sighed, as I reached for my bed. The sheets were freshly clean, their aroma making me feel queasy. I looked at myself in the mirror once more, but I looked different. I ignored it, with that tedious ache still present. But slowly, I rested my eyes. Until I heard it once more. A thump. Above me. It sounded exactly like a human manoeuvre. Then another. They scattered like infants playing. 

I rose again, the room tilting slightly as the ache tightened its hold. The mirror showed me a pale face framed by loosened hair, eyes ringed with a tired red I did not remember earning. For a moment—so brief I could have blamed a trick of light—I thought the reflection blinked when I had not. My hand hovered on the glass as if to touch it; the surface was cool, unyielding. Nothing met my palm but glass and my own foolish reflection.

Bess stood at the doorway, as if she had been there all along. Her apron was folded tight to her chest and her lips moved without sound. When she spoke, her voice was thinner than before. ‘They come

at odd hours,’ she said. ‘Do not ask what moves above, madam,’ she said, her voice a hushed tremor. ‘Do not ask, for the answer is worse than silence.’

A final thump rattled the ceiling, and then—horrid in its playfulness—a series of tiny clicks echoed in the darkness, like the snapping of wooden joints or the lid of a doll’s head shutting tight.

I couldn't speak. I jerked my hand back, as I cocked my head, looking for a question to proclaim. ‘In time, you shall grow accustomed to it.’ I nodded. For a random reason, Bess agitated me. Where is Edmund? I stood up. I couldn't bear to spend another minute in that room. Bess vanished into the dark, candle-lit air. The house’s scent — starch and lemon, warm bread and wax — wrapped itself about me, startlingly domestic. There was comfort in its cleanliness; the order made me feel almost grateful, as though by virtue of living under this roof one might be polished and made right. 

Footsteps sounded on the landing and Alistair emerged from between the stairs and kitchen like some immaculate effigy. He stood poised and pale, every fold of his coat precise, his face composed as though carved from bone. He regarded me with an almost clinical civility. ‘Just disregard her,’ he said lightly. ‘She is… rather given to fancies.’ His dismissal was practised, offhand, meant to settle matters. Yet the word ‘fancies’ struck oddly in that place, as if it were a small, deliberate concealment.

I forced a laugh that tasted like rust. ‘Of course, sir.’ But my eyes sought the stairs where Edmund should have been, and the house answered only with a long, low creak, as though something far above had shifted its weight and settled again.

CHAPTER 3

Edmund stood close next to me, his soft hands stroking the thin threads of my hair. He kissed me, his lips offering me comfort and security. He whispered that he loves me. I said it back, desperate to go to

sleep. My pillow smelled like damp leaves and mildew, which was not comforting, but I didn't complain. I blew the candle out. Edmund was asleep. 

I pulled myself away from the bed quietly, my feet sinking into the carpet as though the floor itself wished to hold me still. The room was thick with shadow now, the faint moonlight pressing weakly through the curtains. 

My gaze lifted upon the mounted floors, carefully watching each of my steps with precision. I observed the silence. I glanced at my wardrobe. The garments were adorned with lace and sequins. Webs hung high on the roof’s corner. I dramatically fiddled with my fingers in a restless motion.  

I jilted on my spin towards the attic. Its presence neither satisfied nor frightened me; it merely waited, patient and closed. I approached with a hurried stride, my pulse quickening, despite myself. Reaching upward, I leapt and caught hold of the wooden pole, dragging it down to unfasten the hatch above.

The hatch sighed as I pushed it fully open, and a cool, dust-sweet breath spilled down the ladder. Light from the stairwell fell in a pale strip across the trunks and the slumped forms of dresses hanging like ghosts from a rusted rail. I climbed, each rung complaining beneath my weight, until my head cleared the low rafters and the attic unfolded in a hush of forgotten things.

The thumping lowered to a silent tone, the shaft below ajar. I lifted my knees to a steady kneel, clutching my forearm. I drifted towards paintings that I had never encountered. Even though I knew

everyone was fast asleep, I felt as though someone was watching me. Sketches of drawings I have never confronted, stood hollow in the house’s breath. 

I glanced across different sightings, each capturing a unique figure. I stared at them-they screamed with shapes and patterns that brought me to sudden tension. I leered at the structure, the attic hung tall and brought. A gust of damp air snaked into the attic’s domain. 

I knew I was looking for something; I just couldn't figure what. The air hung heavy, thick with dust and moth-winged silence, as though the years themselves had settled here in layers no broom could sweep away. My candle sputtered in protest, yet I pressed onward, drawn not by curiosity alone, but by some disquieting compulsion that made my steps both falter and hasten at once.

The air hissed in sharpness, the window looming with a dark shadow that consumed the room. A violet box wrapped in velvet worn thin at the corners, rested upon the sill as though it had been placed there in deliberate defiance of the dust. Its colour was queerly vivid in the dimness, like a bruise against the pale wood.

I sank my hands beneath the wrapping, my breath heaving with fear. The air seemed to breathe around me as I lightly opened it. Nothing really compelled me to do this-rather calling. I sat helplessly on the attic’s floor. I peeked inside. Hay filled the surface of the violet box. Steadily, carefully, I leered at it. Babushkas. Too many of them. Some grazed in patterns of vines, curling green tendrils that seemed almost to writhe beneath the candlelight. Others bore faces, solemn and elongated, their

painted lips sealed in silence. The largest wore the likeness of a matron, her gaze both tender and pitiless. Nested within, the next figure seemed a child—its cheeks pale, its expression curiously mournful. Each successive doll was smaller, more delicate, until my eye fell upon the last.

It was scarcely the size of a thumb. I thought it peeped at me. Its paint was fresher, warm with human skin. I heard heavy breathing emerge from the box. I stuffed the doll back in, closed the box, and threw it behind a pile of old boxes filled with age. A draught stirred the rafters; somewhere behind me, a board yielded with a sigh.

The smallest doll glanced.

Or so I thought.

_____________________________

I heard a scream. So deep, filled with terror. Footsteps scattered beneath me like panicked infants. The attic door stood ajar, but still captured the sound of every movement, quick and tidy. I hurried down, unsure if the scream I heard was real. The stairs seemed endless, the shadows long. 

By the time I reached the stairs’ end, the household had stirred. Margaret stood rigid, her face as pale as linen. Bess pressed herself against the wall, her eyes wide, her lips moving soundlessly. Nellie muttered a prayer beneath her breath, her voice sharp and quaking.

Without processing what I had just heard and saw, I hurried to our room, where Edmund lay

breathing softly in our bed. I rushed to wake him, although he was in a deep sleep. 

Then I knew.

On the flagstones of the scullery lay Pete. Limbs twisted unnaturally. But it was his head. Oh God, his head, that drew the breath from my lungs. His skull was ripped clean as a split log, a dark fissure yawning from crown to brow. Blood seeped in a fast manner, his blood forming a pool across the wooden floor. I gasped when Edmund rushed down, only for his face to go suddenly pale as a ghost. 

‘Dear God!’ He spoke, trembling and fluttering. He rushed quickly and held his hand. I could feel his anxiety pulsing. I cried, almost screamed. I staggered back, the bile rising in my throat. The candle trembled in Edmund grasp, spilling wax across his wrist.

Lord Whitlock appeared in the doorway, conserved, unnatural. He surveyed the ruin without flinch, then turned his gaze upon me with a calm that chilled more than the sight itself.

‘Remove him,’ He said, as if dismissing a broken trinket. Yet his eyes lingered on me, knowing, as though he too understood that this death was no accident of flesh and bone—but of wood and paint, of secrets carved and sealed long before my hand had set them loose. Nellie nodded as she brought coverings in patterns of what looked like something that belonged in a hospital. 

Alistair fearfully glanced at me. I heard another creak from above. Only I looked upwards. The rest of them kept their eyes lowered, too shaken to glance beyond the flagstones. Even Edmund, who had clutched my arm moments earlier with such urgency, now turned his head aside as if by not seeing,

he could pretend it was not there.

Pete’s body was covered at last, but the air stayed heavy with the sour-sweet smell of copper, as though his blood had seeped into the very breath of the house. I pressed my palm against my chest, willing my heart to steady. Above us, a board shifted, long and low, as though something heavy leaned upon it.

I stiffened. The others gave no sign of hearing. Perhaps they had taught themselves to ignore such things.

Nellie found her voice first. ‘We must take him out at once,’ she muttered, though her words shook. ‘No good leaving him here—none at all.’

Bess shrank tighter into herself, head bent, hands knotted in her apron. I feared she might faint; she looked so drained of colour. Margaret, by contrast, stood like a statue, her face sharp and watchful. She flicked her gaze at me once, quick as a needle, then away.

Lord Whitlock’s command was obeyed. The servants bent to their work, lifting Pete’s covered shape with trembling hands. His arms and legs hung loose beneath the cloth, and I could not bear to watch another moment.

Turning, Edmund and I left the scullery and made our way back towards the stairs. The candle had burned low, the flame sputtering with every draft, but still Edmund clung to it, as though to lose it would leave us wholly blind.

When we reached our chamber, he closed the door behind us with care. He said nothing. Instead, he went straight to the window and tugged the curtain back so a slice of grey daylight fell across his face. He stood with his hand on the sill, shoulders set, as though fixed to the glass.

‘Edmund,’ I whispered. My voice felt weak even to me. ‘Did you not hear it? The scream—the footsteps?’

He did not turn. His fingers spread against the glass, white with pressure. ‘I was asleep,’ he said. ‘You know I was. Perhaps you dreamt it louder than it was.’

I took a step nearer, pulling my shawl tighter. ‘No dream could tear a man’s head so.’

He flinched at that, though still he would not look at me. ‘Accidents happen,’ he murmured. ‘This house is old. Beams rot, boards loosen. One slip, and—’

‘Do not speak to me of accidents.’ The words broke out sharp, sharper than I meant, and I saw the back of his neck stiffen. ‘I saw him, Edmund. I saw what was left. No fall could do that.’

At last, he turned. For a heartbeat, our eyes met. His eyes were dark, but not with the horror I hoped to find mirrored there. There was only resistance, a wall he had built between us.

‘You are worn out,’ he said softly but with a firmness I could not mistake. He reached for my hand, though his grasp was cool, too measured. ‘You must rest. Let the servants see to it. This house… it unsettles those not used to it. In time you will grow accustomed.’

His words felt like cold rain. I drew my hand back and could not answer. He did not press me but

turned once more to the window, staring out into the fog as though it held answers he would not find in me.

I sank onto the bed, my fingers curling in the scarlet sheets. The silence grew thick. Even the old timbers seemed to hold their breath. And then it came again—a creak, long and slow, across the ceiling above.

My breath caught, but Edmund gave no sign of hearing. He stayed rooted at the window, his posture stiff. Perhaps he forced himself to be deaf. Maybe he truly did not notice.

I lay back at last, my body drained. Sleep came only in shreds. Every time I drifted, the sound dragged me back. Creaks, footsteps, soft and measured. Once, I thought I heard the faintest knock, as if something small tapped from within its box.

When at last I woke, daylight filled the chamber, pale and cold. Edmund was already dressed, his waistcoat neat, his hair smoothed. He stood before the mirror, adjusting his cravat.

‘You are awake,’ he said, too calm, too even. ‘I thought to let you sleep longer.’

I sat up, my head pounding. ‘How could I sleep, with such sounds above?’

He stilled, only for a moment, before resuming the neat fold of his collar. ‘The house settles. It is nothing.’

‘Nothing?’ My voice trembled. ‘Edmund, something is walking there. I hear it, I feel it.’

He turned, his face softer now, but weary, as though my words were a burden. ‘You must not let this

place play tricks on you. My father warned you, there are rules in Ashcroft House. Best to keep them and ask no more.’

I opened my mouth, but he shook his head. ‘Come. We shall have breakfast. The day is long enough without shadows hanging over it.’

I dressed without speaking, though the weight of my gown dragged at me as if it were lined with stones. Each pin I set into my hair tugged at my scalp. And still, through it all, the muffled tread above did not cease.

We descended together, though Edmund kept a pace ahead, his back straight, eyes fixed forward. 

The dining room was laid as always—bread, butter, a pot of steaming tea. Margaret poured with a steady hand, but her face was pale, her eyes sliding past me. Nellie moved briskly, clattering dishes, her lips tight. Bess hovered near the hearth, head bent, eyes red-rimmed.

No one spoke of Pete. Not one word was uttered for the man now missing from their number. His absence hung heavier than his presence ever had.

I sat, though the sight of food sickened me. The clink of cutlery scraped against my nerves. Edmund ate in silence, methodically, never glancing at me. I looked to him for comfort but found only distance.

At last, I set my fork down, unable to force more past my lips. The air pressed tight, filled with what none would speak. And then, clear as breath, the ceiling above us gave a long, dragging groan.

I looked up at once. None of the others followed.

It seemed I alone heard. Or else I alone admitted it.

Something was terribly wrong with this house. 

CHAPTER 4

I needed to be alone somewhere. Now with Pete gone, I am a prime suspect of the curse. I muttered a swear under my breath. The glimmer of morning took my vision. I walked in my heavy empire waist gown. 

My eyes met at the carriages a little far beyond. I walked desperately to one and started yelling for a ride. A man in a leather suit and a top hat drove towards me. I slightly backed away as the moist mud came closer like a wave. 

‘Where are you off to, madam?’ His voice was slick with an English accent. 

‘Somewhere. I’m not too sure.’ His chuckled. 

‘Hop on. I'll get you to town.’ His head spun towards the seat behind him. As I stumbled upon the stage, an earthy tang hung in the air. Fog glided back, revealing the wheels of the carriage. 

As the carriage moved upon the marsh, the wheels churned more slowly the further we drove. The slick mud became a risky substance, but the man didn't cease. 

The town appeared small, but rather appealing. Sellers are attempting to persuade residents to

purchase their products. 

‘Anything tickle your fancy?’ He spoke, his smile light and innocent. I shook my head. ‘What are you here for then, love?’ A pause was squeezed thoroughly. 

‘Answers.’ I spoke, quite fluttered, although clear. 

‘Interesting.’ He said, this time, his eyes were not looking at me. ‘Well, hop off. Two shillings for the trouble through this muck, madam.’ I nodded and handed him the money. 

‘You have my warmest thanks indeed, love.’ I smiled. ‘Thank you.’ He nodded and left, the wheels squelching in the thick mud. 

The market pressed in about me the moment my boots struck the stones. A clamour of voices, rough and insistent, rose like a tide: merchants crying their wares, women haggling, children darting between the stalls with grubby hands clutching sugared treats. The air was sharp with the mingled scents of roasting chestnuts, damp wool, and the sour tang of spilled cider.

I pulled my shawl closer, though the morning was not so cold, for I felt observed. Every turn of my head seemed to catch a glance quickly averted, every whispered exchange sharpened to a point as I passed. Perhaps it was only my imagination—yet Pete’s death weighed heavily upon me, and the silence of Ashcroft House had clung to my skin like mildew.

Burnt rosemary scattered in my nostrils like trapped birds. Townspeople glanced at me, wondering why a woman they had never caught eyes on before had suddenly appeared from the dawn. 

Trees breathed like hollow lungs. I stood in the market, glancing towards different sellers. A man complimented my hair. I looked towards the mud path leading back to the Ashcroft home. I thought I saw Nellie running towards me, her dress dragging loose in the wind. She kept looking at the mud. Little specks of it spattered upon her legs. 

She wished to speak of something, although she knew I wouldn't have heard with all the clamours of the living. She finally drew closer. 

‘How dare you depart without leave! We thought you lost to us!’ 

Nellie’s face was flushed, her hair half-loosened from its pins, her breath a visible shudder in the damp air. She seized my wrist with a firmness that startled the passers-by into a brief silence. I wished to recoil, yet her grip was iron.

‘You have no comprehension of what you risk,’ she hissed, her eyes darting towards the stalls as though fearful that the very wares might overhear. ‘To wander alone, without word, without escort, madam, it is folly.’

Her gaze dropped again to the mud, where our boots churned the earth into a relentless mire. ‘Come, Edmund was worried sick.’ She seized my arm and started to ambulate on the path overgrown with mud and swamp. I halted. 

‘Shouldn't we take a carriage?’ 

Nellie turned, her expression sharpened by the fog. ‘No carriage will hasten our return through this

ground, madam. The wheels would sink before we had gone a mile.’

I looked back towards the market. The stalls receded into haze, the cries of merchants muffled by distance, then forward again to the desolate road. Each step ahead seemed to draw a heavier silence, as though the marsh itself leaned close to listen.

I began to feel tired; I did not want to return to that house. Yet Edmund loves his father and cannot afford to lose him. 

The mire clung to my skirts as though the earth itself sought to hinder my return. Each step was a labour, my breath quickened, though whether from exertion or dread I could not say. Nellie strode beside me, her hand still locked fast upon my arm, her eyes seldom meeting mine.

I brushed the dust from a nearby trunk, its brass clasps dulled by tarnish yet still firm beneath my hand. The initials E.W. were etched faintly into the wood, nearly swallowed by time. My breath caught. Eleanor Whitlock. Edmund’s mother.  

When at last the house rose from the fog—its roofline sharp as a row of teeth—I felt a chill that no shawl could soften. The windows glimmered faintly, each pane a dull mirror, watching, waiting.

‘Here we are,’ Nellie muttered. Edmund opened the door before Nellie could even twist the handle. He shook slightly and opened his arms for a hug. I stroked his neck. The door stood ajar.

The house swallowed me whole the moment I crossed its threshold. The damp air of the marsh still clung to my skirts, but inside, the silence pressed harder, heavy with disapproval.

Bess stood pale as wax, her breath barely above any other noise in the house. Her face still pale with a bare fear lingering since Pete’s death. She left in hurry. 

‘You should not have gone,’ Edmund said, his tone low, almost pleading. ‘Not alone. Not now.’

‘I needed air,’ I murmured, though the words sounded feeble even to me. ‘The walls were closing in. I could not breathe.’

His eyes softened, but before he could answer, Lord Whitlock’s voice rang out from the hall.

‘Air is not what you require, Mrs. Whitlock. What you require is discipline.’ A hollow noise rang in my ear. I didn’t speak for a slight moment, as my silence crawled in, like a silent serpent. 

Another herd of footsteps scattered above. I scoffed and wanted to leave. Edmund grasped my forearm with tight grip. 

The morning light was thin and reluctant, barely piercing the fog that clung to Ashcroft House like a second skin. I sat at the vanity, brushing my hair with slow, deliberate strokes, trying to ignore the ache that pulsed behind my eyes. The mirror reflected me faithfully—until it didn’t. For a fleeting moment, I saw another face behind mine, pale and painted, lips sealed in silence. I blinked, and it was gone.

I rose, drawn by a compulsion I could not name. My feet carried me to the attic once more, though I had sworn never to return. The hatch groaned open, and the air inside was colder than before, thick with dust and something else—something watching. The violet box lay where I had left it, but the lid

was ajar. Nestled within, the dolls sat in their familiar order. All but the smallest. It was missing.

A soft knock echoed behind me—three taps, deliberate and slow. I turned, heart hammering, but the attic was empty. Yet the sound came again, this time from the floorboards beneath my feet. I knelt, pressing my ear to the wood. The tapping continued, rhythmic and patient, like a child waiting to be let out.

I felt a tickle of a finger dip in my ear. I gasped, wanting to scream, but reminding myself my presence could not be revealed. I fled the area, grabbing a small pillar structured from the middle of the attic. The velvet ribbon wrapped around the box unfolded itself from the box’s surface. 

I seized the pillar tighter, my knuckles turning white. I heard scuttered, muffled footsteps in panic below me. I twisted my face, as I lifted myself upon the attics hatch. 

As I peeped from the crevice of the hatch, there stood Edmund calling my name. He shouldn’t know I’m here. I closed the hatch, although I wanted to leave with all my heart. My strength lowered, my energy pulling me down to a negative laziness. My gaze would not lift from the box. The violet ribbon seemed to breathe with the air. 

I opened the hatch once more, my breath heaving in fear. No one was present, although my absence has left them in worry. I slowly, but carefully, trotted away from the open hatch, closing its crevice. This time for good. 

I sat on my bed once more; my gaze fixed on the ceiling. Edmund called my name for dinner. Nellie

served me my plate. Boiled salmon with hollandaise sauce. The sauce seemed to be over spiced. Bess did not put an end to looking at me. Her soft, yet pale, wonder startled me frequently. 

 _____________________________

Off I went to bed, with Edmund by my side, his breath slowly descending into a slow, deliberate pace. I heard horses screech in unbearable pain. The poor horses plodded wretchedly through the mud; their hooves sucked into the earth as if the ground itself wished to claim them.

I failed to sleep. The morning intended to barely wake me, although the smell of smoke seemed to awaken my energy. I heard Alistair screaming, and what seemed like a fanning noise. Clamours of footsteps rushed before me, in a silent pace, which looked like it had been rehearsed. 

Edmund woke up too. He leered at my gaze, his eyes whispering in something rather more terror than fear. The air seemed to groan its own emotions. 

Across, the fireplace was spreading in a light flame that glimmered in a soot-coloured veil. The flame was far too large for any match to possess. 

‘Dear God!’  I cried, hurling myself toward the chaos. Bess followed close behind with a clatter of pails and a face drained of colour, dousing the flames with frantic hands.

The flame hissed in deep defiance and smoke unfurled through the halls like a living thing. I gasped, although the incident had concluded. Alistair left silently, bridging himself upon his office door. 

Bess’s gaze fixed upon mine, unblinking, too still. Something in her pallor shifted, a shadow blooming beneath the surface. Not fear. Anger. Sharp and unspoken. She knew something. I forced a smile, brittle as glass, but she leaned in, slow as rot.

‘Don’t try to mend this.’
  Her voice was low, half-swallowed by the air, but laced with that same quiet savagery, the kind that left bruises without ever raising a hand.

‘Pardon...?’ My voice lost its joviality. My words were hushed, uncomfortable. Her eyes pierced me like nails in vain. 

‘You mustn’t ignore the rule again. The attic is not to be entered.’ She churned her back before I emitted a growl. I knew it was true. But her form of speaking agitated me.

‘I never stepped foot in the attic, Bess.’ The silence lurked, tightly wrapping itself around us. 

‘I beg your pardon?’ She seemed to ignore my words. 

‘I never entered the attic.’ I spoke once more. Her body crept closer, her eyes still like water. A low ring faded as her steps echoed in the clean, hollow halls.

‘Not only are you fibbing, but you betrayed us. Be gone with you!’ Her face went solid red, her eyes widened in anger. I stepped back but toppled over the freshly mopped tiles. 

She stepped closer, her heels bound to stab my chest, before Edmund noticed the issue. 

‘Good God, Bess!’ Edmund lifted me at a quick pace. My armpits folded beneath his palms. I cursed. The air shifted away when another set of footsteps echoed above. The familiar ache of pain formed beneath my brow. I moaned, but Edmund seemed to comfort me, his palm rubbing my forehead in quiet strokes. 

CHAPTER 5

The ache did not stop. It gnawed at my bones like something half-alive. I had not slept in three days. I lay still as stone, my limbs heavy with exhaustion, yet rest eluded me. Above, the infant’s footsteps scratched and pattered — soft, insistent, unnatural. They never ceased.

Bess’s cries seeped through the thin walls of the house, muffled yet frantic, like a woman trapped in a dream she could not wake from.

Thunder cracked overhead, splitting the silence. A moment later, lightning flashed — brief, electric — throwing the room into harsh relief. Everything seemed to twitch in the flickering light.

Alistair drifted through the corridors with a stillness that unsettled — never rushing, never speaking, only watching. His presence seemed to draw the cold from the walls, the air thickening in his wake. He did not walk so much as appear, as though the house itself conjured him from shadow.
                              _____________________________

The morning light crept thinly through the shutters, pale and unwilling. I made my way down to the kitchen, the boards cold beneath my feet, the air carrying the faint smell of stale smoke and bread. Bess was already there, her hands busy with linen, though her eyes were far from her task. She glanced up when I entered, her face sharp with something I could not name.

‘Madam,’ she said quietly, almost breathless, ‘since you came, the house has not been the same. The

noises, the movements, the… unease—it all began when you arrived.’ She spoke the words as if testing them, but her gaze did not waver.

I forced a smile, though it felt brittle. ‘You mistake me, Bess. The house is old; it has its ways. I am no cause of it.’ I reached for the kettle, though my hand trembled slightly. She watched, her lips pressed tight, as though my denial had not eased her at all.

The silence between us grew until the sound of footsteps in the corridor broke it. I turned, uncertain whether to greet or retreat. She took a careful sip of her tea. ‘I ought to believe you are the cause of the incidents. Whom else would do such things?’ She took another sip.

Rage flushed inside me, but I chose to put it aside. Guilt started to creep, holding me in anxiety. I heard the stairs creak, although when I glanced, no pressure tended to emit the noise. I wanted to speak the truth, although my security shall always come first. 

‘Coincidence.’ I spoke. ‘Have you ever heard of it?’ Her eyes darted to me above her mug of tea. 

‘Aye,’ she spoke, her lips trembled in the hot tea. ‘Although the causes are far too strange to be coincidental.’ I stuttered. The kettle finally stopped. 

‘Pray, you must confide in me.’ I affirmed as I poured the boiling water over my bag of tea. I glanced around the home. Silence was deep. ‘Where is everyone?’ I asked.

‘Nellie’s out shopping at the market, Margaret is gardening, Edmund is grooming Reverend Sila’s dog, and Alistair is in his office, wanting to be not disturbed.’ I paused. 

‘Pray, who is Reverend Silas?’ I spoke softly with curiosity.

‘Reverend Silas Carter. A man who’s acquainted with Edmund.’ 

‘Oh.’ 

I wanted to ask about the home. The wind seemed to feel unnatural. The footsteps above strode silently and perfectly. I grunted and looked above, although Bess didn't even flinch. 

‘You must say, what are the noises above?’ My gut wrenched in fear, although happy, as I knew I finally asked. 

‘What noises?’ She asked her face deep with something hidden, somewhat forbidden. 

Her words fell flat, yet her eyes betrayed her. They darted once to the ceiling, then back to me, as if she regretted the movement. I leaned forward, my tea untouched. ‘You hear them as I do. Do not deny it.’

Bess’s hands tightened on her cup, her knuckles paling. ‘I hear naught but the creaks of an old house,’ she said firmly, though the quiver in her voice betrayed her. She looked away, busying herself with a cloth that did not need folding. ‘You are tired, madam. The road, the change… such things unsettle the mind.’

I almost laughed, but it caught in my throat. Tired I may be, yet no weariness invents such sounds. I placed the cup down carefully, the porcelain trembling against the wood. ‘Perhaps,’ I murmured, though my words were hollow. The silence that followed was long, broken only by the faint stir of air

beneath the door.

I wanted to ask about the babushka dolls. Why, after I discovered them, Pete perished. Or why the fire was far too large to be caused by anything alive. 

I wanted to know, though no one has even told me such things. I watched Bess’s body stand still, her eyes perfect. Her mouth opened, though no words dared to pass. 

‘Eleanor-’ She paused, too soft for me to comprehend. 

‘Pardon?’ I asked. My tea suddenly felt cold to the touch. Her wrinkles above her forehead displaced in awkward movement when another scutter of footsteps rushed above. I stood silent, tall and neat like wax. 

‘Nothing,’ Bess spoke, clear, although fluttered. The wind had grown restless, tugging at the corners of the curtains and sending a mournful sigh through the rafters. Outside, the clouds pressed low against the hills, roiling like dark smoke over the dense landscape. Rain began to patter against the leaded windows, soft at first, then gathering into a steady, insistent rhythm that made the house feel smaller, more enclosed.

I rose, feeling the chill seep through my gown, and moved closer to the window. The garden beyond was blurred, the outlines of rose bushes and hedges softened beneath the storm’s persistent hand. Each gust rattled the shutters, and for a moment I imagined the house itself leaning with the wind, as if it were a living thing, groaning beneath some unseen weight. My tea had grown cold, and yet I did

not return to it. The world outside demanded attention, a spectacle both lonely and vast.

The front door creaked in a loud, drawn-out groan. Edmund appeared from the entry, brushing rain from his dark coat and stroking the threads of his wet hair with meticulous care. He paused, his eyes surveying the room as though measuring some unseen disturbance and then settled them upon me. As he came more proximate, that earthy bouquet of rain and cosmos imbued the air. There was a quiet authority in his presence, a stillness that contrasted sharply with the storm’s relentless agitation.

Bess, still seated, seemed momentarily untethered from her own movements. Her hands rested lightly upon the table, and she glanced toward the door, her expression unreadable. The room smelled faintly of damp wood and tea, a scent strangely comforting despite the howling gusts beyond. I could hear the occasional drip of water from the roof, the steady percussion adding to the rhythm of the storm, and I felt the house breathe along with it, neither friend nor foe, merely waiting.

I wanted to speak, to ask Edmund how the weather might change by morning, or if the path to the village would even be passable, but the words would not come. Instead, we all listened to the storm’s insistent murmur, letting it fill the silence with its weight. And in that moment, the house, the wind, and the distant, rain-swept hills seemed to share a quiet understanding—a pause, a breath, a dark calm. The world outside roared, yet inside, the waiting continued, and I sensed there was more to witness before any words could truly matter.

I trotted upstairs when Edmund turned towards Alistair’s office. We hadn't greeted yet or exchanged smiles. Edmund just leered at the structure. Staring, staring…perhaps waiting? 

I took one step down and waved my hand. ‘Edmund?’ I spoke. He stared for a moment, his eyes glanced, as though this was the first time he had seen me in years. 

‘Well, come on,’ I said, trying to get his figure near me. I crammed in annoyance. A burst of thunder roared like an animal in distress. It startled me, almost toppling me over the edge of the staircase. 

‘Goodness!’ Edmund spoke, his hands fiddling in panicked movements. 

‘I’m okay.’ I spoke, brushing the sides of my dress with my palms, as dust and other filth spilled beneath my hands, onto the floor. 

Edmund drew a slow breath; the storm’s fury reflected in the widening of his eyes. The lightning outside cast long, fractured shadows across the landing, and for a moment his features seemed sculpted by the flickering light—pale, taut, and almost ethereal. I held my place, feeling the chill from the open staircase creep up my ankles, and noticed the dust motes dancing in the sudden shafts of illumination.

‘The storm… it has a mind of its own tonight,’ Edmund murmured, more to himself than to me. He straightened, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead, and glanced toward the heavy door that led to Alistair’s study. The sound of the rain pelting the roof was constant, a rhythm that seemed to set the pulse of the house. Somewhere in the distance, a loose shutter rattled, and the wind’s whine

threaded through the corridors like a faint warning.

I took a cautious step closer, my dress whispering along the worn stairs. ‘You always seem so… calm in weather like this,’ I said, though my voice quavered with the tension that clung to the air. Edmund’s gaze drifted toward the window, following the spindly branches of a lone tree bending under the storm’s insistence. There was a strange comfort in his steadiness, a quiet anchor against the unrest of wind and rain.

For a moment, neither of us didn't speak. The house seemed to sigh, exhausted like both of us. I shifted, brushing against the banister, my lips quivered. A street of rainwater left behind his shoes like a snail trail. 

Edmund reached the landing and paused, his hand resting lightly on the banister. ‘It is a long house,’ he said quietly. ‘One can get lost if one is not careful.’

I nodded, though my curiosity urged me onward. The storm’s chorus outside seemed to insist that the house held secrets yet to be discovered, corners unexplored, and whispers unheard.

I took a deep breath, feeling the tension of the house settle into a rhythm with my own pulse. The footsteps above had quieted, leaving only the rain, the wind, and the groaning timbers. I felt the anticipation of the hours yet to come, of conversations and discoveries waiting in the silence.

And so, we moved forward, the storm outside pressing against the walls, the house a steadfast companion, and the evening stretching before us, ripe with possibility and shadow.

_____________________________

The possibility of my rest has become almost impossible. Nothing, absolutely nothing, could put me at rest. Not even the sound of relaxing rain. Edmund didn't even snore, luckily. 

Before I knew, the sun had risen in its fire gleam. It was six in the morning, though nothing dared to stop me from talking to the fellow town folks. The first one that came to mind, Reverend Silas. The one Edmund was grooming his dog for. 

I dressed swiftly, my gown brushing cold floors, and considered which among the townsfolk I might seek first. My thoughts returned invariably to Reverend Silas—the man Edmund attended with such solemn devotion; a mystery wrapped in a cloak of ordinariness. The dog, I remembered, groomed to perfection apparently, seemed an emblem of quiet obedience, a contrast to the unrest within these walls.

I decided I was going to visit the man. Perhaps I could know. Edmund hadn’t told me the secrets of the home. But I shouldn't have let my curiosity drift me elsewhere. I dressed myself in a bodice and a crimson skirt. 

I thought I saw my body shift in the mirror. I glanced once more. As soon as I had stepped out of the room, my crimson skirt felt like it had just been pulled. I bent my eyes towards the bottom of my skirt. Nothing was there, although I could have sworn a force pulled it down. 

I chose to ignore it when another scatter of footsteps hurried above. My head began to ache right

there, the very moment the footsteps ran above in the attic. I knew I was forbidden from entering, yet I wanted to compel myself to do it.

My feelings flared in different ways. I couldn't be aware if I was feeling fear or excitement. 

I wanted to talk to someone though, who? My dear flushed in panic, before I found myself at the front of the doorstep, leading to the front yard of the mansion. Edmund was asleep, I’m sure everyone was.

Yet the feeling that something was watching me hadn’t least me in peace. I have felt ever so lonely since I arrived here. Yet, that creeping dread of death was always bound to be near, something that made me question my existence. 

The bushes sang with the wind; the low gust of wind swept the nature before me. I twisted the doorknob but then paused. I turned around, my back cracking as I did so. I take a look around the home, and I don’t think I have ever realised how cluttered the home was.

Piles of paper, antiques, and books all engulfed the walls and floors, like they owned it. Not us. Until my eyes darted towards Lord Alistair’s office. 

Nothing right felt there, although I never dared to trespass. Although that feeling, that feeling of dread, unease, a presence I could not see, always reminded me of his office. I don’t know why, I don’t know how.

But it caught my gaze. Everything about it did. The crevices in the linen, the empty papers, the pens gusting with thin ink. But also, something else. Something that seemed familiar to me. A babushka

doll. It stood silent on his desk, it eyes following ever moment. 

My gaze lifted towards the doorknob once again.

Then I twisted it.

Then I left.

CHAPTER 6

 My feet squelched under the rough mud of the marsh. The noise agitated me. My breath steadies to slow, balanced puffs. 

I hadn't known where I was headed, yet again, I let my mind drift me to where I needed to go. Houses rose in bunches, each house displaying unique themes and hues. The one that attracted me most was a high-arched, heavy square-beamed cottage. 

A woman was outside, watering her gardens. Her corset was neatly placed, engulfed in maroon and forest green. She waved, although something about her appearance made me shiver.

She looked tender, although cautious. Perhaps overprotected. Her corset though, was stunning. Astonishing colours owned it, its unique texture and pattern are beautiful. At least I smiled, I thought to myself.

I wondered if everyone was wondering where I had left. Perhaps Edmund had already woken, maybe even preparing himself breakfast, not realising my presence has left.

My feet devoured the ground, swallowing the crumbs and nibbles of the stones and pebbles. I haven’t yet reached Silas, although I could tell I was where I was supposed to be when I had found a perfectly groomed poodle roaming a neat, high iron fence, sniffing grass, and bush. 

I called.

‘Reverend Silas?’ I asked, although more of me knew this had to be his home. ‘Silas!’ I called once more, my palms hovering my lips.

My altered to a red tinge, the pressure of my calls turning me into tedium. After about thirty seconds of calling, a man dressed in a neat silver coat, with a crimson sweater, and blue trousers leapt towards me, his leather shoes emitting a silent, yet click foul rhythm that seemed to blend with his property.

His house wasn’t much larger than ours, perhaps a little wider, but short. Sort of like the shape of his

body. His poodle started to bark.

‘Pray, forgive me, but I am unclear as to who you are.’ He spoke, in remorse. I forced a smile, my dimples felt pressed beneath my cheeks. 

‘Lily Whitlock,’ I imply. ‘Edmund Whitlock’s fiancé.’ I say, offering my hand to greet.

‘Ah, Lily Whitlock, yes, yes.’ He replied, his hand shaking mine. Silence squirmed in, when a hideous shadow of dark cloud travelled within the blue sky. 

‘Well, please do come in, Lily.’ He speaks, offering room for me to enter his home. The landscape was perfect, everything about it was perfect. The grass stood thin as threads of hair, shifting in the soft wind. 

He trotted in front of me, his face stale. He stood tall as a tree, his moustache’s edge confronting the wind. We did not speak, though his silence was already saying far too much. He led to the front door. 

It was a dark chestnut oak with carvings of unique patterns. Odd shapes engulfed the home, making it rather different. The gable roof cast a foreshadowing strip across the landscape.

He paused. I paused too. He bit his lips lightly and stepped out of the door frame. ‘After you, Madam.’ He spoke, fluttered. I nodded, smiling while I inspected the house's interior.

Large furniture was scattered upon the floor, gesturing in chintz carpets with odd hues. far too much furniture for an alone man to own. My gaze fixed on different objects, my eyes slightly stinging after glancing at them around too much. 

Paintings of illustrations I couldn't figure out caught my gaze. I eventually realised I had been welcomed to a man’s home, whom I had barely spoken to. ‘Pray, apologies for my quietude, I ought to have come here,’ he nodded. I smiled. He looked like he understood my misbehaviour. 

‘And why have you ought to be here, miss?’ I clicked my tongue, not loud enough for him to hear.

‘I have attended to discuss,’ I paused. I moved closer to his presence, pulled a chair, and sat beside him. I bestowed an awful cough. His manor was freezing. 

‘I have attended to discuss the heinous occurrences taking place at The Ashcroft Home.’ I spoke. His expression had not changed. He emitted a groan before he spoke; ‘Madam.’ He said. I nodded, waiting for a reply to my question. 

‘I am afraid if you have come here, I ought to tell you.’ He groaned once more, about to cough until his gaze fixed on the chintz carpet. The grey skies have deepened. I could barely see. Only the candle guttered enough for my vision to see his mouth move. I stuttered, with my hand on his. ‘Please, do tell me. I cannot fathom not knowing.’ 

He seemed comfortable that my hand met his, rather, safe. ‘You must confide in me, believe me, no matter how unthinkable it could be.’ He expressed, almost breaking down to tears. ‘I will,’ I cried. 

Silence devoured the room. Too quiet, too deep. Finally, he began to speak. ‘There are curses which we cannot control.’ I didn't believe him. I didn't want to. ‘Some, rather target. Some are rather restless.’ I started to feel my sadness. 

‘I ought to know what lies beneath!’ I cried, my sobbing churned into snaps. He stood up before me.

‘Hush, darling, I know.’  This man I just met is known for hugging me, and I let him. Something of me needed it. Something of me needed a warm embrace. 

‘What? What lies beneath Silas?’ I spoke, my nostrils fluttering, gasping for air, as my sobs had taken me to ragged breaths. 

‘That matter is beyond my knowledge, miss. Insofar as I am informed, the estate is looming with a restless curse.’ He articulated softly. I stood up.

‘What curse!’ I snapped. ‘I must know!’ My violent sobbing has gotten worse. A teacup lay on a stool, toppled to the surface. 

‘I do not know.’ He replied, still maintaining his soft, mellifluous voice, almost like cotton in a warm bath. 

‘Please, darling,’ He spoke clear, strong, and passionately. I listened. ‘Please, oh dear God, please do keep yourself safe.’ I nodded. 

The candle guttered, casting the walls into uneven motion. Shadows stretched like dark fingers across the portraits, curling and retreating as if breathing. I could hear the poodle padding softly in the distance, claws clicking against polished wood, though its form remained unseen. Every sound seemed amplified, the wind against the shutters, the distant cry of birds, even the hollow tick of a clock in the hallway.

Silas stepped closer, his presence both a shield and a weight. He hesitated, and I caught the slightest tremor in his hands. The house felt impossibly vast, its corners folding into themselves, yet his presence made it feel almost intimate, almost alive.

The silence gnawed at me. The poodle barked, sharp and urgent. My pulse quickened. I turned to see a small shape vanish beneath the legs of a chair, a dark smear of ash on the polished wood. I swallowed the lump in my throat and forced myself to breathe evenly, as if by controlling my body I could control what lurked in the corners.

Silas’s eyes held a gravity that made my chest tighten. ‘You must not linger too long in the room alone,’ he said, voice still soft, still measured, yet threaded with warning. ‘There are… things here that are patient, and they wait for the careless.’

I sat once again, my shoulders trembling. Edmund must be wondering where I am. 

His gaze softened, almost tender. ‘They are not like us. Small, unseen, yet cunning. They move in places where the light fears to tread. They watch. They… choose.’

A sudden breeze rattled the windowpane, carrying with it the faint smell of ash, something old, something burned long ago. I shivered. The manor, so perfectly kept, so pristine, felt suddenly alive, as though every polished surface, every shadowed corner, was holding its breath—waiting to see what I would do next.

I clenched my hands. ‘Then I must be careful,’ I said, more to myself than to him.

Silas hunched his back closer, 

‘Oh darling…I am so sorry.’ 

CHAPTER 7

It hurt to breathe.

I returned to my home under the grey sweep of the grey sky, the wind tangling my skirts and whispering along the stone path as though carrying fragments of the manor with it. Inside, the rooms were familiar, yet they felt smaller, constricted, as if the walls themselves had shrunk to contain the weight of what I had learned.

The candle I lit on the mantel flickered nervously, casting uneven shadows across the room. My fingers lingered on its base, and I could not shake the memory of the soot-streaked hearth at Silas’ manor, the faint, deliberate smudges that had seemed to follow me in the quiet corners. Something, however small, waited. Something patient.

Nellie stood in the kitchen, lighting candles. I hear once again, the ear-wrecking noises of the footsteps above in the attic. The words from Silas replayed again and again. 

‘Where is Edmund?’ I asked. 

Nellie glanced over her shoulder. She jumped at the sight of me. ‘Looking for you, I believe.’

I stepped further into the kitchen, my boots brushing the rushes on the floor. Nellie’s hands shook slightly as she adjusted the candlewick, the flame wavering like a thing alive.

‘And he has not returned?’ I asked.

‘No, miss,’ she replied, clutching her shawl close. Her eyes darted toward the ceiling, as though she,

too, had heard the sounds above. ‘I’d thought it was you…’

Another thud resounded from the attic—slow, deliberate. It crept through the beams, as if whatever made it knew precisely where we stood. The hairs at the nape of my neck prickled.

‘Fetch the lantern,’ I whispered. She hesitated. ‘Nellie.’ My voice hardened. She obeyed, scurrying to the cupboard with hurried, uneven steps.

As the lantern’s light bloomed, I turned toward the narrow staircase that led upward. A thin draft spilled down from the attic door, carrying with it the faintest scent of oil paint; sweet, heavy, and familiar. I hadn’t opened that attic since Eleanor’s things were stored there.

The lantern’s glow trembled against the staircase walls as I ascended, each step creaking beneath my weight. Nellie followed reluctantly, her breath shallow and uneven.

When we reached the narrow landing, the attic hatch hung slightly ajar. A faint tapping echoed above, like wooden fingers drumming in anticipation.

Without warning, the hatch swung open. A gust of cold air swept through the stairwell, snuffing the lantern’s flame for a heartbeat. Then, one by one, the painted dolls began to tumble from the darkness, rolling and clattering down the steps in a grotesque cascade. Their hollow faces caught the moonlight through the window, each painted smile warped by shadow.

Nellie shrieked, stumbling backwards on the ladder. Her hand missed the rung. I lunged, but too late, she fell hard against the cold floor below. The sound echoed like a struck bell. She lay still, a dark

sheen spreading beneath her temple.

She was bleeding.

‘Help!’ I cried, sobbing. ‘Help!’ I cried once more.

Alistair appeared from his office door frame, his gaze locked on Nellie’s bleeding body. 

‘Good God!’ He wept, hastening towards the mayhem. Where is Edmund? He should be here. The other maids appeared. Bess did first. Margaret shrieked. 

One by one, all checking Nellie’s body, and oh, oh God her blood…like a velvet blanket spilling fast as wine from a broken cask. I need Edmund. I stumbled to my knees, my sobbing turning worse by the second. Nellie’s mouth was glossed with blood, drips of it lay on her gown, dear God, her beautiful gown is ruined in blood. I cried, my hope gone. 

Bess’s stare turned into a violent, sinister gesture. She looked like she wanted me dead, gone. But then, a breath. The best breath I have ever heard. Nellie. Blood poured from her mouth, but I did not care. My arms wrapped her in a loving embrace, she cried. I felt the warmth of the blood touch my skin, my clothes, but nothing has ever had me more relieved. Margaret kissed the crucifix pendant at her throat. ‘Good God, it's a miracle,’ She spoke, crying, although smiling. 

Alistair had vanished. I looked at the attic. The hatch was closed. Thank goodness, I thought to myself. My legs, my gown…all drenched in blood. It felt like we were in a scene of Macbeth. I could smell my own fear; Bess’s stare hurt to remember. She knew, I know she does. 

I grasped Nellie’s arm. ‘Pray, do not tell anyone the cause of this.’ I begged. She nodded.  ‘Thank you.’ I say, although my eyes don't meet hers. My gaze does not stop glancing at Bess and her leering. 

The following morning dawned dull and windless. The sky hung low and colourless, like a lid pressed upon the world. Edmund had ridden into the village to attend to accounts at the solicitor’s office, and in his absence, I resolved to accompany the carriage into Graveswood. I told myself it was merely to collect ribbons and paper, but in truth, the house had grown too close, its corridors too watchful.

Bess helped me with my cloak, her hands trembling as she fastened the buttons. She would not meet my gaze.

‘Bess,’ I said softly. ‘Has something happened in this house—something you wish to tell me?’

Her fingers faltered on the clasp. For a heartbeat, she looked up, and in her eyes there glimmered the raw, unguarded terror of a child.

‘They remember, Mrs. Whitlock,’ she whispered. ‘Even if we try to forget.’

Before I could question her further, Margaret’s sharp voice summoned her to the scullery, and the moment was lost.

I took a carriage to the village.

The village lay crouched beneath the mist, its cobbled streets slick with last night’s rain. Market stalls offered limp cabbages and muddy turnips; dogs nosed through puddles. As I stepped from the carriage, I felt an unfamiliar lightness—though it was not joy, only the relief of being away from

Ashcroft House’s oppressive hush.

I entered a small shop for thread, then crossed the square to the public house, where Mrs. Pratchett held court behind the bar. She was a stout woman with a kerchief tied tightly beneath her chin, her eyes keen as gimlets. When I gave my name, a ripple of murmurs passed among the few patrons huddled within.

‘Whitlock, is it?’ Mrs. Pratchett said, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘New wife up at the big house?’

‘Yes,’ I replied cautiously.

She leaned closer, lowering her voice. ‘You’ll forgive me for saying so, but folk in Graveswood don’t much like speaking of Ashcroft.’

‘Why not?’

Her mouth twisted, neither smile nor frown. ‘Strange goings-on, miss. Always have been. Lady Eleanor, rest her soul, had her ways. Locked herself away up there, she did, for weeks at a time. No visitors. No servants allowed in after dark. Lights burning in the attic until dawn.’ She paused. ‘They say she kept company with things that weren’t quite… alive.’

A coldness ran through me. ‘You mean the dolls.’

Her eyes widened, as if I had trespassed upon a secret. ‘You’ve seen ’em, then.’

‘I have.’

Mrs. Pratchett shook her head slowly. ‘Then you mind yourself, miss. That house doesn’t let go easy.

Lady Eleanor was clever—too clever by half. Some say she trapped spirits in wood and paint. Some say she bargained for more than she could keep.’

The silence had seeped in like a silent serpent. ‘Miss, you should not have entered the attic.’

Before I could press her further, the door opened and Reverend Silas entered, brushing mist from his coat. He greeted Mrs. Pratchett warmly before noticing me. His expression shifted—pleasant but guarded.

‘Mrs. Whitlock,’ he said with a courteous bow. ‘A surprise to see you here.’

‘I thought some air might do me good,’ I replied.

He offered to escort me part of the way back to the carriage. As we walked through the square, he kept his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed ahead.

‘You must forgive the villagers,’ he said finally. ‘They are given to superstition.’

‘And yet,’ I ventured, ‘you do not deny Lady Eleanor’s peculiar habits.’

His jaw tightened. ‘She was a woman of… intensity. Her devotions strayed toward realms better left unexamined. I tried, once, to dissuade her. She told me some souls can be contained like nesting boxes, that the body is merely the outer shell.’ He glanced at me then, briefly. ‘I would advise you, Mrs. Whitlock, not to pry too deeply into matters that belonged to her. The house remembers.’

We reached the carriage. His expression softened, though his eyes held a quiet warning. ‘Be careful,’ he said simply, and inclined his head before disappearing into the mist.

I sat back against the seat as the carriage rolled away, my hands folded tightly in my lap. The fog pressed against the windows like pale fingers. For the first time since arriving, the thought took root in my mind, not merely that something was wrong in Ashcroft House, but that others knew and had chosen to turn their faces away.

_____________________________

That low, dreadful feeling intertwined with my fear, I could not face it. Mrs. Pratchett held a unique tone in her presence, her voice thin as thread, her clothing unlike anything she had ever seen. 

I panted for no reason. Tedium had always been here, yet it never let me sleep. Not once. The babushka dolls seemed to watch me everywhere I would go; I felt them. I felt them so much that I decided I was mad. 

Mrs. Pratchett reminded me I’m not the one losing my mind, it is The Ashcroft’s. Their expressions, their fakeness of pretending nothing was wrong, disgusted me. 

They knew something was wrong, I’m sure they did. Yet they had never warned me that Eleanor’s behaviour held something sinister in the home. I didn't believe it. I'm sure Eleanor was a normal, faithful woman who was just trying to find herself. Yet the linger of something else stayed.

I was especially mad at Edmund. Why hadn't he warned me of this? Am I really going crazy? These questions would be something I would ask myself frequently, perhaps daily. 

God help me, I would want to flee this home and never look back, although I confided in Alistair’s

loss. Poor man. Eleanor, Pete, almost Nellie…What more could this poor man lose? Yet Edmund talks to himself more than anyone else.

And that worries me.

I didn’t want to overthink it. Perhaps his grief has taken over him…Or perhaps this house is taking over him, consuming him. Why do I believe in such things? Not one thing put me at peace. I wanted to run, run as far as I could and never stop till my legs broke from it, till my body suffocated in my own exhaustion. 

The following morning dawned dull and windless. The sky hung low and colourless, like a lid pressed upon the world. Edmund had ridden into the village to attend to accounts at the solicitor’s office, and in his absence, I resolved to accompany the carriage into Graveswood. I told myself it was merely to collect ribbons and paper, but in truth, the house had grown too close, its corridors too watchful.

Bess helped me with my cloak, her hands trembling as she fastened the buttons. She would not meet my gaze.

‘Bess,’ I said softly. ‘Has something happened in this house—something you wish to tell me?’

Her fingers faltered on the clasp. For a heartbeat, she looked up, and in her eyes there glimmered the raw, unguarded terror of a child.

‘They remember, Mrs. Whitlock,’ she whispered. ‘Even if we try to forget.’

Before I could question her further, Margaret’s sharp voice summoned her to the scullery, and the

moment was lost.

I took a carriage to the village.

The village lay crouched beneath the mist; its cobbled streets slick with last night’s rain. Market stalls offered limp cabbages and muddy turnips; dogs nosed through puddles. As I stepped from the carriage, I felt an unfamiliar lightness—though it was not joy, only the relief of being away from Ashcroft House’s oppressive hush.

I entered a small shop for thread, then crossed the square to the public house, where Mrs. Pratchett held court behind the bar. She was a stout woman with a kerchief tied tightly beneath her chin, her eyes keen as gimlets. When I gave my name, a ripple of murmurs passed among the few patrons huddled within.

‘Whitlock, is it?’ Mrs. Pratchett said, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘New wife up at the big house?’

‘Yes,’ I replied cautiously.

She leaned closer, lowering her voice. ‘You’ll forgive me for saying so, but folk in Graveswood don’t much like speaking of Ashcroft.’

‘Why not?’

Her mouth twisted, neither smile nor frown. ‘Strange goings-on, miss. Always have been. Lady Eleanor, rest her soul, had her ways. Locked herself away up there, she did, for weeks at a time. No visitors. No servants allowed in after dark. Lights burning in the attic until dawn.’ She paused. ‘They

say she kept company with things that weren’t quite… alive.’

A coldness ran through me. ‘You mean the dolls.’

Her eyes widened, as if I had trespassed upon a secret. ‘You’ve seen ’em, then.’

‘I have.’

Mrs. Pratchett shook her head slowly. ‘Then you mind yourself, miss. That house doesn’t let go easily. Lady Eleanor was clever—too clever by half. Some say she trapped spirits in wood and paint. Some say she bargained for more than she could keep.’

The silence had seeped in like a silent serpent. ‘Miss, you should not have entered the attic.’

Before I could press her further, the door opened and Reverend Silas entered, brushing mist from his coat. He greeted Mrs. Pratchett warmly before noticing me. His expression shifted, pleasant but guarded.

‘Mrs. Whitlock,’ he said with a courteous bow. ‘A surprise to see you here.’

‘I thought some air might do me good,’ I replied.

He offered to escort me part of the way back to the carriage. As we walked through the square, he kept his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed ahead.

‘You must forgive the villagers,’ he said finally. ‘They are given to superstition.’

‘And yet,’ I ventured, ‘you do not deny Lady Eleanor’s peculiar habits.’

His jaw tightened. ‘She was a woman of… intensity. Her devotions strayed toward realms better left

unexamined. I tried, once, to dissuade her. She told me some souls can be contained like nesting boxes, that the body is merely the outer shell.’ He glanced at me then, briefly. ‘I would advise you, Mrs. Whitlock, not to pry too deeply into matters that belonged to her. The house remembers.’

We reached the carriage. His expression softened, though his eyes held a quiet warning. ‘Be careful,’ he said simply, and inclined his head before disappearing into the mist.

I sat back against the seat as the carriage rolled away, my hands folded tightly in my lap. The fog pressed against the windows like pale fingers. For the first time since arriving, the thought took root in my mind, not merely that something was wrong in Ashcroft House, but that others knew and had chosen to turn their faces away.

_____________________________

That low, dreadful feeling intertwined with my fear, I could not face it. Mrs. Pratchett held a unique tone in her presence, her voice thin as thread, her clothing unlike anything she had ever seen. 

I panted for no reason. Tedium had always been here, yet it never let me sleep. Not once. The babushka dolls seemed to watch me everywhere I would go; I felt them. I felt them so much that I decided I was mad. 

Mrs. Pratchett reminded me I’m not the one losing my mind, it is The Ashcroft’s. Their expressions, their fakeness of pretending nothing was wrong, disgusted me. 

They knew something was wrong, I’m sure they did. Yet they had never warned me that Eleanor’s

behaviour held something sinister in the home. I didn't believe it. I'm sure Eleanor was a normal, faithful woman who was just trying to find herself. Yet the linger of something else stayed.

I was especially mad at Edmund. Why hadn't he warned me of this? Am I really going crazy? These questions would be something I would ask myself frequently, perhaps daily. 

God help me, I would want to flee this home and never look back, although I confided in Alistair’s loss. Poor man. Eleanor, Pete, almost Nellie…What more could this poor man lose? Yet Edmund talks to himself more than anyone else.

And that worries me.

I didn’t want to overthink it. Perhaps his grief has taken over him…Or perhaps this house is taking over him, consuming him. Why do I believe in such things? Not one thing put me at peace. I wanted to run, run as far as I could and never stop till my legs broke from it, till my body suffocated in my own exhaustion. 

_____________________________

That night, the house held its breath. The mist outside pressed thick against the windows, and every corner seemed deeper, every sound sharper. I could not sleep. The thought of the dolls, locked away in the attic where I had left them, gnawed at the edges of my mind. At last, unable to bear it, I took a candle and climbed the narrow servant’s stair to the upper floor. The air grew colder with each step. The attic door groaned softly as I turned the key.

The room was as I remembered it: vast and shadowed, lined with forgotten trunks and furniture under white sheets. The dolls sat together on the low table near the far wall, their painted eyes catching the candlelight.

But something was wrong.

Where there had been five, there were now six.

Two smallest dolls sat side by side, identical in every detail—the same delicate brushstrokes, the same sharp little eyes that seemed too freshly painted. For a long moment, I could do nothing but stare, the flame trembling in my hand.

I had locked one away. I was certain of it. I had heard no footsteps, no creak of boards above. No one had been here.

I fled the attic, leaving a trail of candle wax on the floors. Nellie was cleaning dishes, while Edmund had been reading in Alistair’s office.

Until I saw it.

The smallest doll once again appeared on the living room sofa. Its smile felt so uneasy. I gnawed the bottom of my lip. Something rose above, a silent scutter of steps like trapped gulls in a cage. I peeked back. Gone. 

I bestowed an awful scream, the worst I had ever done. Nellie and the others charged in a hurry toward the havoc, their steps emitting a perfect balance, as if they were rehearsed. Edmund rushed

too.

‘Oh, my dear Lily, whatever has happened?’ Bess asked, her forearm huddling over my shoulder. I couldn't speak. I would sound mentally absurd if I did so. But I wanted someone to believe my ridiculousness, so I spoke, ‘Them!’ I pointed towards the sofa. Until I had realised the doll had vanished from the spot where I once saw it displayed. Good God, I am so stupid! I looked like an idiot.

Nellie scoffed while fetching bandages for her injured head, where she had neatly placed them only for her to touch.  

‘The sofa?’ Bess implied. 

‘Pray, my foolishness,’ I spoke. ‘I could assure you those,’ I paused. I couldn't wait any longer, though. I grunted as I stood up. 

‘Those asinine dolls! Oh, dear God, I cannot bear it no longer; they watch me everywhere, those shameful painted eyes follow my figure everywhere! Please, oh please do believe my folly, no matter how ridiculous it sounds!’ I begged, my voice descending into cries. 

Bess hugged me. 

‘Oh, my poor darling,’ She spoke, low and meaningful. ‘Of course, I believe you. This home lingers with something unhuman. I feel it too.’ She broke. Her tears. They made me cry, too. Edmund stood there for the whole conversation. 

‘This is ridiculous,’ He adds, waving his hand, like he was shooing away bothersome flies. ‘This house

is just gaped in age.’ He speaks. Nellie nods, seeming to agree as she ties the bandage strap around her forehead.

‘Do not speak of them like that.’ Bess gals, truly warning him. 

‘Oh, I may speak of them in whatever manner I intended. Those dolls are just dolls. Nothing more.’ 

‘They are babushkas.’ I add. Edmund scoffs, his book resting in his palm. He was starting to agitate me. 

‘They hear, they watch.’ Bess spoke. 

‘They hear and they haunt.’

CHAPTER 8

The morning light barely pierced the heavy curtains, and yet the house seemed darker than the night had allowed. I woke to a silence so complete it pressed against my ears, a waiting hush that made the blood in my veins thrum like warning bells.

I sat up, heart hammering, and for a moment thought I heard the faintest skitter of tiny feet across the floor above—then nothing. The attic door loomed in my mind, closed, yet accusing, as if it knew secrets I had no right to remember.

I did not speak. I did not move. Even the air seemed to hold its breath, waiting for something to happen.

I tried to push the unease aside, convincing myself that the sounds had been tricks of half-sleep. The house often groaned and whispered in the early hours; the old beams shifted, the wind found gaps beneath the eaves. Yet this morning, those explanations rang hollow. There was something in the stillness that felt deliberate, as if the walls themselves were listening.

I dressed in silence. Edmund did not stir, though I glanced at him often, half-hoping he might wake and speak some ordinary word to break the spell of the morning. His steady breathing offered no comfort.

Downstairs, the servants moved about their duties, but their voices were subdued, their footsteps hushed. Even the clatter of crockery seemed dulled. Margaret passed me in the corridor with a quick

curtsy and averted eyes. Bess lingered at the base of the stair, twisting her hands in her apron, her expression strained.

I made my way to the breakfast room. The fire had burned low, and the chill of the house settled around my shoulders like damp cloth. I took a seat, though my appetite had long since abandoned me. Outside, the fog thickened against the windows, flattening the world into a colourless void.

I poured myself tea with trembling hands. The cup rattled against its saucer, betraying me. I told myself to breathe. I told myself there was nothing watching. And yet, beneath all my reasoning, a quiet dread continued to coil tighter, waiting.

The sun had cast a long, warm strip of sunlight piercing through the thin curtains. The birds sang in a rhythmic harmony, forming me little comfort. It was a nice morning. After I finished my tea, I began to speak, ‘I might go to the town today.’ Bess glanced at me quickly. ‘Pray, you are not going to speak to anyone of the matters?’ I shivered. ‘No.’ I spoke. 

Bess did not seem reassured by my answer. She lowered her gaze, fingers tightening around the edge of the tray. The silence between us stretched uncomfortably, filled only by the ticking of the clock upon the mantel.

‘It is best,’ she murmured at last, ‘if certain things remain within these walls. Folk in Graveswood are quick to speak, and quicker still to judge.’ I nodded, though her words unsettled me more than they

soothed. There was a tremor in her voice, a quiet, desperate note that spoke of things she dared not name. ‘Especially that strange Mrs. Pratchett.’ I almost gasped. I already have. ‘‘Full of useless gossip, that one,’ Bess continued, shaking her head. ‘She lives to stir trouble where there is none, always eager to create drama.’ She spoke. I nodded, unsure. I offered Bess a faint smile, hoping to end the conversation before she could read the unease in my face. She curtsied stiffly and turned back toward the scullery, leaving me alone with the echo of her warning. I emitted a cough. ‘Beg my pardon.’ I spoke. She nodded. 

Edmund entered then, his step brisk, his expression fixed somewhere beyond my presence. He greeted me absently, kissed the top of my head as one might acknowledge a passing thought, and seated himself at the far end of the table. He unfolded the newspaper with sharp flicks, the crackle of the pages cutting through the morning’s stillness.

‘You're up early.’ He remarked, without contacting me. ‘I thought I might go to the village today.’ I replied. He nodded once. ‘Very well. Take the carriage. There are some matters I must see to here.’ Our conversation ended there. He turned his attention to the print before him, though I noticed how his jaw tightened at intervals, as if chewing upon some private concern.

I finished my tea in silence, watching the sunlight creep slowly across the floorboards until it met the hem of my dress. For a moment, everything appeared ordinary, domestic, familiar. Yet beneath the soft chorus of birds and the rustle of Edmund’s newspaper, I felt a tension gathering, like a storm on

the horizon.

‘Mind yourself, Whitlock.’ Bess demanded. Edmund glanced. ‘I can assure you she is mature enough not to go flapping her tongue about like a gossiping maid,’ he hissed. Bess looked offended. ‘Well,’ She sighed, defeated. ‘Perhaps some others have careless tongues.’ She spoke, her chest appearing higher than usual. I stood still. 

‘Confide in her, Bess.’ Edmund spoke low. She nodded slightly. I felt as though she wanted to look, but she couldn’t. Her eyes were fixed on the tasks she was multiplying by the minute.

The sun was gone now. It felt as though the silence had gnawed for hours, maybe even days… 

‘I cannot confide in a woman who breaks simple rules.’ My stomach churned at Bess’ words. ‘Nellie has warned you, Lily.’ I nodded.

‘Perhaps not enough?’ She spoke. Although I knew it wasn’t a question. Her words were suffocating me like breath wrapped in plastic. 

‘Very well,’ Edmund spoke softly. ‘She shall not.’ He spoke; his eyes quickly fixed on mine. I nodded, simply. 

‘Off you go.’ Bess replied. 

_____________________________

Before the hour had passed, the carriage was brought round. I wrapped my shawl tighter against the

morning air as I stepped outside. The sun, though bright, seemed pale through the lingering mist, and the drive that led down toward Graveswood stretched before me like a path into another world.

The carriage set off at a steady pace, its wheels striking the damp earth with a measured rhythm. Fields and hedgerows slipped by on either side, their edges softened by the fog. My heartbeat with a restless mixture of dread and resolve. I told myself that my visit was harmless, that I merely wished to walk among the market stalls, to hear ordinary voices, to remind myself that life beyond the house still existed. Yet beneath this pretence, a single thought persisted: I wanted answers.

The carriage rattled softly along the lane, the sound of its wheels muffled by the damp road. I sat back against the seat, clutching my gloves in my lap. Hedgerows slipped past, blurred by a fine veil of mist. The fields lay pale and still beneath the weak sun, and now and then a rook stirred from the trees, cutting a lonely shape against the sky.

As we neared Graveswood, the landscape seemed to close in; cottages hunched low against the marsh, their chimneys breathing thin trails of smoke into the morning air. The village square came slowly into view, alive with the movements of market day. Traders called from their stalls, dogs barked, and the smell of fresh bread mingled with the dampness of the ground. Edmund sat closer beside me in the carriage. That smell of damp earth filled my nostrils. 

The carriage wheels slowed as we reached the cobbled heart of the square. A scatter of townsfolk turned their heads, their gazes fixing upon us with a mixture of curiosity and something else—

something harder to name. I felt their eyes follow as Edmund helped me alight, his hand cool upon mine. Their murmurs rose like a breeze, snatches of words that seemed to dissolve before they reached me.

The market stretched in a riot of colour and sound: bolts of cloth in crimson and gold, baskets of apples blushing red, jars of honey that caught the pale light. Yet beneath the liveliness lingered a watchfulness, as if each stallholder knew something I did not.

From the vision of my eyes, I saw someone beyond the other customers and markets. Mrs. Pratchett. I jolted. 

‘Everything Alright?’ Edmund asked, his palm on my shoulder. ‘Yes, indeed.’ I say. He nods. The driver stops. Me and Edmund hop off. 

‘Crowded today is it not?’ Edmund says smiling. I smile in reply, and we hold hands. ‘Indeed.’ I say. 

That rest of afternoon, Edmund informs me that he is going to browse the different market stalls. I tell him he can, and i recommend him the stall where they make these beautiful, detailed candles. He’s gone now. More for me, I will as well browse options. 

I went pass the shop that sells thread, beautiful, yet expensive strange-pattered dresses and gowns, even a knitting class was held at a big centre of the area.

Until Mrs. Pratchett came towards me. ‘What are you doing here on this fine morning, Lily?’ She says. I don't smile. ‘Off with you, Mrs. Pratchett.’ I say, striding away from her. 

She grabs my arm. 

‘Do not listen to them.’ She hisses. ‘For they are far too disrespectful.’ I cock my head. ‘Beg you pardon, Miss?’ I say. 

‘They said something to you. I am certain of it.’ I sat down on a stool with a squeaky leg. ‘I have no idea what you're talking about. This is not revolved around The Ashcroft’s’ I demand. She nods; her eyes focused on something I have no idea of. ‘Very well.’ She calmly says. ‘Just remember,’ she says. ‘The Ashcroft’s are not who you think they are.’ I glance at her. ‘What do you mean?’ I say quietly. 

‘They are hiding something. Something very dark.’ She says, her voice dragging in fear. I flee from the area. She stares; I feel her eyes. That woman. That hell of a woman. So strange, I couldn't believe her. She’s wasting her time. 

I am angry at her. 

CHAPTER 9

Edmund pulled me aside, dragging me towards the door. ‘Quickly, we are going to be late.’ I move myself away from him. ‘I’ am doing my best.’ I say, as I walk towards the carriage. The wrong one. ‘That one.’ He points, flushed in angst. ‘Apologies.’ I reply.

Edmund led me to the carriage, engulfed in fancy, beautiful, and elegant colours. The sky seemed to shimmer at its top, the colours shining so brightly that no other colour was visible. The wheels were polished, the seats velveted in crimson and gold. Alistair stepped in first, his coat brushing the edge of the doorframe with precision. Edmund helped me up, his hand firm yet soft.

‘You look divine,’ he whispered, his breath warm against my ear.

‘Thank you,’ I murmured, though my voice felt distant, as if it belonged to someone else.

The ride was smooth, the trees outside blurring into streaks of green and grey. The town faded behind us, replaced by winding roads and hills that seemed to lean inward. Mist clung to the carriage windows, and the air grew colder the farther we travelled.

Alistair remained silent, his gaze fixed on the horizon. Edmund stroked my hand absently, his thoughts elsewhere. I leaned against the window, watching the world shift.

At last, the restaurant emerged—a towering structure of marble and glass, its entrance flanked by statues of winged lions. Candlelight flickered behind the windows, casting golden shadows across the cobblestone path.

We stepped out. The doorman bowed low, his eyes never quite meeting mine.

‘Welcome to The Gilded Maw,’ he said, his voice smooth as silk.

Inside, the air was perfumed with the scent of roses and spices. Velvet drapes hung heavy from the ceiling, and a chandelier the size of a carriage loomed above, its crystals trembling with every breath of air. A quartet played softly in the corner, their bows gliding like whispers.

We were seated near the centre, beneath the chandelier. The table was set with silver cutlery and plates rimmed in gold. A waiter poured wine into crystal glasses, his hands trembling slightly.

‘Everything all right, Madam?’ The waiter asked. ‘Quite.’ I replied. He nodded. ‘Very well.’ He spoke, rushing back to the kitchen to attend to his orders. Edmund’s eyes peered at me from above the menu paper, which made me giggle. 

‘Anything tickle your fancy?’ He asked, smiling. ‘Not yet.’ I said, leering at the menu's offerings, though feeling his eyes drift on me. ‘Well, hurry.’ He spoke playfully. ‘I'm starving.’ I laughed again. ‘Very well.’ I say. 

Alistair demands a waiter. He clicks his fingertips. ‘Waiter, waiter!’ He calls. A slim, young man comes rushing to our table, only to topple his order papers. ‘My apologies, Sir.’ He says. This man is very clumsy. ‘Yes, yes, I will go for the potato croquettes with béchamel, if you please.’ He says, dragging his menu for the man to grab. He stops. ‘Vegetarian you are?’ Alistair pauses. He only then looks like he understands the question. ‘No, no, I just enjoy my vegetables.’ He speaks, waving his arm. ‘Very well.’ The man says and proceeds to grab all our menus. 

‘Oh, I haven't ordered yet.’ I say, confused yet softly. The menu was already mid-air above the table in his grasp. ‘My pardon.’ He says and returns the menu in front of me. ‘Thank you.’ I reply. He rushes towards where Edmund is seated. ‘And for you, Sir?’ Edmund looks at him. ‘I will have the baked turbot with oyster stuffing, please.’ He nods and scribbles it down. Edmund glances at me. ‘Any moment now, Lily sweetie. They are waiting and Iam hungry.’ I nod. ‘May I please have the uh-’ I stutter, not knowing what I desire. I look at all the options and quickly pick one. ‘The cauliflower au gratin with nutmeg and cheese, please.’ I say. I didn't even want it, yet the waiter was already taking my menu. 

We waited. And waited. The crowd of people seemed endless. Not one empty chair, nor a table. I sat

up. ‘Iam going to the bathroom.’ I say. Edmund nods. I walk through the crowds of people, where the air is submerged in thick scents of food. Chatter immersed in different crowds, different voices, different tones, different accents, clothing, everything…The line to the ladies' bathroom was long, yet tidy. Not many, but enough to keep me waiting for at least five minutes. 

I scurried to the back of the line, desperate for the line to grow no longer. As I waited, I watched the different crowds of people enjoy their meals. People’s faces looked pleased, happy, and satisfied. I kept darting back to our table. If our food came, I was going back. The line stopped, and before I knew it, it was my turn to take to my business. There was a chamber pot. It smelled horrible. 

After I finished, I heard a woman knocking on the enclosed restroom door. I looked at myself in the mirror. My gown had glimmered in the reflection of the mirror with the lights. But I saw it. I know I did. Behind me was the smallest babushka doll, standing near the chamber pot. I turned around, but it was gone. My shoulder crept with unease. Thudding came from behind me. Though nothing was visible. No movement. Nothing. 

I fled. I ran so fast that the door that bolted open seemed to run with me. All the ladies stared. I returned to my seat. The food hadn't been served yet. ‘Why have you run at such speed? Is everything alright?’ Edmund asks, a concerned look swarmed his face. ‘Yes. The aroma just got to me.’ I say. ‘Fair enough.’ He replies, stirring his head to a side. 

The waiter returned at last, balancing a silver tray with practiced grace. He placed each dish before

us with a soft clink of porcelain. The potato croquettes steamed gently, their béchamel glistening like ivory. Edmund’s turbot glowed pale against the oyster stuffing, and my cauliflower au gratin sat heavy with nutmeg and cheese, its scent oddly sweet.

I stared at it. The aroma curled into my nose, but my appetite had vanished. I picked at the edge of the dish, the fork trembling slightly in my hand.

Alistair cut into his croquettes with surgical precision. ‘They’ve improved since last season,’ he said, chewing slowly. ‘Less salt. More finesse.’

Edmund nodded, already halfway through his plate. ‘You must eat, Lily,’ he said, his voice gentle. ‘You’ll faint if you don’t.’

I nodded, forcing a bite. The texture was soft, almost too soft. It melted on my tongue like ash.

Above us, the chandelier’s candles guttered. A hush seemed to settle over the room, so slight it might have been imagined. The quartet faltered for a breath, then resumed, their bows gliding with a touch more urgency. I looked up. The chandelier swayed, not much, just enough to catch the light in a way that made the shadows dance across the velvet walls.

I set my fork down. My hands had begun to sweat. I glance at the stairs that lead above us. I swear I saw something, perhaps someone? I didn't know. I began to sweat from my forehead. ‘Edmund.’ I say, desperate for his attention, stroking his arm. ‘I’m afraid.’ I speak. He glances. ‘Of what, darling?’ He spoke. I glance back at the stairs. Alistair had stayed silent this whole moment, pleased with his meal.

Perhaps so pleased he hadn’t been aware of other things. ‘Of this place. I can feel something, Edmund. I've been feeling it everywhere.’ He stares at me like I’m some kind of crazy joke. ‘Excuse me?’ He speaks.  

‘Edmund.’ I say once again. ‘Please, oh please, do believe me. I feel it everywhere I go.’ I feel ridiculous saying these things. ‘Of what!’ His voice rose. I began to almost tear up. ‘Edmund,’ I pause. ‘I think…’ I say, ‘I think something is following mouth with a napkin. ‘Dolls, you say?’ he murmured, almost amused. ‘How quaint.’

I stared at him. ‘You don’t believe me.’ The words left my mouth like a confession, fragile and absurd. Edmund blinked, his fork suspended mid-air. The candlelight caught the edge of his cheekbone, casting a shadow that made his expression unreadable.

‘Following you?’ he repeated, quieter now. ‘Lily, you’re tired. The house, the travel, it’s all been a strain.’

I shook my head. ‘No. It’s not just Ashcroft. It’s here. It’s everywhere. I saw something upstairs. I felt something in the bathroom. Edmund, I saw a babushka doll in the mirror. It was behind me. But when I turned-’

‘A doll?’ he interrupted, his voice clipped. ‘You’re speaking nonsense.’

Alistair finally looked up, dabbing his chin.

‘My dear,’ he said, folding his hands, ‘this is a fine establishment. Not some haunted parlour. Perhaps

you’re simply… overwhelmed.’

I wanted to scream. But the chandelier above us groaned again, louder this time. The candles trembled. A low creak echoed from the ceiling, followed by a sound like footsteps, slow, deliberate, pacing. 

‘See!’ I say, standing up in a hurry. ‘The roof!’ Alistair and Edmund, both shot me confused looks. ‘Did you not hear those footsteps? Above us?’ Edmund sighed. ‘Lily Whitlock, I demand you to sit down, and to stop acting like an irrational child!’ Edmund yells. I blush. ‘Apologies.’ I groan. I sit back down. Silence fell upon us for a moment.

‘I’m not irrational.’ I say. ‘I know what I saw, Edmund.’ I say it seriously, which makes him embarrassed. Edmund’s face flushed, his jaw tightening as he glanced around the room. A few nearby diners had turned their heads, their expressions a mix of curiosity and discomfort. The quartet had stopped playing. The air was thick with tension, not just from me, but from something else. Something unseen.

‘I didn’t mean to raise my voice,’ Edmund muttered, his tone clipped. ‘But you must understand how this looks.’ I flushed in anger. ‘I don’t care how it looks,’ I said, my voice low but firm. ‘I care that something is wrong. I feel it. I see it. And you-’ I paused, swallowing the lump in my throat. ‘You won’t believe me.’

Alistair dabbed his mouth with his napkin, his expression unreadable. ‘Perhaps we should finish our

meal before we descend into dramatics.’ ‘Hush.’ I speak. 

And then a crack. Deep. Terrifying. 

The chandelier. A sound like tearing bone. The entire fixture plummeted with a shriek of metal, crashing into the centre of the dining room like a beast dropped from the rafters. The impact was deafening. Crystal exploded like bombs, a storm of shards, slicing through tablecloths, skin, and silence. screams ripping through the air, like infants weeping. I stood staring silently as Edmund grasped his arms around me. He kissed me. As more and more ceiling fell upon us, tearing through the elegant, beautiful patterns of the restaurant. I started to see customers diving under their tables through the little hole between Edmund’s shoulder, as he wrapped around me tighter.

Screams would not stop. Alistair was under the table. Waiters and chefs scurried through the mayhem, screaming and yelling at each other. The candles from the chandelier started to burn. Crisps of wood flecked through the building. I held Edmund when I began to cry. It had stopped, yet the weeps and screams of the people wouldn't take a pause. Edmund let go of me. 

I got up when I saw a woman weeping in sorrow over a child’s body. He was bleeding. A large piece of wooden floorboard slab struck through him, the wood's end pouring with blood and flesh. I felt sick to the core. The woman was sobbing, holding her son’s bleeding arm. The fire crept upon him, leading him to put his shoulder and neck to the scorched floor, as if trying to shield what little breath remained. His eyes were wide, glassy, already drifting somewhere unreachable. The woman’s cries

tore through the room, raw and animal, louder than the crackling flames or the shouts of the staff. I heard a woman gust in bile. Gagging, sobbing at the same time. 

Edmund held my hand. That poor woman. I turned to Edmund. His gaze fixed on me. ‘Edmund, I want to l-’ ‘Me too.’ Edmund says. ‘Let's leave.’ It’s like he read my mind. 

As we left, it came to my mind:

Others took it as a terrible coincidence.

I took it as a warning.

Alistair stayed silent. We did not speak. Good. I never want to remember what had just happened, though a creeping thought told me I will. Alistair called for a carriage while Edmund grasped my arm tightly. ‘I’m afraid again, Edmund.’ I speak. He holds my hand. ‘Me too, darling. Me too.’ I hold his hand tighter. Alistair turns his back to face us. ‘Apologies for…what just happened.’ I stare at him. ‘It is right, Lord Alistair.’ I say softly. 

‘You don’t think it was the-’ Edmund paused. ‘Dolls that caused this, did you?’ He says, thinking he is being ridiculous. ‘No.’ I say. Though I do think they caused this. But I will keep it to myself, I thought. I know what I saw. And it is a coincidence that this starts to happen as soon as I arrive here. 

The carriage rocked gently as it pulled away from the restaurant, the rain softening into a mist that clung to the windows like breath. I leaned into Edmund’s shoulder; my fingers still curled around his hand. He didn’t speak, but his silence was warm, not cold. Alistair sat across from us, his gaze fixed

on the passing trees, his expression unreadable.

No one mentioned the chandelier. Or the boy. Or the screams.

The wheels hummed against the road, and I let my eyes close for a moment. The rhythm of the carriage was soothing, almost hypnotic. I didn’t sleep, but I drifted, somewhere between memory and thought.

Ashcroft House appeared through the fog like a painting half-finished. Its windows glowed faintly, and the lanterns at the gate flickered in the wind. The gravel crunched beneath the wheels as we arrived.

Nellie appeared from the door that was ajar as soon as she heard the squelch of the wheels churn in the swamp mud. ‘How fared your dinner?’ She asked, her face grinning with that strict, upright expression. ‘Quite chaotic.’ Edmund says. 

‘Edmund!’ Alistair whispers, trying not to draw Nellie’s attention. ‘We shall not create a conversation of this matter.’ Alistair whispers. ‘Beg my pardon.’ Edmund says. Nellie looks confused. ‘And why was it…Chaotic?’ Nellie says. Edmund coughs. ‘Perhaps…’ Alistair takes Edmund’s words. ‘A chandelier fell.’ He spoke, determined to bring the conversation to a close. Nellie looks satisfied with the words. ‘Very well,’ she says. ‘In you come.’ She finishes, drawing her arm to let us in. 

‘Thank you.’ Alistair says, closing the door. 

‘Oh,’ Nellie says, drawing her arm to leave the door open. ‘Leave it open, sir, it will be good to revive

some fresh air.’ 

‘Close it.’ Alistair demands. Nellie closes the door. ‘Very well.’ She says, uneased. 

CHAPTER 10

‘I’m sorry.’ Edmund’s voice becomes soft as silk, his hands lift, fingers trickling down my hair strands,

light as rain. Mist clung to the windows like nature owned them. The marsh’s smell became denser, drawing an unpleasant stench rising from the surface. 

‘Oh, it’s nothing.’ I speak. Edmund sits down and stares at me for a long time. ‘No,’ he says. ‘I should have believed you at The Gilded Maw.’ He says, softly. ‘Pray, don’t worry. I know you meant me no harm.’ I reply, getting closer, while his fingers linger in my hair. ‘I love you.’ He says, kissing the side of my neck. I say I love him, too. He leaves, leaving a trail of his scent. 

Bess comes, her feet gliding softer than Edmund’s voice. She comes closer to me. ‘Dear God.’ She says. I glance with a confused look. ‘Beg your pardon?’ I reply. ‘I know you feel it.’ She says, resting her hand on mine. ‘I knew you could feel it.’ 

‘What are you talking about?’ I say, although I knew what she meant. ‘Don’t act as though you have no idea. It is simply clear.’ The silence was deep, lingering in my ear. ‘What?’ I start to agitate. ‘My darling,’ She speaks. ‘We both know something is hiding in this house. Something evil.’ Her words start to flutter, my breath heaves. ‘Leave me alone, you sanctimonious old crow!’ I snapped, rising from the chair so quickly it scraped against the floor. My voice rang through the room like a cracked bell.

Bess blinked, startled. ‘Beg your pardon!’ She hisses, her face blushing in crimson. ‘How dare you speak to me like that, you filthy fussock!’ She hissed. ‘You think because you wear silk and lace, you are above truth? Above fear?’ Her words rose higher, yet they bestowed an ear-piercing ring, like a