Chapter 8

Ican't believe I fell asleep in the bath. I could have drowned. My first bath in so long, and I could have killed myself accidently. Maybe Carver was right, maybe I do need to be more careful.

By the time I've dried and dressed myself, I'm exhausted and contemplating crawling back into bed. A thought I'd act on if it wasn't for the nightmares of creepy stone gargoyles I know are waiting for me. Knowing that I'll dream of claws tearing into me as sharp fangs sink into my flesh is enough to make me push through the tiredness.

And besides, when I open the bathroom door, the smell of food coming from downstairs is so delicious that my stomach starts to grumble. Hunger isn't a feeling I've been familiar with lately, but first the pancakes and now this…whatever this is.

I make my way downstairs, following the tempting aroma that leads me to the kitchen. A saucepan bubbles on the old Aga, but there's not another person in sight.

I've only ventured into the kitchen a few times, the lack of appetite and losing days to exhaustion meant it was never somewhere I found myself. It"s a shame, I think, as my fingers move over the solid oak table that sits in the centre of the space. The huge arch windows frame the fading light, the uneven cream walls and high ceiling beams with all the woodwork, give the space a rustic fairytale feeling.

She would have loved this.

I can picture her sitting at the table with her mug of coffee, pale blonde hair pinned up on top of her head in a messy bun, a smile ghosting on her lips as she gives me another lecture about making a mess in the kitchen.

No.

That was pre-Lady Clifton. Lady Clifton wouldn't have been seen dead with a messy bun. She only wore her hair in elegant chignons.

It should have been me.

I ignore the nasty thoughts starting to creep in, like vines taking root. Instead, I focus on the grain of the wood beneath my fingertips.

Breathe, Ari.

The table is set for one, with a bowl and a silver soup spoon, a glass of juice and even a small vase with some wildflower buds in it. There are always flowers. Did the groundskeeper do all this for me?

Crossing to the stove, I turn off the gas and quickly grab the bowl from the table and serve myself a generous portion of soup. It smells amazing, rich and savoury, with chunks of tender meat and colourful vegetables swimming in a golden broth. My mouth waters as I take my first spoonful, savouring the warmth spreading through me.

I flip through a newspaper I find on one of the counters as I eat. I used to hate eating alone, but I grew used to it after Carver came into our lives. They were always out to dinner or charity events or political conferences.

The front page story is about a missing woman in London, and when I glance at her picture she looks vaguely familiar. I brush my fingers over the woman's picture. She's pretty, with light brown hair. I tap the paper.

It's not her.

She's gone.

No more fancy dinners.

I decide the missing woman, Lucy Jones, is a stranger. It was only her eyes – blue eyes that for a moment, at first glance, reminded me of my mother.

The food is delicious, and I quickly find myself draining the contents, my spoon making a small noise as it clatters against the rim of the bowl. It was the best thing I"ve tasted in so long, and I have to stop myself from going up for seconds. I learned my lesson with the pancakes, I need to pace myself.

After rinsing the bowl and spoon, I decide to head out of the kitchen to explore a little more – the kitchen isn't the only room I've neglected during my stay here. I've barely seen beyond my bedroom and the route I take to the solarium and so, with a renewed sense of energy after the comforting soup, I wander through the corridors, amazed at the grandeur of the manor house.

The high ceilings and intricate woodwork are breathtaking, and while large parts of it have fallen into disrepair, I can see how it must have looked. The faded, peeling wallpaper with weaving flowers and animal patterns would have been beautiful once upon a time, and the ornate furniture may be worn or wonky now, but it wasn't always like that. I poke my head into what appears to be storage rooms, a mud room, and a room that contains more crockery than I've ever seen in my life. They don't interest me, so I continue down the long corridor.

Portraits and art line the walls, like patchworks of dusty faces. It isn't until I stop, and gently try to wipe the grime from one that I realise that the paintings are macabre. Faces fade into skulls, mouths are open in silent screams, bugs pour from crevices, while vines burst out of chests. Whoever hung these down the corridor must have had an unusual sense of taste.

The hairs on my arm rise, and somewhere in the house, there's a thud. It's as if the very walls are whispering secrets to each other as I pass by.

Which is crazy.

"Silly girl," I mutter as I try to shake the feeling of being watched. "There are no such things as ghosts or monsters."

If there were….

Then she would have haunted me. She would have taken any form. Driven me mad. I begged her not to leave me in this abyss. But even as I peer down the dimly lit corridor, I know I won't find her here.

Silence.

There's a stillness that starts to feel oppressive, like a weight on my chest. I reach out for a door to my left, only to find it locked. I rattle the handle, trying to turn the antique knob again but it doesn't budge. Glancing around, I realise I've wandered near the west wing of the house.

Didn't Carver say something about this wing? Remember, Ari. I rack my brain, but nothing comes back to me.

With a glance over my shoulder that reveals nothing but an empty corridor, I decide to go in search of the groundsman, eager for some human interaction in this quiet, sprawling estate.

Turning right, I follow a narrow, smaller corridor that leads deeper into another unknown part of the house, not towards an exit like I thought it would. Dust motes dance in the shafts of pale evening light that filter through the windows, casting an eerie shadow over everything they touch. The air feels heavier here, thick with age and secrets long forgotten.

As I round a corner, a sudden draft from an open window at the end of the hall sends shivers down my spine. Peering through the glass, the grounds stretch out before me, bathed in the soft light of the evening. The trees sway in the breeze, their long shadows stretching across the lawn like hands reaching for the house.

Like the manor, the gardens surrounding the buildings are in various states. The lawn out the front and towards the trees is cut and carefully manicured, giving the illusion of order and wealth to anyone travelling down the winding road to the courtyard.

But behind the house, towards the cove and deeper into the forestry, it"s an overgrown wilderness. There are ruins, crumbling walls and pillars. There's even a tower wrapped in vines with half the roof collapsed and no way inside. Flowers grow wild, escaping their beds and claiming their place amongst the rubble.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a movement near the treeline. Squinting against the dying light, I make out a figure standing among the shadows.

It's not the groundsman.

The figure steps deeper into the trees and vanishes from sight and a chill prickles over my skin.

Who was that? And why are they on our land?

Heart pounding, I hesitate for a moment, unsure of what to do. Should I investigate or find the groundskeeper? I make a split-second decision to follow the figure into the trees, swallowing my fear as I turn on my heel and retrace my steps back to the main part of the house and towards the front door.

Locked.

Frustration rises within me, but then I have a sudden moment of clarity. Carver would never risk being trapped inside this ‘dusty old tomb' as he once called it. I search the hallway and find a small stone bowl on the windowsill beside the door, and under it is the key to the door.

I quickly unlock it and step outside. The cool evening air wraps around me, making me shudder and wrap my arms around myself. The figure is nowhere to be seen, but faint rustling comes from deeper within the woods. With cautious steps and painfully aware of my bare, only just healed feet, I navigate through the tangled undergrowth, each snap of a twig underfoot making me flinch.

The trees loom overhead, their branches twisting like gnarled fingers reaching out to grab me. Shadows dance around me as the light plays tricks on my eyes. I call out, my voice small and insignificant in the vast expanse of the forest.

"Who dares trespass on this land?" The harsh voice hisses, echoing through the trees as if carried by unseen hands.

I freeze in place, heart thundering in my ears.

"I-I meant no harm…" I manage to stammer out, my terrified voice barely above a whisper. Silence follows my words, broken only by the rustling of leaves in the wind.

And then, out of the darkness steps a figure cloaked in shadows, their features obscured by the dim light filtering through the canopy above. The air grows colder around me as they approach, their presence exuding an aura of power and danger. I take a step back, my instincts screaming at me to run, but something holds me in place.

"Miss?" I blink as the menacing voice sounds confused. "What are you doing out here?"

The figure steps closer. It's the groundskeeper. And he's armed with a terrifying-looking shotgun.

"What's that for?" I squeak, nodding to the gun and ignoring his question.

"Can't be too careful out here, Miss."

He lowers the shotgun and studies me with a furrowed brow, as if trying to decide whether I'm friend or foe. I can sense the tension radiating off him, and it makes me nervous. How could he mistake me for a threat?

"I saw something…someone." I explain quickly, gesturing vaguely toward the direction where I had seen the figure vanish. Darkness has closed in quickly, and in the distance I spot the house, the lights like a dim beacon.

The groundsman's expression softens slightly as he processes my words.

"No one should be on this land without permission," he mutters more to himself than to me as he glances around wearily.

"You should go back inside," he says finally, gesturing for me to follow him. "Not safe out here after dark."

I fall into step behind him in silence, following him back to my crumbling cage. Once we are back inside, he heads towards the kitchen while I settle into one of the plush armchairs in one of the drawing rooms.

Despite the lingering unease from my encounter in the woods, I feel a sense of peace wash over me as I listen to the groundsman pottering around in the kitchen.

He returns with his hands full with two steaming mugs of tea.

"Here, drink this. It'll calm your nerves," he says, handing me one of the mugs. I wrap my hands around it, letting the warmth seep into my cold fingers.

He places his tea on the side before he bends down and starts a fire in the sooty hearth. The sparks quickly catch, and it isn't long before there's a small fire crackling away merrily, casting a warm glow over the ornate armchairs and worn rug.

"Thank you," I murmur gratefully, taking a sip of the fragrant tea. It tastes of chamomile and honey. Perfect.

The groundskeeper settles back into a chair opposite me, his gaze studying my face, forehead furrowed. "You shouldn't wander off on your own here, Miss. There are dangerous things in these woods."

I raise an eyebrow at his cryptic words, curiosity piqued once again. "Like wild animals?"

He hesitates for a moment before speaking. "Hmpf. Wild creatures. And spirits. Demons. They roam these grounds at night, seeking to protect what belongs to them."

I swallow. "Spirits?"

He nods solemnly. "Aye. Those who once called this estate home. Restless souls still linger here, guarding their secrets from prying eyes."

The air in the room has been sucked out, and I struggle to catch my breath.

"Do you believe in ghosts?"

The groundskeeper's gaze flickers to a dark corner of the room before returning to me. "I've seen things that I can't explain, Miss. Things that would make your blood run cold."

Despite the warmth of the drink and the fire, I tremble.

The groundskeeper leans in closer, his voice dropping to a hushed whisper. "The people in town say it's spirits seeking revenge for past wrongs, while others think they are simply lost souls searching for peace. But I know better. I know evil lurks here."

I can't tear my gaze away from him, captivated by his words and the conviction in his eyes. "Have you ever seen one of these spirits?" I ask.

His eyes darken, a haunted look passing over his weathered features.

"Aye, I have," he admits quietly. "Sometimes I hear screams, lamentations carried in the breeze. I've felt their icy touch in the dead of night. Things move but there ain't no one there."

I hug my mug of tea closer for comfort. The crackling of the fire seems to echo the pounding of my heart in the heavy silence that settles over the room.

As if sensing my unease, the groundsman rises from his seat and stokes the fire, and we watch for a moment as the flames lick at the wood logs.

"You should retire for the night," he suggests gently. "I'll be along shortly with your medicine, Miss."

As I make my way up the grand staircase to my bedroom, the creaking floorboards beneath my feet seem to echo in the stillness of the house. The groundsman's words about spirits and lost souls linger in my mind. Was I just another lost soul, wandering around this huge house?

Once inside my room, I close the heavy oak door behind me and draw the velvet curtains shut against the darkness outside. I quickly change into my nightgown and settle into the plush covers of the four-poster bed, feeling a strange mix of exhaustion and apprehension.

As I lie there in the silence, my thoughts drift back to the encounter in the woods and the mysterious figure I had seen. Who was it? And why did they vanish into thin air at the groundsman's appearance?

Just as sleep begins to tug at my eyelids, there is a soft knock on my door, causing me to startle in bed.

"Come in," I call out, knowing that it's just the groundsman.

The door creaks open slowly, revealing the groundsman standing in the doorway with a small tray in hand.

"I brought your medicine," he says softly, setting the tray down on my bedside table. The flickering candlelight casts eerie shadows on his weathered features, making him appear older than before.

"I don't want them," I blurt out before I can stop myself, surprising even me with my defiance as he holds out the tablets.

"It's for your own good, Miss," he insists, his voice gentle but firm. The groundsman's gaze meets mine, his eyes shining with a mixture of concern and something else I can't quite decipher.

Reluctantly, I reach out to take the pills from him, my fingers brushing against his roughened hand. A jolt of electricity shoots through me at the contact, and I jerk my hand back as if burned.

The groundsman's expression remains impassive as he watches me closely, as if waiting for something. I reach for my glass of water on the bedside table, considering what I can do.

"Drink up," he urges quietly.

I lift the cup to my lips, hesitating for a moment before taking a small sip of the cool liquid.

"Best take them, Miss," he says nodding to my fist where the tablets are nestled.

I jerk my head in response. Shit. I shouldn't have said anything.

I really don't want to take these tablets. I shift the covers, uncomfortable. Maybe I can just take one? That might not be so bad?

A loud bang sounds from outside causing us both to jump, and I spill some of the water.

"What the—" The groundsman rushes to the window and peers through the small gap in the curtains, looking for the source of the disturbance outside.

Seizing the opportunity, I drop the tablets into my lap before readjusting the covers and mime placing the pills into my mouth as he starts to turn back around.

I shudder, pantomime swallowing, and take a large gulp of water. I suppress a grimace, forcing myself to finish it under the groundsman's watchful gaze. As I set the cup back on the bedside table, a wave of guilt washes over me.

What if I really do need the medicine to get better?

I hate them. They make everything cloudy, fuzzy. I'm not myself here.

But…am I hurting myself by missing two doses today? Am I making everything worse? Is that even possible?

The groundsman's eyes never leave mine, and there's a knowing glint in there that makes me recoil.

"Thank you," I manage to say, my voice sounding distant and muffled in my own ears.

He nods, his lips quirking into a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Rest well, Miss. I'll be just outside if you need anything."

With that, he turns and exits the room, leaving me alone.

I lie back against the pillows, feeling my heart thumping in my throat. My thoughts drift and I struggle to stay awake, but there's no fighting the exhaustion I feel all the way to my core.