Chapter 9

Irub my eyes, finding myself wandering through a twisted maze of corridors that seem to shift and change before me. Shadows flit at the edge of my vision, darting out of sight whenever I try to focus.

Whispers echo in the darkness, the words unintelligible. Out of reach. Tugging on parts of my brain, lingering on the tip of my tongue.

Bitterness.

A cold breeze sweeps through the corridors, carrying with it the scent of decay and forgotten memories. Dead petals crunch and crackle under my feet like pin pricks on my skin.

Where am I? What is this?

I keep going as if an unseen force is guiding my steps, leading me deeper into the labyrinth. Heart pounding, I quicken my pace, desperation lending speed to my weary limbs.

The whispers grow louder, morphing into anguished cries that seem to reverberate through the very air around me.

Panic claws at my chest, threatening to overwhelm me as I realise I am hopelessly lost in this dark, shifting realm.

Just when I feel like I can't take another moment of this nightmare, a faint light appears in the distance.

It flickers like a beckoning flame, drawing me towards it with an irresistible pull. The warm glow hidden behind a huge door casts long shadows on the walls, revealing intricate carvings and symbols etched into the ancient stone. They dance before my eyes, their meaning just beyond the reach of my understanding.

And yet, a strange familiarity tugs at the edges of my memory, as though I have seen these shapes before in a dream long forgotten.

Keep going.

With each step towards the light, the air grows thicker, heavy with a sense of foreboding that settles deep within my bones. The anguished wails now swirl around me like a tumultuous storm, threatening to consume me whole if I falter.

Don't stop.

And then, as I reach out a trembling hand to touch the heavy wooden door before me, I'm jolted awake.

My breath comes in ragged gasps as I try to calm the thundering in my chest. The remnants of the dream cling to me like cobwebs, refusing to be swept away by the light of consciousness.

I seek solace in the mundane details that ground me in reality. This is my bed. My dressing table. There's the plant with my pills buried deep in the soil.

But as my gaze falls upon the heavy wooden door that stands ajar across the room, a chill runs down my spine.

I'm sure the groundsman closed it behind him. Didn't he?

Tendrils of fear unfurl in the pit of my stomach but curiosity wars within me, urging me to confront whatever lies beyond the threshold. With trembling limbs, I climb out of my bed.

Taking hesitant steps, I shuffle towards the door, and the air seems to grow colder with each footfall. A whisper brushes against my ear.

"Come," it breathes, a spectral voice that seems to echo from beyond the veil of reality.

This isn't real.

This is the result of the groundsman's stories. And stories are all they are.

There's no such thing as spirits.

Monsters don't exist.

There's nothing out there that can hurt you…

Choking, I wake, sitting bolt upright in bed, struggling to catch my breath.

What on earth was that?

I wipe my brow with the back of my hand and it comes away wet. I'm soaked, my nightgown sticking to my legs when I try to kick off the covers.

What a horrible dream. A cool breeze caresses my skin and I shiver even as I welcome it.

That's when I notice the drapes stirring in the breeze coming from the open window. What is going on?

The door is also open…just like in my dream.

I glance around the room, letting the early morning light chase away the remnant shadows of the dream.

The open window draws my attention like a magnet and as I approach, my eyes land on something beyond the windowpane.

The manor house had been built hundreds of years ago, and expanded over the centuries. My room looks out across the moors towards the sea, but it also overlooked other parts of the house.

There, perched on the edge of a sill almost directly opposite my room, is another gargoyle statue. With a mixture of awe and wonder, I lean closer, studying the intricate details of the statue's craftsmanship.

Its eyes, though carved from unyielding stone, seem to gleam with a hint of warmth, as though they hold some hidden secret waiting to be uncovered.

It's not scary or fearsome like the bathroom gargoyle was. This one seems…softer somehow. Gentler. To my surprise, the gargoyle's expression seems to shift, its stony features softening even further.

Driven by an impulse I can't quite explain, I push the window open wider and lean out onto the ledge. The gargoyle gazes down at me with a steady, unwavering gaze, its presence somehow comforting.

"Miss? It's time for your medicine," the groundskeeper calls as he climbs the staircase.

I snort to myself. Warm gargoyles?

Maybe I really am crazy.

Mr. Danvers left after giving me my pills this morning, grumbling about going into town. I'm strangely grateful for my nightmare, because he didn't stand over me this time, clearly thinking that I'd be docile and exhausted.

I'm feeling more like myself than I have in a long time. And so, the plant pot is hiding yet another secret in the dirt and I'm dressed in another pretty dress. This one stops just before my knees and is a pale buttery colour.

Once Mr. Danver's Jeep vanishes down the long driveway into the woods, my morning is only getting better.

I make my way downstairs, where I find a container of yoghurt and fresh fruit in the fridge with my name scrawled on a scrap of paper stuck to the lid. Delicious.

Then Carver calls, leaving a message to say that he is going to be delayed in London for the rest of the week. He tells me to behave, listen to the groundskeeper and most importantly…take my meds like a good little princess.

I'm glad I'm not expected to speak to him, I'm reluctant to give him more of my words when I'm only just starting to get them back. I'm not going to swallow anything other than the food in the fridge.

My appetite is coming back with a vengeance, and after spending a few hours wandering around the huge rooms, I find myself back in the kitchen making a late lunch.

It's strange, cooking after so long, so I turn on a small radio, ignoring the news of a missing woman in Devon, and an octopus who escaped a zoo, as I season some chicken breasts and make a simple salad.

After eating my fill, I make myself strawberry tea and wander around the solarium while my food settles before coming back into the kitchen. Rinsing my empty mug and washing up the dishes I used to make my lunch, I decide it's time to venture back outside.

Last night I'd let the groundsman get inside my head, filling the shadows with monsters and ghouls until I was half crazed with fear.

I'm sick of fear. I am always afraid. It's a familiar friend these days. Why?

Finding a pair of wellies that look small enough for me in the mud room, I unlock the back door and start walking.

I don't know where I'm heading. I don't have a plan. I just…walk.

The afternoon sun sits high in the sky, and the air is mild, the breeze cool on my bare legs and arms. I always loved early summer, the heat soaking into my skin without it being uncomfortably hot. Splashes of colour stretch out across the overgrown gardens, wildflowers claiming every fertile patch of land they can. Last night everything was terrifying, but today it's like another world as birds chirp and butterflies dance from flower to flower.

I avoid the maze, memories of my dream making my skin break out in goosebumps. Instead, I wander through the grass, which gets longer and longer until it practically reaches my waist, following the curve of the coastline until I'm on the edge of the forest.

Large flagstones peek out of the shadows, mostly covered over with moss and weeds, and I scramble up to stand on the first stone. More and more are revealed until I realise that it's a pathway, swallowed up by nature.

Curious, I jump gingerly across onto the next stone, testing the soreness in my muscles as I go. Then the next. And the next. Until I reach the remnants of a stone wall, crumbling and buried. As I follow the trail, more ruins emerge.

I break through some thick undergrowth and almost fall face first into a clearing.

It must have been a family chapel, I realise, as shafts of sunlight beam through faded shards of glass. Only one wall remains, and that is hardly more than a shell with arched windows and fragments of stained glass. The other three walls are buried in mounds of greenery, completely crumbled or simply gone.

The huge trees bend and sway, seeming to cocoon the space, enveloping it in a cosy embrace, keeping it safe from the rest of the world. I wonder why it was built out here on the edge of the estate, so far from the house.

So far from everything.

There's a small collection of grassy mounds to the side of the chapel, and it takes me a moment to work out that they're headstones. In the middle of it all, is another gargoyle.

With a sense of surrealism settling over me, I reach out to stroke the gargoyle's weathered stone form, tracing the intricate patterns carved into the plinth it rests upon.

This one is nowhere near as fearsome as the one outside the bathroom. Its mouth is closed, almost curling at the edges in a friendly smile, and its horns are much shorter. It sounds silly to say, this one seems smoother…softer than the other. Even though they're both clearly made of stone. It's newer looking too, not as weather-beaten as the other.

As my fingers brush against the rough texture of its wings, I feel a strange connection forming between us, as though we share some unspoken bond.

There's peace here. The solid stone figure is cool beneath my fingertips, and something about that makes my worries melt away like an early morning mist.

With a contented sigh, I lean against the gargoyle's sturdy frame. I'd read once that gargoyles were created for protection and to ward off evil spirits. For a moment, I imagine being enveloped by its protective embrace, shielded from the things that go bump in the night.

Sitting down on the soft grass beside one of the headstones, I brush away some of the covering moss. The details are now indistinguishable due to age and exposure to the elements, but once upon a time, someone would have mourned their loss where I'm now sitting.

The headstone itself stands weathered and solemn, a silent sentinel amidst the wildflowers and tangled vines, much like the gargoyle. I follow the engraved features with trembling fingers, feeling the stone beneath my touch.

Memories flicker in the recesses of my mind, elusive, like wisps of smoke. I think I can recall the funeral. A sea of sombre faces, the scent of lilies mingling with the earthy aroma of freshly turned soil. But what's real or imagined? Is it a false memory from something I saw in a show once?

Beyond that, there's a void. Only a blank space where clarity should reside. Did we gather around a graveside, tears mingling with raindrops as we said our final goodbyes? Or was it the sterile silence of a crematorium?

The uncertainty gnaws at me, a persistent ache in the depths of my soul. It disturbs me, not knowing where she rests.

Being unable to remember.

To visit her.

I long for closure, for the memories of laying her to rest. But most of all I yearn to apologise for that night…

Fatigue washes over me in gentle waves, pulling me under.

The cool grass is soft beneath my palms as I run them back and forth over the ticklish fronds.

Daisies dot the greenery with their cheery white petals and joyous yellow centres. They bring a smile to my lips. Plucking and weaving, I make daisy chains with trembling hands.

I remember the laughter, the whispered secrets shared between mother and daughter, before she became too important for simple things like daisy chains. Each delicate blossom becomes a tether to the past, a fragile thread connecting me to memories of her.

"I miss you," I murmur, into the void. Unsure if I mean the way she was when she died, or the mother she was before Carver. Maybe both. "I wish I could remember…"

Part of me feels weird talking to a gravestone that clearly isn't hers, but at the same time, it's nice to be using my voice again. Who else do I have to talk to?

"I miss you," I whisper to the wind. "I miss…you…"

My chest pangs as I swallow a sob and decide that now isn't the time for apologies. Instead, I think about telling her about my day, my new life – but when I open my mouth, the words won't come.

What is there to say? I sleep the days away or listlessly drift around among the dying plants in the solarium. What sort of life is this? I have no friends.

No belongings.

No hobbies.

No future.

No voice.

"I feel better today," I say, swallowing.

The realisation that her death, that Carver, has stripped me of my whole identity but especially my voice, makes me obstinate to use it. I cling to the daisy chains like a lifeline, seeking solace in their delicate simplicity.

"It's beautiful here. When the sun sets."

My words dissolve into a yawn, my eyelids growing heavy with exhaustion. The events of the day – more than I've managed to achieve in months – weigh on me like a leaden cloak.

"I want to be strong enough to make it to the beach one day." Yawn. "It will be lovely in summer. Maybe I could go swimming…"

The sun must have dipped lower in the sky, as broken shafts of fading light cast long shadows across the landscape, and I surrender to the pull of oblivion. The world fades away, and I drift into dreams, guided by the gentle lullaby of rustling leaves and distant birdsong. And for a fleeting moment, amidst the tangle of memories and forgotten dreams, I find peace, knowing that the gargoyle statue will keep me safe.