CHAPTER 1: The Frozen Threshold
The wind had teeth that day, biting through wool and skin as Eva stepped from the idling taxi. Gravel crunched underfoot—an unfamiliar, sharp sound in the hush of frostbitten morning. She hesitated, suitcase dangling from her hand, staring up at the house she’d avoided for so many years it hardly seemed real anymore. The Duncannon manor perched on its rise above the moor, stone walls mottled with lichen and shadow, windows dull and blind. Smoke curled thinly from a single chimney; otherwise, it might have been uninhabited.
The driver set her other bag down beside her boots with a grunt and muttered something about weather before clambering back into warmth. He reversed down the long drive without waiting for thanks. Eva watched his taillights blink red against trees blurred by sleet—already regretting letting him go.
She turned to face the threshold. The front door—a heavy slab of warped oak studded with ironwork—remained shut as if daring her to enter. Her key was cold between gloved fingers; she pressed it home out of habit rather than hope, feeling the familiar catch as she twisted. It gave way with a reluctant groan.
Inside: darkness layered over memory. The scent hit first—damp wood and something older beneath it, lingering traces of polish failing to mask mildew or rot. She paused just inside the vestibule, letting numbness seep from her bones while she listened to silence settle around her like dust.
A shape moved beyond the archway—a woman’s voice called out, sharp with authority: “Shut that door before we lose all the heat.” Marta.
Eva obeyed automatically, closing off another avenue of escape before setting bags on worn tile streaked by muddy footprints. Her own? Lila’s? Someone else’s? She couldn’t say.
Marta appeared at once: tall in black cashmere, hair swept back too tightly to look comfortable—a deliberate display of composure. “You’re late,” she said.
“There was ice on the roads.” Eva shed her gloves slowly; her fingers stung when exposed to air.
Marta didn’t move aside or offer help with luggage—she simply stared at Eva as if searching for cracks in an old wall that needed shoring up. “Your sister arrived last night.”
“Where is she?”
“In your father’s study.” Marta’s eyes flicked past Eva toward some point deeper in shadowy hallways—as though there might be eavesdroppers even now.
Eva left suitcase and coat where they fell and crossed into the main hall—a cavernous space whose marble floors gleamed faintly beneath a tarnished chandelier struggling against gray daylight filtering through stained glass above the landing. Portraits lined both walls: stern faces painted centuries ago peering down as if expecting confession.
She almost didn’t recognize Lila at first: smaller than memory suggested, bundled inside an oversized sweater whose cuffs covered trembling hands wrapped around a mug of tea gone cold on one armchair’s frayed armrest.
Lila looked up when Eva entered; uncertainty flashed across features still soft with youth but marked now by sleeplessness or grief—or both. “You made it,” she whispered.
Something loosened in Eva’s chest then—the tightness that had wound itself since Glasgow station—but all she managed was a nod before sitting opposite Lila on an ancient settee whose springs creaked under new weight.
Neither spoke for a moment; outside wind rattled windowpanes like coins shaken in cupped hands.
“It feels…smaller,” Lila said finally, gaze fixed somewhere behind Eva’s shoulder where ancestral faces loomed half-lit above dust motes swirling slow-motion in drafts from unseen cracks.
“Colder too,” Eva replied quietly—and not only because radiators clicked uselessly along baseboards.
They sat together within that echoing emptiness until footsteps approached again—measured this time—not Marta but Angus McCrae emerging from some hidden corridor off the kitchens. His beard bristled white against ruddy cheeks; he smelled faintly of peat smoke and leather gloves drying by open flame somewhere unseen.
“Morning,” he greeted them softly—voice softened further by distance or deference or sorrow hard to name outright after so many years tending this place through births and deaths alike. He carried two logs under one arm and nodded toward fireplace laid but unlit between sisters’ seats. “Best get this going before you freeze.”
He knelt stiffly beside hearthstone and began stacking logs atop kindling already arranged there—striking match after match until flame caught at last and shadows retreated enough for faces to seem less ghostlike above flickering orange glow.
Lila tucked legs beneath herself on chair too big for comfort; Angus lingered just long enough to ask whether they’d eaten (“Not hungry,” said Lila) before disappearing again down labyrinthine halls humming tunelessly beneath his breath—a sound oddly reassuring amidst all else unfamiliar here now.
Afterward Marta reappeared briefly bearing paperwork clamped beneath one arm like armor—probate forms perhaps—or some fresh decree about household rules none dared challenge yet aloud—not today anyway—with funeral service only hours past still echoing hollow among pews no one wanted filled again soon. She did not sit nor offer condolences anew but instead catalogued practicalities (rooms assigned upstairs; breakfast times strict lest pipes freeze) then vanished once more leaving behind perfume sharp enough to sting eyes unused lately to such presence here among faded tartans and moth-eaten velvet drapes drawn tight against dusk already gathering beyond clouded panes despite early hour still marked only midmorning by carriage clock ticking unevenly atop mantelpiece below portrait of their father aged forty-five forever unsmiling there above them all even now gone away forevermore into ground no softer than hearts left beating out time within these walls bereft of anything resembling warmth except what little could be coaxed from fire newly kindled there between sisters who could not quite meet each other’s eyes without flinching away from truths neither wished spoken yet aloud lest silence break apart entirely leaving nothing left worth saving after all this time spent turning away instead of coming home sooner than necessary ever seemed possible until today arrived unwelcome upon doorstep none could refuse any longer whatever else remained unsaid tonight or tomorrow either alike as snow gathering unseen beyond shuttered glass awaiting darkness certain soon enough regardless what doors were locked or lamps kept burning overnight against chill settling deeper every hour now winter proper begun at last upon moorland far below empty rooms echoing footfalls grown cautious already though reason why must wait until later for naming if ever dared speak truth aloud together someday perhaps—
A sudden knock broke through recollection like splintering ice on pond barely frozen over: three quick raps distinct amid quiet meant nothing welcome waited outside just yet—not here—not tonight certainly—
Eva rose despite herself drawn toward vestibule again pulse quickening without reason ready named afraid somehow what waited beyond frost-glazed glass would know secrets left buried too deep inside house colder than grave itself no matter how many fires lit within…
CHAPTER 2: ‘Restless Spirits’
The front door had not been properly closed. A draft slipped through the gap, carrying the cold deeper into the house, twisting up under Eva’s collar as she knelt in the main hall and fumbled to wedge her father’s battered umbrella into the stand. Lila stood a few feet away, shivering despite her thick jumper, with a plastic bag of groceries clutched to her chest like some fragile offering.
Outside, wind scraped branches across stone. The sky was already bruising toward dusk though it wasn’t yet four; every window was rimmed with condensation. Marta’s footsteps echoed overhead—sharp, decisive—then faded as a door slammed upstairs.
Eva straightened and tried to draw warmth from memory—a trick she’d practiced in colder climates—but nothing here lent itself to comfort. The manor’s high ceiling pressed down, and behind every shadow there seemed a shape waiting for permission to move.
“I’ll put these away,” Lila said softly, voice frayed at the edges. She hesitated at the threshold of the kitchen as if expecting something or someone to block her path.
“Leave them on the table,” Eva replied. “It’s freezing in there.”
Lila nodded but disappeared anyway, shoes whispering over flagstones dusted with grit from outside. Eva was left staring at portraits: dour men and pale women gazing down through centuries of frostbitten winters. Her father’s face wasn’t among them yet—the newest photograph sat awkwardly atop an old sideboard still cluttered with condolence cards no one had opened.
Behind her, something rattled against glass—a loose pane? Or perhaps just nerves pulling at muscle and bone.
She crossed to draw the curtains tighter when there came a knock at the door: three measured raps that sounded too deliberate for any neighbor caught by chance in this weather.
Eva hesitated before opening it wide enough for Elsbeth Grant to slip inside—a wisp of a woman bundled beneath layers of wool, cheeks pink from windburn and hair wild under her rain-stained hat.
“Lord above!” Elsbeth exclaimed without preamble, stamping muddy boots on the mat. “That road gets worse every year—should have brought my sled instead of that wretched car.”
Her arms were loaded: bread wrapped in tea towels; a flask; tins stacked precariously together with twine.
“I told you we had food,” Eva said automatically, but Elsbeth only waved her off and bustled past into warmth that didn’t exist.
“No sense leaving your stomachs empty after a burial.” She eyed Eva sidelong then scanned what little she could see of their faces—the lines drawn tight around Lila’s mouth as she reappeared from the kitchen doorway; Eva herself trying not to recoil from kindness poorly timed.
Elsbeth set everything down with efficiency born of years tending other people’s griefs. Her hands shook as she unwrapped each item but she pressed forward regardless—pouring milky tea into chipped mugs without asking if anyone wanted any.
“You’ll want this tonight,” she said quietly over steam curling between them all. “Storm coming again—they say it’ll be worse than last week.” Her gaze flickered upward toward creaking rafters before settling on Lila. “Best keep candles close.”
Eva watched Marta descend halfway down the staircase then stop abruptly when she saw their visitor—her expression shuttered behind civility so brittle it might snap if brushed wrong.
“We’re well provided for,” Marta said coolly from above. “But thank you all the same.”
Elsbeth offered no apology nor explanation for intruding on private mourning; instead, she reached out and cupped Lila’s wrist gently where it rested beside an unopened tin of soup. “The house never did like being empty,” she murmured so low it barely carried beyond their small circle. “Your father knew how noise kept shadows thin.”
Eva felt Marta bristle—a ripple running through fabric and air alike—but before either sister could reply Elsbeth launched into practicalities: where extra blankets could be found (“try airing cupboards near back stairs”), which windows stuck in bad weather (“the one by old library always froze shut come November”).
Lila smiled wanly as if recalling childhood instructions whispered late at night while snow drifted against glass; Eva let herself be pulled along by details because anything was easier than thinking about what came next—the solicitor’s visit tomorrow or dividing keys between hands that would never trust each other again.
As Elsbeth repacked her basket, readying herself for return across darkening fields, silence fell heavy once more until Lila broke it—not quite meeting anyone’s eyes:
“Did you ever hear… strange things here? When you visited?”
The question hung uncertainly; even Marta stilled on step fourteen as though awaiting judgment from an invisible jury assembled in corners where cobwebs gathered secrets.
Elsbeth considered before answering—inhaling slow enough that they heard air catch behind teeth gone crooked with age:
“Some say these walls remember more than we do.” She fixed each woman in turn with watery blue eyes bright against stormlight filtering through stained glass above the doorframe. “Voices after midnight… footsteps crossing floors nobody walks anymore… Doors closing themselves when everyone swears they left them open.” A faint smile played at her lips—not quite comforting nor entirely mocking either fate or fear itself. “Restless spirits don’t always mean ghosts.”
The wind rose outside—a sudden shriek threading needles through gaps in stonework—and somewhere upstairs there came a thud like furniture shifting under its own weight.
No one moved except Angus McCrae materializing out of shadow near cellar steps—his cap pulled low against his brow, jacket streaked with mud from whatever chore he’d abandoned now that darkness pressed close outside every windowpane.
He cleared his throat quietly but didn’t speak until Elsbeth made to leave: “I’ll walk you back partway,” he offered gruffly—as much command as invitation—and together they vanished down gravel slicked black beneath sleet beginning to fall anew.
For several moments none of those left inside dared breathe too loudly lest sound invite something unseen out from behind ancient doors or up staircases winding higher than reason allowed.
Marta retreated wordlessly upstairs again; Eva busied herself gathering mugs though tea remained untouched in each one save hers—which trembled faintly between fingers numbed by more than mere coldness now settling deep within marrow and mind alike.
Lila hovered near fireless hearthstone tracing patterns into dust accumulated since last spring—when death had merely circled rather than entered outright—and glanced sideways toward shadows huddling along baseboards where echoes sometimes mimicked voices lost long ago:
“She used to tell me stories about this place,” Lila whispered finally when only soft ticking radiators answered back. “About things moving after midnight… I thought I’d grown out of believing them.”
Eva managed half a smile though sorrow soured its edge: “Maybe stories are all we have left.”
A floorboard popped somewhere overhead—deliberate enough neither woman pretended not to notice—and both looked up together into gloom coiling thicker around chandelier arms crusted white with ancient wax drippings…and waited without knowing what precisely they waited for next.
CHAPTER 3: ‘Shadows Deepen’
The storm had gnawed at the house all night, and now morning was a dull bruise pressed against the tall windows. Eva drifted through the hall, trailing her fingertips along the cold marble banister. The air tasted of dust, mingled with something older—ashes from forgotten fires, damp wool, a trace of floral perfume that might have belonged to her father’s last wife or some ghostly ancestor.
She paused by the gallery doors, listening for movement. Footsteps echoed above: Lila’s light tread, muffled by thick socks on warped boards. Somewhere deeper in the manor, pipes clanged as if protesting another day without warmth.
A door banged below. Marta’s voice rose up like frost breaking beneath a boot: “Angus! Is it working yet? It’s freezing in here.”
Eva pressed her palm to her own chest to steady its rhythm. She’d slept badly; dreams of locked rooms and unseen watchers lingered behind her eyes. She found herself both dreading and craving confrontation—a release after days spent swallowing words.
Downstairs in the main hall, she caught sight of Marta hunched near the radiator beneath an ancestral portrait: Lady Duncannon in starched black silk, eyes that could cut glass even from a century away. Marta wore one of their father’s heavy sweaters over leggings; despite its bulk she looked small and sharp-edged.
“It won’t start,” Angus muttered from his crouch beside the radiator. He was fiddling with ancient valves using pliers that had seen better centuries. His hands were red with cold.
“We can’t keep living like this,” Marta snapped, arms crossed tight around herself.
Eva cleared her throat softly as she entered—enough to announce herself but not enough to signal deference.
Marta turned, face set in lines sharpened by fatigue and suspicion. “You’re up early.”
“I never really slept.” Eva tried for neutrality but heard how brittle she sounded.
Lila appeared on the stairs behind her sister, wrapped in a patchwork shawl—one Eva recognized from childhood winters spent here alone while Lila lived elsewhere with their mother. Her hair tangled around her face; she blinked blearily at them all before descending two steps at a time.
“Any luck?” Lila asked Angus hopefully.
He shrugged without meeting anyone’s gaze. “Boiler wants coaxing today.”
“Or it wants replacing,” Marta said pointedly—to him or perhaps to no one at all.
They stood together awkwardly in the hall’s chill—three women claiming space under watchful painted eyes while Angus retreated into silence and tools clanked softly against metal.
Eva moved toward the sideboard where old letters still gathered dust beside tarnished candlesticks. “There must be portable heaters somewhere,” she offered quietly.
“In storage.” Marta didn’t look up from hugging herself tighter. “But half are broken and we’re running low on fuel for the rest.”
A silence grew between them—thick as fog rolling off moorland—with only Angus’ distant muttering filling its edges.
Lila shifted uneasily beside Eva, glancing toward Marta before speaking: “We should make an inventory—see what works before another storm hits.”
Marta gave a tired laugh that lacked humor. “By ‘we’ I suppose you mean me?”
Lila flushed but held her ground. “I meant all of us.”
Marta straightened abruptly—as if called to attention by some unspoken slight—and squared off across the frigid room with both sisters at once.
“You come back after years away,” she said flatly to Eva first then flicked her gaze at Lila, “and you—you never wanted anything to do with this place until now he’s gone.” Her lips twisted faintly; grief warred with something more venomous beneath her tone.
“That isn’t fair,” Lila shot back—but not loudly enough for conviction—and pulled her shawl closer around narrow shoulders.
Eva felt heat rise under her collar despite the icy air; anger—or maybe shame—that they were already fracturing so soon after burying him in frozen earth outside these walls.
“We’re just trying to help,” she managed quietly but firmly, meeting Marta’s glare head-on now. She saw exhaustion there—the kind born not just of sleepless nights but months (years?) spent fighting invisible battles inside echoing halls like these—but also steely calculation: What is mine? What will you take?
Marta snorted softly and turned away as though dismissing them both outright; yet Eva saw how tightly she gripped one cold brass knob on the radiator—as if anchoring herself physically lest something slip through trembling fingers.
“If you really want to help…” Marta began slowly without turning back “…then stay out of my way while I sort things out.”
Angus rose stiffly then cleared his throat—the sound startling after so much tension—and closed his battered toolbox with finality before heading out toward kitchens or sheds beyond view, leaving only women behind amid ancestral shadows stretching long across stone floors.
Wind rattled windowpanes above them; somewhere far off a clock chimed nine times though time itself seemed suspended here among old resentments growing sharper than frost along sills each passing hour since funeral dirt settled outside their doors.
Lila exhaled shakily into silence before gathering courage anew: “Moira Fraser called yesterday—I didn’t tell you because… well… You were busy.” She addressed this mostly to Eva but let it hang where Marta could catch every word if she wanted (of course she did). “She says probate will take weeks maybe longer—with holidays coming up—and we’ll need everyone present when documents are signed.”
At this news Marta finally spun round again—cheeks blotched with sudden color blooming under pale skin—and fixed both sisters in turn with dark unwavering eyes:
“Everyone present?” A bitter edge crept into each syllable as if biting down hard enough might draw blood from memory alone. “Convenient timing for you both then—to show up when there might be something left worth staying for?”
Her accusation hung unsaid yet unmistakable amid clouded breath curling upward like smoke; Eva felt it settle deep inside—a leaden weight pressing between ribs just where fear thrummed hardest since stepping foot over this threshold again last week:
What would my father have wanted?
It was ridiculous how little comfort that question brought now that he was gone—how useless any answer became when faced with living people bristling across faded tiles stacked high with unread mail and legal forms neither sister had touched since arriving back home-that-wasn’t-really-home-anymore except for ghosts who knew better than any lawyer what truly belonged here or ever would again—
“I’m not staying for money.” Eva heard herself say aloud before thinking better of it—voice trembling slightly but steadier than expected given everything churning inside still raw from loss layered atop years apart stitched together only by accident or necessity never true kinship—
But even as those words left her mouth part of Eva wondered what exactly *was* keeping her rooted here among chill corridors rather than fleeing southward toward city lights where nothing waited except absence—
“We don’t want your charity either,” Lila added suddenly—not quite looking at either woman now—as if hoping denial alone might erase years spent envying lives they’d never shared much less understood—
A harsh laugh escaped Marta then—the sound sharp enough to crack frost on windowsills—and she stalked past them both toward kitchen doors swinging wide enough behind heels striking hard against flagstones:
“You think any part of this is charity? Wait until bills come due next month—wait until villagers stop bringing food because they’ve heard too many stories about ghosts rattling chains upstairs!”
The door slammed after her—a tremor running through plaster walls like distant thunder rolling over hills outside—
Silence returned heavier than before: only ticking clock marking time neither sister seemed willing nor able yet to fill—
After several heartbeats filled solely by wind gnawing eaves overhead Lila spoke again barely above whisper:
“She hates us being here…”
Eva nodded numbly tracing veins along marble nearest hand wishing instead for fire warm enough burn regret clean away:
“She thinks we’ll take everything,” she murmured—not needing answer knowing already how grief could hollow trust until all that remained was suspicion shivering bone-deep inside every shadow cast too long by winter light slipping thin across empty rooms—
Outside another gust rattled glass so fiercely one pane cracked sharp enough echo through spine:
Somewhere within walls older than loyalty or law something else stirred awake waiting—for decision made not out love but survival alone—
And footsteps sounded faintly overhead again though none claimed them aloud just yet—not daring break spell holding house together moment longer before next storm descended thick upon roof hungry for secrets not easily buried beneath snow or stone or silence itself…
CHAPTER 4: Cold Reception
The morning after the storm, silence pressed against the walls so thickly Eva could hear her own heart thumping as she padded downstairs. The house felt colder than ever; frost feathered across the edges of every windowpane, and the radiators spat only half-hearted warmth. Somewhere above, a floorboard popped with the contraction of cold.
She found Marta already in the main hall—back ramrod-straight on one of those angular antique chairs that looked like they punished anyone for sitting too long. A faint tremor in Marta’s hand made her teacup clink softly against its saucer. Lila hovered by the mantelpiece, running a fingertip along a dusty family photograph and then wiping it absently on her jeans.
Eva’s eyes snagged on the solicitor’s briefcase set down beside Moira Fraser’s feet—a battered thing with brass corners dulled by decades of Highland damp. Moira herself was layered in tweed and tartan, spectacles perched low, eyes sharp as a rook’s. She seemed entirely at home among ghosts and draughts.
“Shall we begin?” Moira said, voice brisk as frostbite.
They gathered around an oval table beneath their father’s portrait—a grim-faced man glowering from under heavy brows. Eva remembered how he’d sit there himself once, hands folded over ledgers or letters no one else was permitted to read.
Moira clicked open her case and produced several yellowed folders and two envelopes sealed in red wax—the old-fashioned kind that left crumbs on your fingers when you cracked them open. “First,” she said, “the will.”
Marta shifted. Her perfume—sharp citrus overlaying something muskier—cut through the musty air like acid on iron. “We’ve all seen copies,” she said flatly.
“Yes,” Moira agreed, unsealing an envelope with deliberate care, “but you haven’t seen *my* copy.” She paused for effect before sliding out several typed sheets peppered with marginalia in their father’s hand—slanting script that even now seemed reluctant to reveal itself fully.
“The estate is to be divided according to this document,” Moira began, reading aloud: “‘To my daughters Eva Duncannon and Lila Duncannon I leave joint claim to my property known as Greystone Manor… save for all contents within my personal study and any items catalogued under ‘family trust assets,’ which shall pass directly to my wife Marta Duncannon.'” She glanced up over her glasses at each of them in turn.
Lila blinked rapidly; Eva heard rather than saw her swallow hard.
“But what does ‘joint claim’ mean?” Marta demanded. Her voice had a brittle edge—a glass about to crack under pressure.
Moira’s mouth twisted wryly. “It means neither daughter has full rights without agreement from the other—or from yourself as executor of his personal effects.”
A log settled noisily in the fireplace; Lila startled so visibly Eva almost reached out to steady her but stopped short, unsure if touch would comfort or inflame right now.
“So none of us can act alone?” Eva asked quietly.
“In essence,” said Moira, “you’re bound together until such time as you reach consensus—or until further legal challenge untangles matters.” She shuffled papers again; dust motes danced through slats of pale light struggling through leaded windows.
A clock somewhere ticked off seconds between shallow breaths.
Marta leaned forward so abruptly her chair legs scraped marble. “He promised me this house outright,” she hissed at Moira—not quite looking at either sister but aiming venom somewhere between them both. “I cared for him here while they lived their lives elsewhere.”
“That may be true emotionally,” Moira replied evenly, “but legally—”
“I know what he intended!” Marta snapped back.
Eva watched Lila shrink into herself by inches; remembered childhood afternoons spent tiptoeing around grown-up arguments echoing through rooms just like this one—except then it was Mother versus Father instead of three women knotted together by grief and suspicion.
“Marta.” It surprised everyone—even herself—that Eva spoke next: measured but ironclad beneath fatigue. “No one doubts you were here for him.” Her gaze flickered toward Lila; uncertainty pooled there like water behind thin ice. “But whatever he meant isn’t what he wrote.”
For a moment only wind rattling distant panes answered them all.
Moira closed her folder with finality that sounded perilously close to doom: “Until agreement is reached or challenged in court—which could take months—you’ll need to cohabit peacefully.”
Lila gave a small laugh that had nothing warm inside it. “Peaceful? With us?”
The electricity hiccupped overhead—the lights dimmed then brightened again—and all three women flinched involuntarily as though someone unseen had brushed past behind them.
“Is there anything else?” Marta asked sharply into the hush—her face pale except for two high spots of color blooming angrily on each cheekbone.
“I suggest you read these documents thoroughly,” Moira said blandly, sliding duplicate packets across polished wood toward each woman with bureaucratic finality—as if distributing weapons before battle rather than legal paperwork—but nobody moved immediately to touch them.
Eva realized she was holding herself rigid against cold leaking up through stone floors into marrow; her fingers numb where they gripped chair arms carved smooth by generations who’d sat tense here before them all. Across from her Lila huddled deeper into an oversized cardigan—the kind their mother used to wear—and stared at nothing just past Marta’s shoulder while outside sleet lashed invisible furrows across empty lawns beyond fogged glass.
With business concluded—or at least stalemated—Moira stood briskly and collected her coat without ceremony or small talk: professional boundaries drawn tight against familial rot seeping out between every word spoken here today. They let themselves drift apart silently after she left—the sisters gravitating toward opposite corners while Marta lingered near ancestral portraits as if drawing strength from painted ancestors who might have preferred cleaner lines of inheritance than this muddled snarl left behind by deathbed indecision and too many secrets kept too long underground.
Later stillness reigned thicker than ever despite occasional groans from ancient pipes somewhere deep inside walls dense enough to muffle screams if anyone bothered listening closely enough tonight.
When darkness finally fell early—as it always did these days—it brought not just night but a palpable sense that something essential had shifted forever within these rooms.
At midnight came another knock at the door: insistent this time—a presence demanding entry no matter how bitterly unwelcome it might prove.
CHAPTER 5: ‘Echoes in Empty Rooms’
The house held its breath after dusk, every corridor a hush of old dust and the faint sigh of the radiators as they cooled. Eva stood at the foot of the main staircase, one hand tracing the faded groove in the banister—a mark she remembered from childhood, though the memory itself was blurred. Lila’s laughter had echoed off these walls once, high and shrill; now only her footsteps drifted through distant rooms.
It was nearly seven o’clock. Outside, night pressed heavy against leaded panes, snow falling in thick veils that muffled even the wind. The hall smelled faintly of wet wool and woodsmoke—the fire Marta insisted on keeping in the drawing room left a sour tang that clung to skin and clothes alike. Somewhere overhead a pipe ticked.
Eva adjusted her cardigan tighter around her shoulders and listened for signs of life: Lila’s restless searching upstairs, Marta’s clipped voice murmuring with Moira Fraser behind closed doors. The solicitor had arrived just before sunset in an ancient Land Rover bristling with mud and grit; she’d stomped snow from her boots into puddles on the marble floor and refused tea three times before finally accepting it from Marta with brittle courtesy.
Now their meeting dragged on—low voices punctuated by tense silences, Moira’s dry cough rattling down to where Eva lingered at the bottom of the stairs. She wanted to join them but dreaded being caught between their hostilities: Marta’s cold civility toward her late husband’s daughters; Moira’s pinched patience stretched thin by days spent parsing old debts and codicils.
A door creaked somewhere above. Eva looked up as Lila emerged onto the landing, arms folded tight beneath an oversized sweater. Her hair hung loose over one eye.
“She still hasn’t come out,” Lila whispered down.
“Give them time.” Eva tried to sound reasonable but heard how flat it came out.
Lila descended two steps at a time, pausing halfway to peer over a balustrade heavy with dust and dead flies trapped against frosted glass. “They’re arguing about money.”
“Of course they are.”
“He left everything so tangled—did you know he kept two sets of books? Angus said there were ledgers hidden in his study.” She hesitated, tugging at a snagged thread on her sleeve. “I found something upstairs.”
Eva tensed—not sure if she wanted another secret unearthed tonight—but nodded for Lila to continue.
“In his old bedroom.” Lila’s gaze flickered toward shadowed corridors above their heads. “Underneath the wardrobe—some kind of box? It looked… I don’t know, like something he didn’t want anyone finding.”
The urge to climb up after her flared sharp in Eva's chest but was quickly smothered by exhaustion. She’d barely slept since arriving; every night thick with dreams that tasted like iron and wintergreen, full of voices calling names she hadn’t answered to in years.
They moved together toward the drawing room doorway as if summoned by some mutual discomfort—a need for warmth or light or merely company against what pressed at them from every side. Through a crack in the door they glimpsed Marta seated upright on an armchair too large for her narrow frame; Moira hunched forward beside stacks of yellowing papers balanced precariously atop a crate marked 'Estate – Duncannon.'
“We’ll have to reconvene when roads clear,” Moira was saying as they entered quietly enough not to interrupt but visibly enough that both women turned sharply toward them.
Marta straightened first, smoothing invisible wrinkles from black trousers with brisk hands—a gesture that always seemed more about control than comfort.
“I thought you might want an update,” she said coolly.
Moira blinked owlishly behind round spectacles—her cheeks mottled red from hours beside an indifferent fire—and nodded agreement without quite looking either sister in the eye.
“There are ambiguities,” Moira began carefully, shuffling papers as though hoping answers would flutter loose between pages. “Your father made several revisions… not all witnessed properly.” She paused while wind rattled branches outside hard enough to send shadows crawling across stonework behind them. “There are conflicting claims regarding both personal property and ownership of land surrounding—”
“The moor?” interrupted Lila abruptly.
“Yes,” said Moira wearily. “And also certain items within this house which your father considered ‘heirlooms’ but failed to specify recipients.”
Marta exhaled sharply through her nose—a sound almost like amusement except for its edge—and fixed Eva with a look both challenging and appraising all at once.
“If you’re here just for trinkets,” she said quietly but unmistakably, “you should know most things here aren’t worth half what people imagine.”
“It isn’t about things,” Eva replied before thinking better of it—but felt heat rise under Marta’s stare anyway.
“Well,” said Moira briskly, seeking neutral ground in bureaucracy again. “Until we clarify intent—legally speaking—the estate must remain untouched.” She tapped one page decisively then gathered documents into neat piles impossible not to disturb again later when reading through candlelight or torchbeam during another blackout night such as this promised soon enough would arrive.
As if cued by fate—or faulty wiring—the lamps overhead flickered twice then died altogether; darkness folded instantly around them save for orange embers glowing inside soot-rimmed grates along opposite walls.
“Oh brilliant,” muttered Marta under her breath before crossing swiftly toward side tables where oil lamps waited ready among half-burnt candles stubs piled alongside matches scrounged from kitchen drawers earlier that week when weather first began closing in hard around them all.
Eva felt rather than saw Lila draw closer beside her—a trembling presence so close their sleeves brushed together whenever either shifted weight or reached instinctively for reassurance neither could name aloud anymore without risking mockery or worse: pity mistaken for forgiveness neither actually possessed yet nor maybe ever would again after tonight was done unraveling itself inch by careful inch across each echoing empty room now colder than any autumn memory dared threaten before grief made everything sharper-edged than necessary or fair or safe—
Above them somewhere floorboards groaned: slow deliberate footsteps moving down dark halls no one admitted using since funeral guests last wandered lost searching bathrooms or solace among family portraits hung crooked since spring thaw peeled wallpaper back from damp plaster beneath centuries-old beams laced with frost spiders spun fresh each evening anew no matter how many times swept away before supper bell rang hollow through kitchens gone silent save mice rustling near flour sacks forgotten behind pantry doors warped shut since mother died (years ago now).
Angus appeared suddenly framed by doorway shadows—cap twisted awkwardly between gnarled hands stained green-black with peat smoke even after scrubbing raw most mornings out beside woodshed splitting logs nobody else bothered stacking right anymore except him alone because habit mattered more than thanks did nowadays apparently—
“Generator’ll need priming if power doesn’t come back soon,” he announced quietly into gloom everyone shared equally whether admitting fear aloud yet or not quite daring words past teeth chattering already despite coats thrown hastily over pajamas worn since midday meals eaten standing because sitting meant remembering too much too quickly sometimes especially when forks scraped porcelain plates chipped beyond repair long ago—
“I’ll help,” said Eva quickly just so she wouldn’t have time thinking further about boxes hidden under beds upstairs waiting discovery cold metal pressing secrets flat against splintery pine boards all night long—
Angus nodded once gruff approval visible mostly as shift of shoulders easing tension nobody else named directly except perhaps Elsbeth who’d called earlier promising soup tomorrow unless drifts got higher overnight than tractor wheels managed last year mid-February when sheep froze standing near fence lines until morning sun broke ice crusts apart loud enough waking whole valley clear past riverbank stones slick as eels wriggling upstream away from whatever haunted water deep below surface never seen except reflected moonlit nights everyone locked doors double tight regardless tradition dictating otherwise just because grief bred caution faster than hope did ever after funerals ended—
As Angus vanished back toward cellar steps clanging gently behind him carrying lantern held low Eva followed leaving sisters’ silhouettes melted together briefly inside wavering lamplight while outside storm battered window glass hard enough setting every empty room ringing again with echoes nobody quite trusted belonged solely anymore either to past nor present nor future yet uncertain but looming close as next heartbeat thudding louder each minute deeper into winter silence settling thick around house grown colder still since last knock sounded hours ago uninvited upon door none rushed quick enough answering honestly why dread felt heavier here now than anywhere else on earth ever could be imagined possible before tonight began unfolding endless hallways hungry quiet swallowing names whole one echo at a time—
CHAPTER 6: Echoes in the Marble Hall
A gust rattled the windows, making the candle flames shudder on their saucers. Eva pressed her palm to the cold marble of the main hall’s mantel, forcing herself to focus on the sensation—the chill biting up through her skin, grounding her while every other sense strained at shadows.
The power had gone out hours ago. The generator in the basement had coughed and spat before falling silent, leaving them with only a scatter of candles and oil lamps that painted gold puddles against damp stone. Above, ancestral faces watched from tarnished frames: stern men in tartan sashes; women with hollowed eyes and pearl necklaces tight at their throats.
Lila hovered near one of the tall windows, peering into darkness beyond glass frosted by breath and storm. Her arms were wrapped around herself, knuckles white where they gripped the sleeves of her jumper. “It’s coming down harder,” she murmured. “I can’t even see past the drive.”
“Don’t bother.” Marta’s voice drifted from an armchair pulled close to the hearth—a futile gesture; firelight barely touched her knees. She was bundled in a velvet robe too grand for comfort, hair scraped back as if she’d just come from a ballroom instead of days spent pacing corridors. “There’s nothing out there but snow and trees.”
Eva glanced at Marta—studied how she clutched a tumbler of whisky in both hands but hadn’t taken more than a sip all evening. Her nails tapped glass with anxious precision.
Somewhere above them, floorboards creaked—a long groan that made all three women stiffen.
“Wind,” Eva said quickly. She tried to sound certain but heard herself falter.
Marta shot her a look over one shoulder: “You don’t actually believe any of those stories Elsbeth tells, do you?”
Lila didn’t answer at first; she stared upward as if measuring distance between them and whatever had moved overhead. Finally: “She says you hear voices before you see anything.”
Eva set down her own glass—untasted gin gone watery—and forced herself toward Lila. The air felt thick here: old polish and melted wax layered atop something sourer beneath it all—damp wool? Decay?
“It’s nerves,” Eva said softly, careful not to make eye contact with either woman for too long. “People start imagining things when they’re trapped together like this.” She almost believed it herself until another shiver ran along her spine.
A clock somewhere deeper in the house chimed once then fell silent again—its mechanism faltering or perhaps deciding time itself could go no further tonight.
From outside came a thud—the muffled collapse of snow sliding off roof tiles—and Eva flinched so hard she nearly knocked over a candlestick.
Lila managed a wan smile. “We should be used to this place by now.”
“We weren’t meant to be here together,” Marta muttered, voice low but edged sharp enough for both sisters to hear.
Silence pooled between them—not companionable but taut as wire stretched across ice.
In its center stood Angus McCrae, looming by the doorway with his cap crushed in his hands like he’d squeezed warmth from it before entering. He’d appeared without sound; maybe he’d always been there.
“The lines are down,” he announced quietly. His accent flattened vowels until words sounded carved from peat and frostbitten earth. “No signal anywhere—not mobile nor landline.” He gave each woman his tired caretaker’s gaze: steady, impassive as weathered granite outside.
Marta straightened—her voice clipped but desperate under control: “How long?”
Angus shrugged one shoulder beneath layers of battered wool. “Depends how heavy it gets tonight.” His boots left wet prints across marble veined like distant rivers underfoot; he seemed almost apologetic about it as he stepped further inside.
Eva asked before she could stop herself: “Is anyone else stranded out there? Elsbeth… Moira?”
“I saw Elsbeth earlier—she left soup at back door ‘fore weather turned mean.” He hesitated, thumb tracing circles on his cap brim before adding, softer still: “She said to keep your hearts strong till morning.”
Marta snorted—a brittle sound—but Lila looked away fast enough that Eva caught only half her expression: fear or gratitude or some knotty tangle between them both.
Angus lingered near an unlit sconce where cobwebs gathered dust above faded wallpaper flowers; he glanced upward once as if listening for sounds only he could interpret—a man who knew every sigh these walls made when winter pressed close.
“Nothing’ll get through tonight except what’s already here,” Angus finally said—not quite reassurance nor warning—and slipped away again into gloomier corridors beyond reach of candlelight.
The hall seemed colder after his absence—as if heat fled wherever human presence receded.
Marta shifted restlessly; ice clinked in her glass though none remained unmelted within it now. With sudden impatience she rose and strode toward one of the gilt-framed portraits hanging low beside an arched doorway—their father immortalized in oils: haughty jawline softened by age yet stubbornness undiminished even by death itself.
“He always hated these nights,” Marta said softly enough that Eva wondered whether she spoke for their benefit or only for him—or perhaps for something else entirely lurking behind paint and canvas eyes watching them all these years later.
The wind picked up again outside—a banshee moan threading gaps beneath doorsill so cold it raised gooseflesh along exposed wrists and necks alike—even Marta drew closer to warmth radiating off guttering candles now burning dangerously low on wicks slick with melted wax pools spreading slowly outward across tabletops marred by old water stains and careless knife-marks from meals eaten hurriedly during darker times none dared recount aloud anymore except maybe Elsbeth whose stories never quite ended happily anyway no matter how many times they were told anew each winter season encroaching faster than memory alone could keep pace against fading sunrises lost behind endless cloudbanks smothering hope beneath gray upon gray upon gray—
A crash split silence above—the unmistakable splintering sound of breaking glass echoing down stairwells like laughter swallowed mid-breath followed by another heavier thump then silence once more save shallow breathing shared among three women bound together not by love nor loyalty but necessity alone tonight—
Eva found herself moving first—candle gripped so tightly molten wax slopped onto skin unnoticed through numbness rooted deeper than mere cold ever could reach—she mouthed Lila’s name just once before ascending stairs slick underfoot despite rugs worn threadbare thin—
Halfway up landing another portrait loomed askew upon wall as if jostled recently—eyes painted wild with secrets left unsaid—
Behind Eva came footsteps quick then slower then halting altogether—Lila pausing uncertainly while Marta trailed last clutching lamp raised high though its glow did little more than tremble against velvet dark pressing close—
On second-floor landing shards glittered where moonlight spilled crooked through cracked windowpane—a single shoe lay toppled nearby child-sized dusty with age impossible yet undeniably present amid chaos left behind—
Someone—or something—had been here not moments ago
And somewhere farther off deep within labyrinthine halls
a soft voice called
Eva
Eva
just loud enough that none could claim certain whether memory played tricks or ghosts themselves had begun to speak
CHAPTER 7: Chapter 2: The Story Continues
Wind pressed against the windowpanes, rattling them in their swollen wooden frames. Eva stood at the landing, one hand braced on the banister, listening to the house breathe. The silence here was not empty—it seemed a living thing, thick with anticipation and memory, waiting for someone to speak or shout or simply flee. Below her, Lila’s voice rose in sharp protest from the main hall.
“I told you I locked it last night!” Lila’s boots squeaked across marble as she circled the battered front door. “I double-checked! Someone’s been out.”
Marta’s reply floated up, brittle and cold. “It was probably Angus—he said he’d check on the generator before dawn.”
Eva descended, trailing fingers over polished wood that felt sticky with neglect. She passed ancestral portraits whose eyes seemed to follow each movement—a trick of dust and age. The air near the entrance bit with cold; a draft had wormed its way through cracks around stained glass.
She found Lila kneeling by a faint set of muddy footprints just inside the doorway—small enough to be a child’s but smudged into unrecognizable shapes by morning frost.
“Could’ve tracked these yourself,” Marta muttered without looking at them, fussing with her phone at the bottom step.
Lila shook her head stubbornly. “I didn’t go out—not since yesterday afternoon.” She stared at Eva as if for confirmation.
Eva knelt beside her sister, squinting at the prints: too narrow for Angus’s boots; too slight for any of them in heavy winter shoes. She tried to ignore how her pulse thudded in her throat.
“Maybe snow blew something in under the door,” she offered, though they both knew it wasn’t true—the weatherstripping was tight, barely letting light through much less slush and dirt.
Marta finally looked up from her screen—her thumb swiping furiously over cracked glass—face cast green by its glow. “No signal again,” she snapped. “You’d think he could have fixed it by now.”
A long pause settled between them before Eva cleared her throat and rose stiffly. “We need coffee,” she said quietly, motioning Lila toward the kitchen.
They left Marta behind with her silent phone and quickening breath—Eva caught a glimpse of white knuckles clutching its edge before she turned away.
The kitchen was warmer than anywhere else in the house—a false comfort conjured by ancient radiators clicking under layers of chipped paint and patched tile floors littered with crumbs from last night’s supper. The kettle took an age to boil on its hissing ring; Eva busied herself rinsing mugs flecked with tea stains while Lila perched on a lopsided stool near the window.
Neither spoke until steam curled from their cups and frost began to melt off glass panes overlooking skeletal hedges beyond.
“Do you remember,” Lila began softly, twisting strands of dark hair around her finger, “when Dad used to lock us in here during storms? He’d say it was safer… but really he just didn’t want us wandering.”
Eva managed half a smile—the memory dulled by years apart but still sharp enough to sting. “He hated noise when he worked.” She watched condensation bead along brass handles on old cabinetry—how many hands had gripped those pulls over generations?
Lila sipped carefully then set down her cup with a clatter that made both women flinch.”Did you see Marta last night?” Her gaze flickered sideways; wary as an animal scenting danger nearby.”She wasn’t in bed when I went upstairs—I heard footsteps after midnight…”
A chill crawled down Eva's back despite radiator heat.”You’re sure?”
“She talks to herself sometimes,” Lila murmured,”but last night it sounded like someone else answering.” She shivered hard enough that coffee sloshed onto blue linoleum below.
Before Eva could answer there came another sound—a slow metallic scrape followed by three deliberate knocks echoing from somewhere deeper inside the manor.The sisters exchanged wide-eyed glances.Eva moved first,treading softly past sagging shelves stacked high with unused preserves.She pushed open a swinging door leading into darkness—the service corridor connecting kitchen to scullery,seldom used now except for storage or hiding places best forgotten.
Light fell thinly across stone flags,dust swirling where recent footprints marred centuries-old grime.Again:knock knock knock.Not at any exterior door this time—but against some inner wall,beyond reach yet intimate as breath on skin.It stopped abruptly as they drew near,the hush settling heavier than before.Eva pressed an ear close,caught only faint creaks:the bones of this place shifting uneasily beneath their feet.Or something else moving unseen behind plaster walls?
“Drafts again,”she whispered though neither believed it.Lila hovered close,pale fingers gripping Eva’s sleeve.”Let’s check upstairs?”
They crept upward,treading soft as ghosts themselves.All along narrow halls doors hung ajar,gaps yawning black.Moonlight filtered through cloudy glass leaving silver puddles among threadbare rugs.The sisters paused outside what had once been their father’s study—the door shut tight,latch gleaming strangely bright amid splintered wood.As Eva reached for it,Lila caught her wrist.”Wait.Listen.”
Somewhere far below,a door slammed hard enough that every portrait quivered.They heard running footsteps across tile then silence punctuated only by distant wind.Marta?Or someone—or something—that did not wish them here?
Suddenly,the landline trilled shrilly downstairs,startling both women into flight.They skidded over steps nearly colliding at bottom where Marta already stood frozen above receiver.Her face pinched white lips parted.Eva snatched up handset expecting static—instead:a woman’s voice humming low,mournful tune broken only by whisper:”Don’t leave me here.”
Static swallowed all else.A click.The line went dead.They stared at one another hearts pounding,radiator pipes groaning overhead like distant thunder.Then footsteps echoed again—this time unmistakably real—from somewhere just outside,on gravel grown icy overnight.Someone approaching—or circling—drawn back toward secrets buried deep beneath frostbitten earth…
Eva dropped handset onto cradle,fingers trembling.She met Lila's eyes—dark pools brimming fear and determination alike—and together they turned toward foyer where shadows shifted restlessly awaiting what would come next.
CHAPTER 8: Beneath Frozen Ground
Wind pressed itself against the old stone walls, finding every loose seam and whispering in the cracks. Eva stood at the kitchen window, clutching a chipped mug that radiated no warmth—tea gone cold hours ago. The world outside had vanished under gray snow; even the pines looked bruised, hunched in defeat beneath their frost-laden branches.
Somewhere upstairs, something thudded. Not heavy enough for a person—at least not one walking upright—but too solid to be pipes or settling timbers. Eva forced herself to breathe slowly, eyes locked on her reflection in the glass: pale skin, hair frizzed by static and sleeplessness. She could almost imagine her father standing behind her in his old cardigan, muttering about “draughts worse than rats.”
Footsteps came down the hall—a familiar tread, hurried and uneven.
“Eva?” Lila’s voice hovered just out of sight. She appeared in the doorway with a thick sweater pulled over flannel pajamas and socks mismatched from heel to toe. Her face was pinched, blue shadows like thumbprints beneath her eyes.
“I heard it too,” Eva said before she could ask.
Lila lingered at the threshold, knuckles white around the banister post. “It’s getting louder at night.” She glanced upward as if expecting another thud overhead.
“Probably just Marta,” Eva replied, though she doubted it—the widow had retreated to her rooms since sunset with a bottle of gin and locked doors between them all.
They listened together as silence poured back into the space between words—the clink of radiator pipes cooling off, distant windchimes tangled on an eave. A low hum buzzed somewhere near Lila’s feet; when she shifted uneasily, dust swirled from under an old boot rack.
“I can’t sleep,” Lila whispered finally. “I keep thinking I hear Dad calling me.”
The admission hung there like breath on frosted glass—fragile but impossible to ignore.
Eva set down her mug with care so as not to shatter it against porcelain sink tiles already crazed with spiderweb cracks. She wanted to say something reassuring but found only brittle platitudes rising up: It’s grief; it’ll pass; you’re safe here.
CHAPTER 9: Echoes in the Marble Hall
The marble hall wore its cold like a second skin. Eva’s footsteps echoed ahead of her, the sound sharp and hollow, as if bouncing from one century to the next. Dusk pressed against the high windows; blue shadows curled beneath ancestral portraits whose eyes seemed to track her progress across the floor. The air was thick with disuse and dust motes, stirred by drafts that wound through unseen gaps in stone.
She paused at the foot of the grand staircase, hand tracing the smooth balustrade where frost had begun to bloom in tiny webs. Her father’s funeral suitcases still lay at odd angles by the wall—hers and Lila’s battered canvas bags slumped beside Marta’s sleek leather case. Three claims staked in a territory none could truly possess.
A cough echoed behind her—Lila, hugging herself in a faded wool cardigan, face pinched with cold and wariness.
“You’re up early,” Eva said softly, voice absorbed by marble and velvet drapes.
“Couldn’t sleep.” Lila’s breath clouded in front of her lips. “Did you hear it last night? Someone walking upstairs.”
Eva hesitated before answering. She’d lain awake listening too—the old house settling or…something else? “It was probably just pipes. Or Angus.”
Lila shook her head but let it go. Her gaze drifted to their father’s portrait above the hearth: Duncan Duncannon caught mid-smirk, eyes bright with secrets he’d carried into the grave.
A log shifted on what passed for a fire—a wan flame fluttering beneath blackened stone. Eva moved toward it out of habit more than hope for warmth, kneeling to poke ineffectually at embers with an iron poker she found lying askew on the grate.
“We need more wood,” she muttered.
“Angus said he’d bring some up after feeding the dogs.” Lila lingered near one of the tall windows, peering out at gray light leaking over pine tops and frost-stiffened grass.
Eva watched her sister’s reflection ghost across glass: two women who barely knew each other except through shared silence and their father’s shadow stretching between them.
She straightened abruptly, brushing soot from her hands onto her jeans. “I’ll look for those papers today—the ones Moira needs for probate.”
“The will?” Lila asked quickly.
“That…and anything else.” A beat passed between them—history unspoken but heavy as lead shot.
Upstairs somewhere a door slammed hard enough to rattle glassware on sideboards; both sisters flinched reflexively.
Marta appeared moments later, descending with brisk purpose in black cashmere and slippers embroidered with gold thread. She looked every inch mistress of this mausoleum now—eyes hard, mouth set against apology or greeting alike.
“I hope you weren’t planning to use my study,” she said without preamble as she swept past them toward the kitchen corridor. “I need space for calls this morning.”
Eva bit back an answer; there was no point sparring over territory neither woman truly controlled yet—not while Moira Fraser held all legal keys outside town limits.
When Marta vanished down tiled steps (heels clicking), Eva turned back to Lila with an exhale that shuddered through clenched teeth.
“She acts like we’re intruders,” Lila whispered miserably. “Like we don’t belong here.”
“Let her play queen awhile longer.” Eva forced a smile that didn’t reach her eyes as she crossed again under their father’s likeness—the smirk now seeming almost mocking above their heads.
She moved along panelled walls, fingers trailing over ridges carved by craftsmen long dead; pausing where wood met icy marble beneath another grim-faced ancestor painted centuries ago—a line unbroken except by grief and silence between daughters born worlds apart.
There was something odd about this section—a faint draft rising from behind wainscoting panels warped slightly away from stonework below one window seat crowded with ancient hunting trophies: antlers tangled in cobwebs; feathered hats moldering under glass domes gone opaque with age.
Eva crouched low beside scuffed skirting board; cold seeped instantly through denim knees while she tapped gently—listening for hollowness—and found it: one panel gave slightly under pressure where others stood firm. She pressed harder until wood groaned open on stubborn hinges revealing darkness beyond—a crawlspace no wider than her shoulders running parallel behind wall plaster toward what must be an old servants’ corridor looping unseen around half the manor’s ground floor footprint.
Her heart thudded as she fished out her phone for its torch app—signal dead as ever—but LED glow strong enough to show dust-choked air swirling inside voids untouched since before either sister was born. Faint imprints marked old boards: child-sized handprints smeared decades ago; initials scratched raggedly into beams where only rats or frightened children might have hidden once upon a time…
She reached carefully within until fingertips closed on paper edges: brittle folios bound together by string gone soft with dampness yet stamped unmistakably DUNCANNON ESTATE across faded covers—dates scrawled 1967-1975 in crabbed penmanship unmistakably belonging to their late father even before she read his name inside flyleaf margins:
Duncan J.L.D.—PRIVATE
“What is it?” Lila breathed close behind now—startling Eva so badly she nearly dropped everything into gloom below floor level.
“His journals,” Eva whispered hoarsely—throat tight around memory and dread alike—as if speaking too loud would wake ghosts best left dreaming among moth-eaten coats lining passageways unseen by day or reason.
She drew back into thin light cast by chandelier overhead: flipping fragile pages whose ink bled stories across time—a ledger not only of finances but also names scribbled hastily beside words like ‘regret,’ ‘promise,’ ‘debt paid.’ There were lists punctuated oddly: initials matched sometimes to dates (“J.C., 11/72 – payment delivered”), sometimes only cryptic phrases (“the room under west stair”).
Lila hovered close enough that their shoulders brushed; both women bent together over relics neither quite trusted nor could bear not knowing any longer.
“We should tell Marta,” Lila ventured uncertainly—but Eva shook her head sharply.
“No…not yet.” She tucked journals tight beneath arm like loot snatched from battlefield ruins.
From somewhere deeper within manor walls came another noise—not footsteps this time but something softer: fabric dragging against stone perhaps…or wind worrying loose shutters far above reach or reason.
They both froze listening—pulse quickening despite logic—but nothing more followed except slow tick-tick-tick of grandfather clock marking time nobody wanted measured here anymore.
Finally Eva drew breath steady enough to speak again:
“There are things buried here,” she murmured—not meaning earth alone but all manner of secrets gnawing at bone beneath polished surfaces—and suddenly resolved:
“I’m going to read every word.”
A shiver ran through marble halls then—not wind exactly but something colder still—as dusk thickened beyond windows and candlelight flickered uncertainly along ancestral faces watching always from above.
And somewhere deep within those pages clutched tight against her chest…an answer waited that would change everything they thought they knew about home—or each other.
CHAPTER 10: ‘Winter’s Gaze’ Revealed
Frost feathered the corners of the windows, tracing delicate veins across the glass as dusk pressed against the manor. Eva stood at the foot of the main staircase, her coat still on, breath silvering in the drafty hall. Every step she’d taken since morning had echoed—boots against marble, heartbeat in her ears, floorboards groaning under old secrets. Somewhere above, a door thudded shut: Lila’s doing, or perhaps just the wind shoving its way through broken seals.
She’d lost count of how many times she’d circled these rooms today, drawn by restlessness and dread in equal measure. The house seemed to breathe with her—each sigh answered by a creak or a hush. Now she paused beneath their father’s portrait: his painted eyes almost glowering in candlelight from where Marta had left a stub of wax guttering on the newel post.
Eva reached up and brushed dust from his frame. “You never did like company,” she muttered. The words hung there; no one to hear but herself and perhaps whatever remained of him within these walls.
Bootsteps crunched on gravel outside—the familiar uneven rhythm belonged to Angus McCrae. Through mottled glass, his figure loomed: broad-shouldered coat darkened by melting sleet, cap pulled low over tired eyes. He entered without knocking; nobody bothered with formalities now.
“Evening.” His voice was rough as peat smoke.
She nodded in greeting while he stomped snow from his boots onto a threadbare rug that had once been crimson. “You’re late.”
“Generator needed coaxing.” He unslung an old canvas satchel and let it drop by the radiator—a token gesture; heat rarely traveled far here anymore. “Storm’s coming hard tonight.”
Eva glanced out at twilight thickening over pines. “Of course it is.”
Angus hesitated before taking off his gloves, gaze flickering past her to where shadows crowded between grandfather clock and stairwell banister. For once he looked uneasy—more than usual—and Eva wondered what he saw lingering there.
“You seen your sister?” he asked quietly.
“She’s upstairs.” Eva hesitated herself then added: “Something wrong?”
He shrugged—a gesture so slight it barely moved his shoulders—but didn’t meet her eye.
The landline rang suddenly: its shrill peal splitting silence into brittle shards. Both started; Angus recovered first and shuffled into the study to answer it, leaving Eva alone again with candle smoke curling upward like some silent warning.
Upstairs—her feet found their own path before her mind could protest—she traced worn runners down narrow corridors lined with ancestral faces half-sketched by shadow. At Lila’s door she paused; inside came muffled movement, drawers opening and closing with impatient force.
Eva knocked softly once but opened anyway—it was that kind of day.
Lila sat cross-legged on their father’s bed amid piles of yellowed papers and leather-bound notebooks spread like fallen leaves around her knees. Her hair fell forward as she riffled through pages too quickly to read them properly.
“I thought you were supposed to be resting,” Eva said gently.
Lila looked up; circles ringed her eyes like bruises in lamplight but there was a sharpness behind them now—a focus that hadn’t been there all week. She held out a battered journal wordlessly.
On its cover their father’s initials were embossed in faded gold leaf: J.D., ornate script flaking at every edge.
“He wrote everything down,” Lila whispered hoarsely as Eva took it from her hands.
Eva thumbed through—the spine cracked audibly—to entries dated years ago:
*October 21st… She screamed again last night… I cannot bear Lila seeing this…*
*December 2nd… Locked room must remain closed… No one can know what lies beneath.*
The words swam before Eva’s vision for a moment as if written underwater—old fear tugging at memory—and then steadied themselves into meaning both clearer and more terrible than anything spoken aloud since they’d returned home.
A sound downstairs interrupted—the scrape of chair legs against tile—and both sisters stiffened instinctively, clutching pages between them as if truth itself might come striding up the stairs demanding explanation.
“It wasn’t just us,” Lila breathed out finally, voice trembling but strong underneath. “Whatever happened here—it started long before we were born.”
Eva sat heavily beside her on the quilt that smelled faintly of mothballs and camphor oil; together they pored over dates and angry scrawls until footsteps signaled someone else approaching along hallway boards warped from decades’ worth of Highland dampness: Angus again—or Marta?
It was Marta who appeared first at their threshold—a silhouette framed harshly by yellow light spilling down from wall sconces outside the bedroom door. She wore silk despite the cold—a robe cinched tight enough to suggest armor rather than comfort—and carried two glasses trembling minutely in each hand: whisky neat for herself; water for whomever dared accept it from fingers too pale for grief yet too steady for innocence.
“I thought you girls might want something.” Her tone balanced on knife-edge civility—a hostess defending territory rather than offering sanctuary—but Eva took water anyway if only because refusing would have been admitting defeat too early in whatever game this had become between them all since burial day four days prior.
Marta lingered longer than necessary after setting drinks down atop an old steamer trunk at foot of bed—eyes darting toward scattered journals but saying nothing about them directly—as though weighing whether confrontation was wise tonight or better saved for daylight when tempers cooled under gray skies instead of flickering candleflame nerves raw-edged by darkness closing fast around all three women stranded together inside inheritance none truly wanted but none could quite leave behind either…
Downstairs another crash shattered uneasy peace—a plate dropped (deliberately?) in kitchen beyond hearing range except for those attuned now to every small disaster echoing through empty rooms once alive with laughter then silence then only suspicion growing thicker each hour winter deepened outside stone walls older than any living soul left here could remember firsthand anymore…
Angus emerged next—not upstairs but halfway up landing visible through balustrade gaps—with face flushed redder than usual under beard bristling wild as frostbitten gorse hedge below front windowpanes rattling ceaselessly with windblown sleet pellets harder now than ever before this season had managed so far…
“We need to talk,” he called up gruffly—not waiting for reply before continuing anyway: “About what really happened years back—in cellar—in woods—you deserve truth after all you’ve lost…”
His words trailed off mid-sentence as thunder cracked somewhere distant yet close enough to make each woman flinch involuntarily; lights flickered overhead—once twice thrice—then steadied again though not one heart among them settled so easily afterward…
From somewhere deep within house—the west wing maybe or attic crawlspace above unused nursery doors locked since childhood summers spent hiding from rain—they heard another noise this time unmistakably human yet not quite belonging entirely either:
A single knock slow deliberate measured against weightless hush pressing inward everywhere winter laid claim—
And even Marta paled then—for whatever waited on other side would change everything forever when finally faced head-on beneath winter’s unblinking gaze…