Chapter One: The Letter
Evelyn Marrow sat at the small kitchen table in her apartment, the morning sunlight slanting through the dusty blinds, catching motes of dust that drifted lazily in the air. She had learned over the years to savor quiet mornings like this, her coffee steaming beside her, the faint scent of paper and ink from her pile of old books mixing with the sharp tang of city air sneaking in from the open window. But this morning, her calm was interrupted by the soft thud of the mail sliding through the slot in her door.
She pushed back her chair and leaned over to retrieve the envelopes, sifting through the usual bills and advertisements. Her eyes froze when she saw it: a cream-colored envelope with thick, textured paper, bearing a wax seal stamped with a symbol she didn't recognize. No return address. Her pulse quickened before she even broke the seal. There was something about the handwriting, slender, precise, looping in a way that seemed old-fashioned and deliberate, that made her feel as though the letter had chosen her personally.
"Evelyn Marrow," she read aloud in a whisper, the words tasting foreign on her tongue. She opened the envelope carefully, as if unwrapping something fragile. Inside was a single sheet of heavy paper, folded once, and on it was written:
"You are requested to restore Windmere Manor. Your expertise is required. The house awaits your arrival. Come alone."
No signature. No indication of who had sent it. She read it twice, her eyes scanning for some small clue, some hidden line that would tell her this was a prank, or a mistake. But the words were simple, insistent, and almost… personal.
Her first reaction was skepticism. Windmere Manor? She hadn't heard the name in years, if ever. She prided herself on her ability to restore old buildings, everything from century-old libraries to Victorian homes, but she had never taken a job like this, from someone she didn't know. The letter was like a puzzle piece dropped into her life without context, and her curiosity, always lurking beneath the surface, ignited immediately.
Evelyn pushed her coffee aside and traced the seal with her fingertip, the wax cool and smooth beneath her touch. Her mind began to fill with questions. Why her? Why now? She had never even set foot in Windmere, as far as she knew. And yet, something about the tone of the letter stirred memories she didn't know she had, vague recollections of an old estate, of stories whispered by her mother about family tragedies, of names she barely remembered. The name Marrow had always carried a certain weight in her family, spoken in hushed tones at gatherings, as if it were a secret meant to be buried.
Evelyn set the letter down and exhaled slowly. For a long moment, she just sat there, letting the sunlight warm her hands and trying to convince herself that it was probably some elaborate scam. But deep inside, a small, insistent part of her, the part that had spent her childhood exploring abandoned buildings, climbing attic stairs and dusty corridors, whispered that this was something she couldn't ignore.
By noon, she had made up her mind. She would go. Not because she knew why, or because she trusted whoever sent the letter, but because she needed to see it for herself. Something about Windmere Manor called to her, tugged at her curiosity in a way that felt both thrilling and terrifying.
She spent the afternoon preparing. Her bag was light but practical: notebooks, pencils, a camera, her old tape recorder, and a small toolkit for restorations. She wore sturdy boots, dark jeans, and a jacket that had seen better days. She didn't pack more than she needed; somehow, she knew this journey wouldn't be about comfort. It would be about discovery.
The train station was bustling, the noise of travelers and the clatter of wheels against rails filling her ears as she waited on the platform. She tried to calm her nerves with coffee in a paper cup, but the city seemed distant, irrelevant, as if the letter had already pulled her away from this world. The farther the train took her from the familiar, the more the sense of expectation grew. Something waited for her at the end of the line, something that had waited a long time.
The journey took most of the afternoon. Fields of green gave way to thick forests, and the sky darkened with the approach of evening. By the time she reached the station nearest Windmere Manor, twilight had fallen, and the air was damp and chilly. She could hear the faint crash of waves against cliffs somewhere beyond the trees, and the wind carried the scent of salt and moss. It was the kind of place that felt alive in ways she couldn't immediately name, ancient, patient, and watchful.
A taxi met her at the station, its driver a quiet man with an expression that suggested he had been expecting her. He drove in silence, following narrow, twisting roads that climbed toward the cliffs, the trees pressing in on both sides until they broke suddenly to reveal a view of the manor. Windmere rose above the cliffs like a dark crown, its stone walls streaked with age, ivy clinging desperately to its sides. The windows were many and uneven, some cracked, some dark, some reflecting the dying light of the sun. It was beautiful in a terrifying way, and Evelyn felt her stomach tighten with anticipation and something else, fear, she supposed, though she didn't want to admit it.
The taxi stopped at the entrance, and she climbed out, pulling her jacket tight against the wind. The manor's doors were enormous, carved with intricate patterns worn smooth by years of weather and neglect. She reached for the handle with hesitation. Her hand lingered over the metal, cold and heavy beneath her fingers. Taking a deep breath, she pushed it open.
Inside, the house smelled of dust and wood and something older, something almost like memory. Her footsteps echoed across the marble floors as she stepped into the grand hall, her eyes sweeping over the sweeping staircase, the faded murals on the walls, and the shattered chandeliers hanging precariously above. Sunlight filtered through tall windows, dust dancing in the beams. It was silent except for the occasional creak of the old wood, as though the house itself was shifting and settling after a long sleep.
"Hello?" she called softly, but the hall swallowed her voice. Only the wind responded, sighing through broken panes. Evelyn swallowed her unease and took out her notebook, jotting down her first impressions. Her handwriting was neat but hurried: grand hall, musty scent, murals faded, chandelier cracked, silence… too much silence.
As she explored further, Evelyn felt eyes on her, or at least, the sense of being watched. It wasn't immediate or direct, just a weight pressing at the edges of her awareness, subtle and insistent. She shook her head and muttered to herself, I'm imagining it. Old houses always feel like that.
Still, she couldn't shake the feeling that Windmere Manor was alive in a way she had never encountered before. In a corner of the hall, she noticed a small door, half-hidden by shadows. It was locked, the keyhole black and uninviting. Something about it made her stomach twist, a mix of curiosity and dread. She traced her fingers over the wood, feeling the rough grains beneath her fingertips. Why did it feel… familiar?
Her exploration was interrupted by a sudden draft that swept through the hall, rattling the windows and making the chandeliers swing slightly. Evelyn pulled her jacket tighter around her and paused. The wind seemed to carry a whisper, almost indistinguishable, a sound that could have been her imagination. She pressed her hand to the wall, half-expecting it to speak, half-expecting it to remain silent.
The sun dipped behind the cliffs, and shadows stretched across the hall. Evelyn realized she had been walking for hours, though it felt like minutes. She had not seen a sign of life, no servants, no caretaker, no indication that anyone else inhabited the manor. The silence pressed in on her, but so did the strange sense of anticipation. Windmere Manor had called her here, and she had answered.
She set her bag down in what looked like a study, its shelves lined with books thick with dust. Pulling out her notebook again, she wrote: The house is alive. It watches. It waits. And I think… it knows me.
For the first time since reading the letter, a shiver ran down her spine, not from the chill of the stone floors or the wind, but from a feeling that someone, or something, was waiting for her to discover it. And somewhere deep in the house, in the hidden corners behind walls and beneath floorboards, she imagined a voice, just beyond hearing, whispering: Welcome home, Evelyn.