Besides the rattling of old pipes and the slight groan the manor made, it was almost entirely silent. Archie didn’t reply, no matter how William craved to hear his voice. But the quiet wasn’t as haunting as he’d expected. Actually, it was precisely what William wanted after all. He closed his eyes, fingers gripping the landing’s handrail and waited for his heart to mend itself.
He waited and waited, but nothing happened. Yes, it was silent and peaceful. But the manor had yet to solve his heartache.
Yetbeing the operative word.
But it will, he promised himself as he returned his search for the fuse box.This will fix me. Hanbury will mend the broken pieces of me, give me focus and take my mind off the man who broke my heart… until Ibrokehim.
In a non-surprising plot twist for someone like William Thorn, he gave up on his search for the fuse-box rather quickly. He threw the few groceries into the fridge space and closed the door, leaving the problem of food until tomorrow. It had been a long day and an even longer three months since this journey truly began, and all he wanted to do was sit down.
Opposite the kitchen at the back of the manor waited one of two living rooms. It had double doors leading out onto a cracked patio area and bookshelves lining a wall where, traditionally, a TV could now be placed. Below it was a fireplace, untouched for so many years that lighting it was likely a death trap. William stood in the middle of the room, on a moth-eaten rug that covered scratched and trodden floorboards.
The air was thick with dust as he tore free the painter’s sheets and uncovered two feather-down sofas beneath. He had to crack open a window, the hinges screaming in protest, just to allow some fresh air inside. The relief of air was short-lived when the chill invaded the room and cast a bout of shivers over him.
Out of all the decisions William should’ve made tonight, the most difficult turned out to be: white or red? Wine, that was. William picked the red, drew the bottle from the shopping bag and searched for a glass back in the kitchen. He found nothing suitable. The few glasses left to suffer the consequences of disuse were either cracked, muddied with dust or filled with inconspicuous droppings. However, he did find a box of matches, which came in rather handy.
It seemed luck did shine down on him, at least for the first time since he arrived. Splinters of dried kindling waited patiently beside the old fireplace in the living room. It had a black metal casing with ornate carvings of flowers. The fireguard was so old that the thin metal web cracked in William’s hand.
Death trap or not, he was freezing. Surely a little fire wouldn’t be a problem?
William scooped out the ash pit, picking out pieces of charcoal. It was clear this fireplace hadn’t been used in a long while, but the concern of the chimney was purposefully blocked from his mind.
He knew little of the previous owners. The information wasn’t something Archie’s lawyer was familiar with. However, it turned out that whoever had lived here mustn’t have liked books very much. William found the charred remains of at least four in the ash pit, with another two stuffed at the back of the fireplace itself. With fingers stained black, he carefully placed the two surviving books on the marble tiles beside him and finished his task.
When he was done, residue covered his forearms and made his skin smell rancid.
His luck didn’t last, of course, as his mind quickly went to the need for a shower. The issue of no working electrics meant the water would be cold, and there was no saying how long the water had sat in the tank. But he didn’t exactly have a choice.
William liked to think that his nefarious decisions were him living life on the edge. The truth, however, was much darker.
Dusting his hands down his jeans, most likely ruining them for good, William picked up the two books he had found and threw them onto the sofa. First, he would get the fire going for warmth and light, and then he would stand beneath the freezing shower. The open bottle of wine would be the prize waiting at the end of it – his motivation, so to speak.
He was distracted from his plans when one of the books bounced off the cushion, practically throwing itself back off the sofa where it landed heavily on the floor. The bang caught him by surprise, conjuring a healthy string of swear words to burst out of him.
“Fuck me,” William exhaled, heart in his throat.
He bent down and picked up the book. Above him, the floorboards creaked, and the walls swelled as though they absorbed the sound of the bang.
There was no ignoring the discomfort that spread over him. It was a tidal wave of emotion he’d not felt in a long time. Fear. He looked up to the ceiling, waiting for another sound to accompany the first, but the manor was sleeping once again.
In London, he was used to constant sounds: traffic, horns, shouting, laughing and the occasional loud romp by his neighbours. But here, in the quiet, it seemed the slightest of noises had the power to unnerve him.
A single ray of fading dusk light cut into the window closest to him, illuminating the book’s cover. It was soft-bound and completely covered in ash. One side of the leather cover was charred and crisp, but the rest of the book had survived the fire; it had been thrown into fuel. There wasn’t a title on the cover or spine, nor any typography to say what this book was about – likely something useless if it was better used as kindling.
William was about to throw it back into the pit when the manor groaned again. A warning. Finding that he was in a position to displease his new home, William pinched the front cover and pulled it open.
Maybe it was some mathematical non-fiction story or a book about plants and their properties. Surely that was worthy to burn, right? His thumb brushed the ruined corner, and the burned paper crumbled beneath his touch. The page was stained a rusted yellow, as though it had been left open in direct sunlight or had a cup of tea knocked over it. In the dim light of early evening, his eyes narrowed to read the words on the first page. It was a name, one etched in the bottom corner in neat, swirling handwriting. Half of it had been burned away with the fire, but William read aloud what he could.
“Robert Thom–”
William thought the following letter was an ‘a’, but he couldn’t be sure.
He flicked carefully through a few more empty pages before he came across one full of writing.
This wasn’t a book on plants or mathematics; it was a hand-written journal.
At the top of the page was the date30 May 1939. Below it, scribbled in beautiful calligraphy, were paragraphs of words cramped together on the lineless paper.
He was so completely enthralled with the journal that he didn’t focus on how the manor’s creaks had intensified. A background chorus to build his internal interest. Except, it got louder. His body grew rigid, every muscle turning to solid ice as a new sound from above joined – something so foreign it stopped him from reading on.
