William woke with a dry mouth and a taste like death in the back of his throat. He knew he needed a glass of water – or three glasses of wine – but that would mean getting out of bed. In truth, he was rather surprised to have woken up in the same place. There was no sleepwalking, no dreams, only solitary nothingness.
He laid amongst the mounds of sheets, stealing a few more minutes before he had to face Edward. Because when he did, surely the conversation would begin and – just like with the water – he wasn’t ready for that either.
Leaving Hanbury sounded like the best and only option before he slept, now the thought of being separated from these foundations turned his gut in knots.
There were more questions he was frightened to face.
Why did the spirit spell out his recently departed partner? Why did it stand behind Edward wearing Archie’s red coat? Worse, had the haunting been Archie all along, and if so, why?
Just the thought of questions had him drawing the duvet up and over his chin, snuggling deeper into the warmth of the bed.
Soon enough, William heard the clatter of activity beneath him coming from the direction of the kitchen. Considering the bed beside him was empty, he knew Edward was downstairs, likely rustling something up to eat as he promised. After what had happened, every noise made him jump out of his skin. It was odd – looking back to the events only hours before in the attic, it felt so unreal, as if the time between the incident gave William the space he needed to determine that it was all caused by something explainable.
Rolling over, he reached for his phone instinctively. But it wasn’t where it always was, face down on the bedside table. A cold wrinkle of dread coursed down his neck. It didn’t take a genius to guess where he’d left it. In the attic. He added going to retrieve his phone to the growing list of things he knew he needed to do but wasn’t ready to. The brush of soft leather met his hand where his phone should’ve been. Robert’s journal waited for him, as if it always knew he’d reach out for it. Strange, because he didn’t remember leaving it there. But like everything else that’d happened here, he didn’t question the oddity as he picked it up and drew it up before him.
He flicked the side light on, sparking the side of his room in a glow of chemical orange. With one look out of the window, William knew it was late – the sky was completely black now, dotted with clouds so thick that even the stars couldn’t contest for their place. His body clock told him it was close to the turn of the day, but without his phone, it was simply a guess.
Tomorrow, they’d leave Hanbury. For now, or for good, William hadn’t decided yet. What was clear was the manor didn’t want him, and he wished he shared in that feeling.
What did life look like far from this nightmare in the middle of the Cotswolds?
He’d return to London, back to his life and forget all about the lost stories within these rooms.
A strange ache sang beneath his ribs, so much so that he laid a hand and massaged the area. Was it the idea of giving up on a future he’d hoped for or the knowing that William and Edward would part ways? There was no reason they’d stay in contact; hell, neither man really knew each other. Besides Hanbury, what did they have in common?
Not wanting to drown in those unwanted feelings, William opened Robert’s journal, likely for the last time. As he flicked through the pages, he told himself that he pried on behalf of the man downstairs. Edward had come all this way for answers to what happened to his great-uncle, and thus far, they’d only uncovered more questions and theories, than truth.
The truth. Such an odd concept, foreign and unclear. It seemed people were conditioned to chase the truth, no matter if it hurt them in the end. That was what we’d been doing here? Edward came to dig up the past, whereas William wanted nothing more than to bury it here. Neither would get what they wanted in the end. Perhaps that was the truth in life, to be complacent with what you had before you. Focus on the day in hand and not those that came before it, or the promise of those coming after.
Nothing is ever really promised.
William found some solace in reading Robert Thomas’s tragic tale.
“What’syourtruth, Robert?” William said aloud, sinking into a sitting position against the headboard, as he found his last place in the journal and began to read.
Perhaps if he listened hard enough, he would’ve heard the answer.
19 October 1939
Dearest reader, I feel it is only fair I tell you the truth of what is to come. We have, unless I am sorely mistaken, built a rather impressive rapport with one another, where I tell you my secrets, and you keep them. I do not think there are enough pages in this journal for me to write how grateful I am for your company.
Forgive me, but this will be my last entry. I know, believe me, my heart pains at the thought, too. But maybe, one day soon, I can find a new pen and parchment and tell you of my new life. The one Edward has promised me. Although I fear to write to you too much in case unwanted eyes find this before I discard it in the wishing well of our gardens.
Soon, I, Robert Thomas, will die. As this journal sinks into the forgotten waters and my words become food for the little beasts lurking in the bottom of my family’s well, I will be no more.
Like the metamorphosis of a butterfly from its cocoon, I will change into a new creature – something bright and proud, where I do not need to dull my colours. And I will not be the only one. Teddy will join me in the change, in altering one’s self to something new.
I am waiting for word from him. I have checked our hiding place daily, waiting for him to leave me a message on when we are to go. But you see, we have had to be careful since that night over two weeks ago. Father is a storm of fury. I see it in how he looks at me and hear it in his tone when he speaks to me. Edward has been refused entry to the manor for so long that I have almost forgotten how he sounds. But regardless if they keep us apart, I still see the candle on his window, dancing for me, flickering in a signal that I am on his mind as much as he is in mine.
Mother told me I was confused. Mother told me to pray for a clear mind. Instead, I took down the crucifix from the wall atop of my bed and hurled it at the door. It did not break, and for that I was relived. But it did make my mother cry.
She has not spoken directly to me since.
Mother believes her silence is punishment. If anything, it is giving me room to think.
Can I tell you a secret? I crave him. Sin or not, I need Teddy so desperately I am forgetting myself. And this feeling has only intensified since our last encounter. Brief as it was, he told me in hushed words about his sister, the letter he sent and the response he received. I fear that if I do not receive instruction from him soon, then I will practically explode. Perhaps I will climb to the roof and scream it for all of England to hear.
I have no bag packed. There is no need for my past items when looking forward to a future with Teddy. We will both leave with nothing but our love for one another. Then, as we build a home together, we will do it brick by brick, with nothing but the fresh coastal air to fill us, the endless stretch of sea to accompany us, and our love to sustain us.
