by Jack Lewis
Things seemed forever changed, but timeless as well. When she reached the first floor, a feeling started to well in her chest. It wasn’t a nice one, it was something like nostalgia but twisted so that she wasn’t longing for the past, but felt it looming over her.
Ahead of her was a hallway. On the right wall hung a crucifix, stuck to the wood by a rusty nail. Every few feet after that there were mirrors in black frames. It was the same on the other wall too. These must have been new additions to the house because she didn’t remember them.
“Does this place never end?” said Trev. “You must have gotten lost a lot.”
“You get used to it,” said Scar. “Didn’t you come to any of our parties here?”
Trev smirked. “The baker’s son? Invited to Gawthorpe Estate? Fat chance.”
There were five doorways on this wing of the house. Two on the left, two on the right, and one at the end. On the left were her old bedroom and her sister’s room. On the right was her father’s study, and then her mum’s sewing room. At the far end of the corridor, pushed back where the light didn’t reach, was another door.
This one was different from the rest. It was the only door in the house that was made of metal. Whoever installed it had stained it black. In all the years Scarlett lived here she’d never seen it open, but she had been okay with that. Something told her that it should stay locked forever.
She’d always felt that way. She remembered how the air used to change when she went closer to the door; that it turned colder and colder. Her cousin Alan used to creep up to it and then, knowing how much it scared her, would knock three times on the metal and then wait for an answer.
Although she’d never seen the room open, she knew someone had gotten inside it once.
It was her twelfth birthday. After months of nagging in the lead-up to the day, her mother and father had agreed to throw her a party. They made the manor staff decorate the house with banners and balloons, and they had surprised her with it.
Her parents had gone to a lot of effort, and she knew she should have been happy. Something about it wasn’t right. It didn’t seem proper to drape colourful banners over the walls of a house like this. It was like dressing up a corpse.
The party had been going on for hours. They’d cycled through party games like Pass the Parcel and Pin the Tail on the Cow, which was her father’s countryside version of the classic. Scarlett and her friends were way too old for that, but she persevered to humour her parents. She remembered thinking that it was as though they didn’t know what a party was, and that they’d found some stock definition in the dictionary and just gone with that.
The downstairs dining room was filled with kids from her class, and there were too many for her parents and the estate staff to watch over. Paper plates littered the floor, and Mum avoided them as though they were landmines. Dad watched her school friends terrorize the living room with unusual patience.
Though the yells of the children threatened to drown everything else out, one sound stood out above the rest. It was the sound of banging. The din of someone pounding on metal.
She looked around to see if any of the others had heard it, but they seemed oblivious. Her father sat on a chair in front of the piano with his chin resting on his hands. His eyes were downcast, as if the party was his own version of hell. Her mother held a tray of vol-au-vents and offered them to the children, who had no interest in the rich pastry. Combining the sophisticated French appetizer with Pin the Tail on the Cow highlighted how clueless her parents were when it came to parties.
At first, she thought that she might have been imagining the banging. The more she listened, the louder it got. It sounded like it was coming from beyond the room and upstairs. There was no way it was imaginary.
Mum and Dad seemed oblivious, so it was up to her to investigate. She left the party and followed the trail of sound, taking the stairs one step at a time. A chill spread through her.
This wasn’t just the sound of someone pounding metal now; another sound had joined it. It was the yell of a child.
She stood at the end of the hallway. She saw her and her sister’s rooms on the left, with the doors open. Her father’s study door was closed, and her mum’s sewing room was locked.
She almost jumped when she heard the sound again. It was unmistakable this time. It came from the end of the hall, from the metal door.
She didn’t understand. Someone was in the room, and they were banging on the door. She heard someone yell, and she realised that it was Peter Jones, a boy from her class.
How had he gotten in there? As she started to walk toward the door, she felt a hand pull her back. She shouted out in shock, but then realised that it was her father. He raced down the hall to his study and unlocked it. Minutes later, he emerged with a key in his hand. It was long and dark, and it looked like something had been carved into the metal.
Scarlett didn’t see what lay beyond the door. She watched as her father took Peter out of the room. His skin was completely white, and his eyes were wet with tears.
It had been twelve years since the party, but standing here now with her husband and daughter, she could almost hear Peter screaming.
She wanted to leave the landing and go downstairs. She didn’t want to stay in Gawthorpe. She felt a yearning to get in the car and drive away, and see how far the last dregs in the petrol tank could take her.
Trev put his arm around her shoulder. She sank into it. “You okay?” he said.
“It’s just weird being back.”
“Let’s go get our stuff from the car,” he said.
She followed him outside and onto the gravel driveway. As she stood in the Gawthorpe grounds, below the house which had hundreds of windowpanes from which anything could watch her, she folded her arms.
Then, casting off the little-girl instincts the house brought on, she grabbed Ruby’s hand and squeezed. It would all be okay, wouldn’t it?
Chapter Five
Outside, they found the estate staff waiting for them. They hadn’t been there before, and Scarlett wondered how they’d crept up to the house without her hearing their feet crunching on the gravel.
A bald man was sporting a cook’s apron, two maids wearing creased uniforms, and a skinny man with lank black hair. He was the first to greet them, stepping forward with an outstretched hand. Scarlett shook his hand and felt this bony fingers wrap around hers.
“I’m Jonathan Letchin,” he said. He gave a smile that didn’t sit right on his face. It was like he’d practised several in the mirror before deciding on one that he’d adopt for the rest of his life. “Welcome back to Gawthorpe, Mrs Thorne.”
She tried to place his face, but couldn’t. At the same time, it felt like he belonged here. He was the sort of person you’d expect to see working in a countryside estate. Scarlett was no fashionista, but Jonathan’s clothes were so far removed from trends that they were actively fleeing them. His hair looked like it had been greased with butter.
Maybe he just reminded her of some of the staff who had been around when she was a girl. Her father had always kept staff on the estate. He always said, ‘What’s the point in having money if I’m boiling my own bloody potatoes?’
For him, being rich meant making sure people knew it. Looking around, Scarlett didn’t see the estate as a symbol of wealth. The bricks of the house were chipped and discoloured, and the walls and furniture were dusty with age.
She was sure that Jonathan Letchin hadn’t worked at the house when she was younger. She stared at him, trying to place him. His eyebrows were thin and pointed, and the only colour on his pale face came from his blue eyes. His features seemed to fit the house; cold and impersonal, with eyes that were always watching.
“In the absence of an official appointment,” said Jonathan, “I have been managing the estate.”
“You’ve been running the whole house on your own? Just you guys?” said Trev.
Jonathan nodded. “I carry out most of the running, really. Once
you know what to do, where to go, what to check, there’s a rhythm to it. But sometimes I’m up before the sun and not resting until it’s gone.”
“Impressive,” said Trev.
Jonathan accepted the compliment with a gracious nod. It was clear that his ability to take care of such a large estate meant a lot to him.
“Will you be wanting a bath or shower before we discuss the running of the house?” he said.
As he said this, Scarlett caught him looking at their clothes. She was sure that his nose wrinkled. She looked down at her shirt and noticed how creased it was, and once again she felt ashamed.
“We’re good,” said Trev. He’d never cared about a bit of dirt. That was something she admired about him. Life could throw all manner of crap his way, but he’d never show that it bothered him.
Jonathan gestured behind him to the other staff members. “Paul is the house cook, and he has been in Gawthorpe employ for the seven years.”
Behind him, the cook stepped forward and nodded his head. “Just let me know anything you or the little one don’t like, and I shan’t cook it for you.”
Jonathan carried on. “And then we have Sarah and Anna. You might remember Anna, Mrs Thorne. She worked here briefly when you were a child.”
Anna was the older of the two women. Scarlett looked at her face and tried to recognise her, but she drew a blank. Staff came and went when she was younger. Gawthorpe wasn’t the sort of place you came to for a career.
Jonathan walked forward and put his arms around Scarlett and Trev’s shoulders. Scarlett felt uncomfortable with his overfamiliarity. Together, they walked away from the other staff members.
“I had them make up your parents’ room for you to stay in,” said Jonathan. “It’s the only one with a double bed. And for the girl, I had them furnish your old bedroom.”
She shook her head. “No way. We aren’t staying in any rooms on the east wing. We’ll stay in the west wing.”
“The west wing? You’re not the president.”
She couldn’t believe his tone. “Ruby isn’t staying in my old room, and I don’t want to be on that side of the house. We’ll take the two spare rooms on the west wing.”
Jonathan kept a look of neutrality on his face. “And sleep in rooms without beds?” he said.
The sarcasm in his tone was slight enough that he could deny it if he chose to. What annoyed Scarlett, though, was that he didn’t seem to be bothered. She already didn’t like him.
“You’ll just have to make sure they have beds then, won’t you?”
Jonathan gave a thin smile. His lips twisted like he’d bitten into a cake and found it full of raw lemons. Looking at him closer, she realised that the estate manager wasn’t as he seemed.
Although he was well turned-out in smart trousers, a blazer, and a formal coat, his footwear didn’t match. He wore black pumps, and the tips were stained with mud. Strands of grey had started to shock through his hair above his ear. Either the youthfulness of his face didn’t tell the truth about his age, or he was greying early.
“How did my dad seem to you, Jonathan?” she said.
He raised an eyebrow. “Miss?”
“Before he died. Did he act differently?”
Jonathan nodded. “I don’t know if you remember what he was like around us. The help. He used to ignore us unless he needed tea brought to him or his car fetching from the garage.”
She thought about it. Her life in Gawthorpe seemed to be a blur. It was so long ago that it was as though it had happened to someone else.
She could vaguely remember her father barking orders at the estate staff, but she couldn’t tell if the memory was real, or if her mind had conjured it on the spot.
“Perhaps this isn’t for me to say,” said Jonathan.
She sensed he was hiding something.
“Just tell me.”
He was silent for a moment, and then he had a strange look in his eyes.
“This might be unpleasant to hear.”
Chapter Six
“Near the end,” carried on Jonathan, “your father shut himself in his room. Mostly it was quiet, but sometimes we’d hear things at night. It got to the point that we’d just leave him to it. But sometimes, he’d call me into the room. I’d expect him to order me around, but instead, he’d pour me a whiskey. It was strange if you don’t mind me saying. He’d talk to me, and ask me things.”
“Like what?” said Trev.
Jonathan didn’t look at Trev but instead focussed on Scarlett.
“Like ‘Are you happy, Jonathan? If you had to die now, would you be satisfied with what you’ve done in your life?’ At first, I wondered if it was a threat.”
“Dad was always great for conversation,” she said.
“He said some strange things, near the end. Things about the house and the family and…well…”
“What?” she said.
“About your sister, Jane.”
Whenever the subject of Jane came up, she felt like putting her hands to her ears and blocking everything out. Trev had long ago stopped trying to talk to her about it. Once, he’d accused her of running away from her past. The resulting four-day feud had convinced him never to speak that combination of words again.
A chill blew from north of the house and wrapped itself around her, stroking her skin like the tips of ghostly fingers. Scarlett shivered.
“Let’s move on,” she said. “Jonathan, I need beds moved to a room on the west wing.”
As the tall man strode away, Trev turned to Scarlett. “Ordering comes naturally to you, doesn’t it? Must be the Gawthorpe blood.”
“I’m a Thorne now.”
Though he was yards away, Jonathan spun around as though he was launching into a dance. “You’ll always be a Gawthorpe,” he said.
“My passport says Thorne, so clearly not,” said Scarlett.
Scarlett heard a noise in the distance. It sounded like something crying out, and for a second she could have sworn it came from the direction of the lake. She wouldn’t turn around. If she could have her way, she’d have the whole thing filled in with concrete.
Listening harder, she realised that it was the sound of yelping. It came from the east end of the house, beyond a wooden shed. Tucked out of view were the kennels. Her father had always loved animals, and in some ways, his pups got the attention that Scarlett and Jane had lacked. It didn’t surprise her that he’d kept dogs even in his later years.
“What time is it?” said Jonathan.
“You’re wearing a watch,” said Trev.
Jonathan held up his arm. His sleeve slid further down, and Scarlett noticed that there was an inch gap between the watch and his wrist. She wondered if he’d lost weight recently, or if he’d always been this thin.
“It doesn’t work,” said Jonathan. “I was going to get it fixed, but I found I don’t need it. My body runs on better clockwork than this thing ever did. I sleep at the same time every night, and I get up at the same time in the morning. I don’t need a watch or an alarm.”
Scarlett checked her own. “It’s three-thirty,” she said.
Jonathan looked in the direction of the kennels. “Better feed the pups,” he said.
“Puppies?” said Ruby. A light flashed in her eyes. Scarlett knew what that meant. She could predict what question would come as soon as her daughter saw the dogs.
Jonathan started walking in the direction of the kennels. Before Scarlett could say anything, Ruby sprinted off after the estate manager. Seeing his little stalker running alongside him, Jonathan reached out and rubbed her head.
“Can’t hurt to let her see the pups,” said Trev.
“Seriously? You think it’ll stop there?”
Jonathan put his arm on Ruby’s shoulder. “What do you think of your mum’s house?” he said. “It’s magnificent, isn’t it? You wouldn’t believe some of the things that have happened here. I’ll tell you all the stories of Gawthorpe sometime if you’d like?”
She didn’
t like the idea of Jonathan telling her daughter about Gawthorpe’s past. She hurried up to join them, acting as a physical barrier between the estate manager and her daughter.
As they passed the east wing of the house, she felt something on her neck. It was a feeling that although it wasn’t unpleasant, she knew she didn’t want it all the same. It was the sensation of skin after it has just been scratched, where it felt a little raw.
She looked around her, sure that somebody was watching her. She expected to look up at the old windows of the house and see a figure stood at one of them.
Glancing from room to room, she saw nothing. They were alone.
