Hollow Kingdom / Season 1, Episode 1
Return to Ashworth Hall
The gravel crunched under Eleanor’s boots, each step a small betrayal of the silence she’d planned for her return. She stopped halfway up the drive, her breath fogging in the November chill, and stared at Ashworth Hall. The estate loomed ahead, its turrets jagged against a sky bruised with dusk, the west wing sagging like a broken shoulder. She hadn’t seen it in twenty years, not since she’d packed a single bag and sworn never to come back. Now, the weight of her leather briefcase—stuffed with case files she’d brought as a shield—pulled at her shoulder. Her fingers tightened on the handle. She could turn around. She could call a cab, be back in London by midnight, and let the others sort out whatever mess Father had left behind.
But then the front door creaked open, a slow groan of iron hinges, and Thomas stood there, framed in the dim amber of the hall. Her brother hadn’t changed—still the same wiry frame, the same hollow cheeks, though his hair was thinner now, greying at the temples. He wore a threadbare jumper, the kind their mother used to knit, and his hands hung loose at his sides, as if he’d forgotten what to do with them. He didn’t wave, didn’t call out. Just watched her, his eyes catching the last light, unreadable.
“Ellie,” he said at last, his voice rough, like he’d been shouting into the wind. “Didn’t think you’d show.”
She forced her legs to move, the gravel biting through the soles of her boots, and stopped a few paces from him. The air smelled of damp stone and something sweeter, rotting—fallen apples, maybe, from the orchard beyond the east wing. “It’s Eleanor now,” she said, her tone clipped, the way she spoke to junior counsel who’d missed a deadline. “And I’m not here for nostalgia, Thomas. I’ve got court on Monday. Let’s get this over with.”
His mouth twitched, not quite a smile, and he stepped aside to let her pass. The entrance hall swallowed her, the cold of it seeping through her coat. The chandelier above dangled half its crystals, casting fractured shadows on the marble floor, and the air was thick with the scent of mildew and old wax. Portraits lined the walls—generations of Ashworths, their painted eyes following her as she moved. She avoided looking at Father’s, hung near the staircase, his stern jaw and cold stare preserved in oil. Her chest tightened, a familiar ache, and she pushed it down. She wasn’t a child anymore. She didn’t owe him fear.
“You’re the first,” Thomas said, shutting the door with a thud that echoed. “The others’ll be along soon, I reckon. Mr. Crowe’s already here. Set up in the library.”
Eleanor nodded, shedding her coat and draping it over her arm. Her fingers brushed the wool, still damp from the train station drizzle. “The will. That’s all I’m here for. Read it, sign whatever needs signing, and I’m gone.”
Thomas’s gaze flickered, something sharp in it, but he only shrugged. “House has rules, Ellie—Eleanor, sorry. Always has. You’ll see.” He turned toward the grand staircase, his boots scuffing the worn runner, and she followed, her own steps precise, measured, as if she could control the unease crawling up her spine.
The library smelled of leather and dust, the kind of scent that clung to the back of your throat. Mr. Crowe sat at the long oak table, his back to the fire crackling in the hearth, his hands folded over a stack of papers. He looked older than Eleanor remembered, his face a map of wrinkles, his white hair sparse under the lamplight. His suit was immaculate, though, black as coal, and his eyes—still sharp, still cutting—met hers as she entered.
“Miss Ashworth,” he said, his voice a low rasp, like paper crumpling. “Or should I say Mrs. Harcourt? I understand you’ve taken a new name.”
“Miss Harcourt,” she corrected, setting her briefcase on the table with a deliberate thud. “Divorced. And I don’t intend to stay long enough for pleasantries, Mr. Crowe. Can we begin?”
He inclined his head, a small, knowing gesture that made her skin prickle. “Not yet. The terms of your father’s will require all parties present. We await the others.” He tapped a finger on the papers, the sound a quiet drumbeat in the room. “Though I must warn you, the conditions are… unusual.”
Eleanor’s jaw tightened. She sat, her chair scraping against the floor, and crossed her arms. Unusual. That was Father to the bone—always a game, always a trap. She’d spent two decades untangling herself from his strings, building a life in London where no one knew the name Ashworth, where no one asked about the crumbling estate in the north. And yet here she was, dragged back by a death she hadn’t mourned.
Thomas lingered near the door, his fingers tracing the edge of a bookshelf, as if he could feel the house breathing through the wood. “They’ll be late,” he muttered. “Always are. Margot’s probably off sketching some nightmare, and Felix—God knows where Felix is.”
Eleanor didn’t respond. She stared at the fire, the flames licking at the grate, casting shadows that danced like fingers on the walls. Her mind churned, sifting through memories she’d buried—Margot’s wild laughter, Felix’s reckless grin, the way Thomas used to hum to himself when he thought no one was listening. They weren’t a family, not really. They were survivors of the same war, scattered by the fallout. And Ashworth Hall was the battlefield.
The sound of tires on gravel broke the silence, a low growl that vibrated through the windowpanes. Thomas straightened, his face tightening, and Eleanor felt it too—a shift, like the air before a storm. Another sibling, another piece of the fractured puzzle. She didn’t turn to look. She didn’t need to. The past was coming for her, whether she wanted it or not.
The library door swung open, and Margot stumbled in, paint smudged on her cheek, her auburn hair a tangle spilling from a loose bun. She carried a canvas under one arm, the edges frayed, and her eyes—wide, darting—swept the room before landing on Eleanor. A grin split her face, too bright, too sharp, like she’d seen something she shouldn’t have.
“Ellie!” she exclaimed, dropping the canvas against the wall with a thud. “Bloody hell, didn’t think you’d come. Thought you’d burned this place out of your head for good.”
Eleanor’s fingers dug into the arms of her chair, the wood rough under her palms. “It’s Eleanor. And I’m here for the will, nothing more.”
Margot laughed, a brittle sound, and flopped into a chair across from her. She smelled of turpentine and something earthy, like wet soil. Her hands fidgeted, nails bitten to the quick, and Eleanor noticed the dark circles under her eyes, the way her gaze kept slipping to the canvas as if it might speak. “Right, right. Business as usual. You haven’t changed a bit.” She leaned forward, her voice dropping. “But the house has. You feel it yet?”
Eleanor didn’t answer. She couldn’t. There was something in Margot’s tone, a knowing edge that made her stomach twist. She focused on the fire instead, the heat of it barely reaching her, the crackle of logs a steady rhythm against the growing hum in her ears. Thomas shifted near the door again, his boots scraping, and Mr. Crowe cleared his throat, a dry, impatient sound.
“Miss Margot,” the solicitor said, “perhaps you’d care to explain the painting? It seems… pertinent.”
Margot’s grin faltered, and she glanced at the canvas, her fingers twitching. “It’s nothing. Just a sketch. Something I saw on the train up. A dream, maybe.” But her voice cracked on the last word, and Eleanor saw it—the lie, the fear beneath it. She wanted to ask, to press, but the words stuck in her throat. She wasn’t here to care. She wasn’t here to get pulled back in.
Another set of tires on the drive, louder this time, the engine cutting off with a sputter. Felix. It had to be. Eleanor’s shoulders tensed, her breath shallow. She could picture him already—too handsome for his own good, his smile a weapon, his eyes always searching for the next fix, the next escape. She hadn’t seen him since he’d shown up at her flat eight years ago, strung out, begging for cash she didn’t give. She’d shut the door on him then. She’d shut the door on all of them.
The front door slammed, a sharp crack that echoed through the house, and footsteps—quick, uneven—approached. Felix burst into the library, his leather jacket slick with rain, his hair plastered to his forehead. He grinned, all teeth, and spread his arms wide. “The prodigal returns! Missed me, didn’t you?”
Thomas snorted, a bitter sound, and Margot rolled her eyes, but Eleanor just stared. Felix’s grin didn’t reach his eyes. There was a tremor in his hands as he shoved them into his pockets, a pallor to his skin that spoke of nights without sleep, of debts unpaid. He met her gaze, and for a moment, something raw flickered there—shame, maybe, or desperation. Then it was gone, buried under charm as he dropped into a chair near Margot.
“So,” he said, leaning back, his voice a drawl. “Old man’s finally kicked it. What’s the damage? We splitting the silver, or did he leave it all to some secret mistress?”
Mr. Crowe’s expression didn’t change, but his fingers stilled on the papers. “Mr. Felix, your father’s wishes will be revealed in due course. Once all parties are present, we shall proceed.”
Felix laughed, sharp and hollow. “All parties. You mean the ghosts too? ‘Cause I swear, this place feels like it’s got more dead than living in it.”
Eleanor’s throat tightened. She wanted to snap at him, to tell him to shut up, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she felt the house pressing in—the weight of the walls, the creak of the floorboards, the faint, inexplicable draft that brushed her neck like a whisper. Margot’s painting leaned against the wall, half-hidden in shadow, and Eleanor’s eyes kept drifting to it, though she couldn’t say why. There was something wrong with it, something she couldn’t name.
Thomas moved at last, stepping closer to the table, his hands clenched at his sides. “Enough, Felix. You don’t know what you’re talking about. This house—” He stopped, his jaw working, as if the words were fighting to stay inside. “It’s not a joke. Never was.”
Felix raised an eyebrow, but before he could retort, a sharp rap sounded at the library door. Eleanor’s heart jolted, her fingers digging harder into the chair. It wasn’t a knock. It was too deliberate, too heavy, like a fist testing the wood. Thomas turned, his face pale, and Margot sat up straighter, her eyes wide. Felix’s grin faltered, just for a second.
Mr. Crowe rose, his movements slow, deliberate, and adjusted his tie. “That will be the last of our party, I expect,” he said, his voice steady, too steady. “Or perhaps… something else.”
The door creaked open before anyone could reach it, the sound a low moan in the quiet. Eleanor’s breath caught, her hand finding the edge of the table, the polished wood cold under her palm. The hallway beyond was dark, a yawning void, and for a moment, she thought she saw movement—a flicker, a shape that wasn’t there when she blinked. Her pulse hammered in her ears, and she told herself it was nothing, just the house, just the shadows. But Thomas’s face, the way his eyes locked on the empty space, told her otherwise.
“Who’s there?” Felix called, his voice louder than it needed to be, a crack in his bravado. No answer came, only the faint sound of footsteps—slow, deliberate—echoing from somewhere deeper in the house. Not the hallway. Not anywhere they could see. Somewhere sealed, somewhere forbidden.
Margot whispered, “It’s started,” and Eleanor felt the words like a blade, sharp and cold, cutting through the fragile wall she’d built around herself. She wanted to stand, to demand answers, but her legs wouldn’t move. The fire sputtered in the grate, casting long, writhing shadows, and the air grew heavier, thick with the scent of something old, something waiting.
Mr. Crowe stepped toward the door, his cane tapping the floor, each sound a countdown. “We should proceed to the drawing room,” he said, as if nothing were wrong, as if the house weren’t listening. “The will must be read. And the conditions… explained.”
Eleanor’s gaze flicked to Thomas, to the way his hands trembled, to Margot’s pale face, to Felix’s forced smirk. They all felt it. They all knew. Ashworth Hall wasn’t just a house. It was a cage. And they’d just walked back into it.
Eleanor’s fingers dug into the armrest of the chair, the fabric rough and worn beneath her nails, as if the house itself were fraying at the edges. Her breath came shallow, each inhale tasting of dust and the faint, cloying sweetness of decay that clung to the air like a second skin. Mr. Crowe’s words hung between them, heavy as the iron chandelier above, its candles unlit, its chains creaking faintly though no one had touched it. The drawing room. The will. Conditions. Her mind latched onto the last word, turning it over like a stone hiding something venomous beneath. Conditions for what? She didn’t want to know. She didn’t want to stay long enough to find out. But the footsteps—those impossible, retreating echoes from somewhere beyond the walls—rooted her to the spot, a prisoner to her own dread.
Thomas stood first, his boots scuffing against the warped floorboards, the sound too loud in the suffocating quiet. His face was a mask of resignation, the lines around his mouth deeper than Eleanor remembered, carved by years of solitude in this forsaken place. “Best get it over with,” he muttered, not meeting anyone’s eyes, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his threadbare tweed jacket. The jacket smelled of damp wool and woodsmoke, a scent that tugged at Eleanor’s memory, pulling her back to childhood winters when she’d hidden in the library, away from Father’s rages, while Thomas lingered near the hearth, always watching, always waiting for something she could never name. He knew more than he let on. He always had.
Margot rose next, her movements jerky, like a marionette with half its strings cut. Her paint-splattered cardigan hung off one shoulder, and her fingers twitched as if itching for a brush, for something to capture the unease crawling through the room. “I don’t like this,” she whispered, more to herself than to them, her voice thin as the crack of ice on a frozen pond. Her eyes darted to the shadowed corner near the fireplace, where the wallpaper peeled back like flayed skin, revealing the grey plaster beneath. Eleanor followed her gaze, half-expecting to see something move there, a flicker of shape or shadow, but there was nothing. Just the house, breathing its own quiet malice.
Felix lingered by the doorframe, one hand braced against the wood, his posture all forced nonchalance. The smirk hadn’t left his face, but it was brittle now, a cracked veneer over something raw. “Come on, then. Let’s see what the old bastard left us. Bet it’s a crate of cobwebs and a curse or two.” His laugh was sharp, hollow, and it died too quickly, swallowed by the weight of the air. Eleanor caught the tremor in his fingers as he adjusted his collar, the faint sheen of sweat at his temple despite the chill seeping through the stone walls. He was scared. More than he’d admit. And that scared her worse than the footsteps, worse than Margot’s cryptic mutterings. Felix didn’t scare easy. Not when they were kids, sneaking into Father’s study to steal his brandy, not even when he’d come home bruised and bloodied from whatever mess he’d stumbled into in London. If he was rattled, there was something real to fear.
Mr. Crowe led the way, his cane a steady metronome against the floor, each tap echoing down the corridor like a warning drum. Eleanor forced herself to follow, her heels clicking too loudly, the sound bouncing off the high ceilings and coming back distorted, almost like whispers. The hallway stretched before them, dim and endless, the gas lamps flickering in their sconces, casting long, wavering pools of light that did more to hide than reveal. Portraits lined the walls, their subjects’ eyes following with cold judgement—generations of Ashworths, all with the same sharp cheekbones, the same hollow gaze. Eleanor avoided looking at them. She didn’t need reminding of the blood that tied her to this place, to the weight of a name she’d spent decades trying to shed.
The air grew colder as they neared the drawing room, a draft snaking through unseen cracks, brushing against Eleanor’s neck like icy fingers. She pulled her coat tighter, the silk lining slick against her skin, and fought the urge to glance behind her. She could feel it—the sense of being watched, of something just out of sight, lingering at the edge of her vision. Her hand brushed the wall for balance, the paper beneath her palm damp and curling, smelling faintly of mildew. The house was rotting from the inside, just as it always had, and yet it felt alive in a way that made her stomach twist. Alive and hungry.
The drawing room door stood ajar, a slab of black oak carved with ivy motifs, the hinges rusted and protesting as Mr. Crowe pushed it wider. The room beyond was a cavern of shadows, the heavy velvet drapes drawn tight over windows that hadn’t seen sunlight in years. A single candelabrum burned on the mahogany table at the centre, its flames trembling as if caught in a breath no one had exhaled. The air here was thicker, laden with the scent of old tobacco and something sweeter, cloying, like overripe fruit left to spoil. Eleanor’s throat tightened as she stepped inside, her gaze darting to the corners, to the high-backed chairs upholstered in faded brocade, to the ornate mirror above the mantel that reflected nothing but darkness. She didn’t want to sit. Didn’t want to stay. But Mr. Crowe gestured to the chairs with a nod, his face unreadable beneath the brim of his hat, and the siblings shuffled in, each taking a seat as if compelled by some unspoken command.
Thomas sat nearest the door, his posture rigid, his hands folded in his lap like a man awaiting sentencing. Margot perched on the edge of her chair, her fingers tracing invisible patterns on the armrest, her lips moving silently as if reciting something only she could hear. Felix sprawled in his seat, one leg crossed over the other, but his foot tapped a restless rhythm against the floor, the sole of his scuffed boot leaving faint smears of mud on the rug. Eleanor chose the chair farthest from the mirror, her back to the wall, her hands clasped tight to keep them from shaking. She could feel the weight of the room pressing in, the ceiling too low despite its height, the walls too close despite their breadth. It was as if the space itself were shrinking, tightening around them like a noose.
Mr. Crowe remained standing, his cane planted firmly before him, his shadow stretching long and thin across the table. He removed a leather-bound folder from his coat, the pages within yellowed and brittle, and laid it open with a care that bordered on reverence. “Before we begin,” he said, his voice low, gravelly, carrying the weight of decades, “I must impress upon you the gravity of what I am about to read. Your father’s wishes were… particular. And they are binding.”
“Binding how?” Eleanor cut in, her tone sharper than she intended, the barrister in her rising to the surface despite the dread coiling in her chest. She leaned forward, her elbows on the table, the wood cool and slick beneath her skin. “A will is a legal document, Mr. Crowe. It can’t force us to do anything. We’re not children to be dictated to.”
The solicitor’s eyes met hers, pale and watery beneath heavy lids, and for a moment she saw something flicker there—pity, perhaps, or fear. “Miss Ashworth,” he said, and the use of her old name stung like a slap, “you will find that in matters of this estate, the law as you know it holds little sway. Your father ensured that. Now, if you’ll allow me…” He adjusted his spectacles and began to read, his voice a monotone that somehow made the words more chilling.
“‘To my children, Eleanor, Thomas, Margot, Felix, and those not named but remembered, I bequeath Ashworth Hall and all its holdings, to be divided equally upon the fulfilment of the following condition: you are to remain within the boundaries of the estate for a period of seven nights, commencing from the date of my passing, which you now know to be this very day. During this time, you are forbidden to leave the grounds under any circumstance. Should any of you depart before the seventh dawn, the inheritance in its entirety shall be forfeit, and the estate will pass into the care of a party I have designated in confidence to Mr. Crowe. Furthermore, you are to abide by the rules of the house, as they have always been, and as they will be revealed to you in due course.’”
The words landed like stones in still water, sending ripples of unease through the room. Eleanor’s mind raced, parsing the language, searching for loopholes even as her pulse hammered against her ribs. Seven nights. Forbidden to leave. Rules revealed in due course. It was madness. It was a trap. She opened her mouth to protest, but Felix beat her to it, his voice dripping with bitter amusement.
“Seven bloody nights? What’s this, some gothic nonsense? Did the old man think we’d play along with his games just for a crumbling heap of stone?” He leaned back, his chair creaking under his weight, but his eyes were sharp, darting between Mr. Crowe and the door, as if calculating his odds of walking out right then. “I’ve got debts to pay, mate. I can’t sit here playing haunted house for a week.”
“It’s not a game,” Thomas said quietly, his voice almost lost beneath the faint crackle of the candles. He stared at the table, at the deep scratches in the wood, as if they held answers. “You don’t understand. You never did. The house… it’s not just stone and mortar. It’s—” He stopped, his jaw tightening, his hands curling into fists. Eleanor watched him, her chest tightening, a memory surfacing unbidden—Thomas as a boy, whispering to her about the voices he heard in the walls, the shapes he saw in the dark. She’d dismissed it then as childish fancy. Now, seeing the hollows under his eyes, the way his shoulders hunched as if carrying an unseen burden, she wasn’t so sure.
Margot’s head snapped up, her gaze unfocused, her fingers stilling on the armrest. “Seven nights,” she murmured, her voice distant, as if speaking from underwater. “Seven. Like the paintings. Like the—” She cut herself off, her lips pressing into a thin line, and Eleanor felt a prickle of unease at the back of her neck. What paintings? What had Margot seen, or thought she’d seen? Her sister had always been strange, prone to fits of fancy, sketching things that made no sense until days or weeks later, when they’d come true in the smallest, most unsettling ways. A broken window. A fallen tree. A fight no one could have predicted. Eleanor had always told herself it was coincidence. Now, she wasn’t sure she believed that anymore.
Mr. Crowe cleared his throat, drawing their attention back to him, his fingers tracing the edge of the folder as if reluctant to turn the page. “There is more,” he said, and the room seemed to grow colder, the candles flickering as if in protest. “Your father left specific instructions for each night. Tasks, if you will. They are to be completed as a condition of the inheritance. Failure to comply will result in the same forfeit as leaving the estate.”
“Tasks?” Felix barked a laugh, but it was strained, his foot tapping faster now, the rhythm erratic. “What, like cleaning the attics? Polishing the silver? Or is it something properly mad, like digging up the garden at midnight?”
The solicitor didn’t answer, his silence more damning than words. He turned the page, the rustle of paper loud in the stifling quiet, and continued reading. “‘On the first night, you are to gather in the east wing, in the room that has been sealed since the winter of ’89. The key will be provided by Mr. Crowe at the appointed hour. You are to enter together, and you are to remain until midnight. What you find there is yours to contend with. I offer no guidance, only this: do not speak of what you see to those outside the blood.’”
Eleanor’s blood ran cold, her fingers tightening on the edge of the table until her knuckles whitened. The east wing. Sealed since ’89. She remembered that winter, the shouting behind closed doors, the sound of hammering late into the night, the way Father had forbidden them from even approaching that corridor. She’d been a teenager then, already plotting her escape, and she hadn’t questioned it. Hadn’t wanted to know. Now, the weight of that ignorance pressed down on her, heavy as the stone walls around them. What had Father hidden there? What did he want them to find?
Thomas’s face had gone ashen, his eyes fixed on Mr. Crowe as if the man had just pronounced a death sentence. “No,” he whispered, the word barely audible, but it carried a raw edge that made Eleanor’s skin prickle. “Not there. Not tonight. It’s not—” He stopped, swallowing hard, his gaze dropping to his hands, which trembled visibly now.
“What’s in the east wing, Thomas?” Eleanor asked, her voice steady despite the storm in her chest, the barrister’s instinct for interrogation cutting through her fear. She leaned toward him, searching his face for answers, but he wouldn’t meet her eyes. “You know something. You’ve always known. What did Father do there?”
He shook his head, a jerky, desperate motion, his lips pressed tight. “You’ll see,” he muttered, and the words sent a shiver down her spine, cold as the draft that swirled through the room, carrying with it the faint, sickening sweetness of something long dead. “We’ll all see.”
Margot let out a small, choked sound, her hand flying to her mouth, her eyes wide and glassy. Felix cursed under his breath, standing abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor with a sound like a scream. “This is bollocks,” he snapped, pacing to the window and yanking at the drape, only to find the glass behind it boarded up, the wood nailed tight. “We don’t have to do this. We can walk out right now. Sod the inheritance. Sod the house. Let it rot.”
“You can’t,” Mr. Crowe said simply, closing the folder with a snap that echoed like a gunshot. “The gates are locked. The grounds are secured. Your father arranged it so. Until the seventh dawn, you remain. And the east wing awaits.” He reached into his coat pocket, producing a key—old, iron, its teeth jagged and blackened with age—and placed it on the table, the metal clinking against the wood like a tolling bell.
Eleanor stared at the key, her heart pounding so hard she thought it might crack her ribs. The east wing. Midnight. Something waiting. She wanted to stand, to join Felix in his defiance, to demand they break the gates if they had to, but her body wouldn’t move. The house held her, as it always had, its grip tighter now than ever. And deep within the walls, beyond the sealed corridors, she swore she heard it again—footsteps, slow and deliberate, drawing closer with every breath.
Eleanor’s fingers twitched, itching to snatch the key from the table before anyone else could claim it, but she held herself still, her nails digging into the flesh of her palm. The air in the drawing room had thickened, sour with the tang of old velvet and older secrets, and that sound—those footsteps—seemed to press against her eardrums, a rhythm too steady to be human, too heavy to be ignored. She forced her gaze from the key to Mr. Crowe, whose lined face betrayed nothing, not even a flicker of unease. His hands, gnarled as the oak outside, rested atop the closed folder, patient as a spider on its web.
“You’re saying we’re prisoners,” Felix spat, pacing now, his boots scuffing the worn rug. His voice cracked on the last word, betraying the bravado he’d been clinging to. “Locked in like bloody cattle. What’s to stop us smashing a window, Crowe? Or kicking down the gates? I’ve got debts, mate, and no time for this theatrical bollocks.”
Mr. Crowe tilted his head, the lamplight catching the sheen of his thinning hair. “You may try, Mr. Felix. The windows are boarded, as you’ve seen. The gates are iron, forged a century ago, and the locks are... particular. Your father’s instructions were explicit. Seven nights. Seven dawns. And then, perhaps, freedom. Or whatever awaits beyond that key.” His voice dipped, soft as a priest delivering absolution, but his eyes glinted with something Eleanor couldn’t name—amusement, perhaps, or pity.
“Particular,” Thomas muttered from his corner near the hearth, where he’d been standing silent, half-lost in shadow. His arms were crossed tight over his chest, his flannel shirt rumpled as if he’d slept in it for days. “That’s one way to put it. You don’t know what he did, do you? None of you. You left, and I stayed. I heard the locks turn. I heard the east wing seal. And I heard—” He stopped, his jaw working, as if the words themselves were too heavy to lift.
“Heard what?” Margot asked, her voice sharp, cutting through the haze of tension. She sat perched on the arm of a sagging chaise, her sketchbook balanced on her knee, charcoal staining her fingertips. Her eyes, pale as frost, flicked between Thomas and the key on the table. “Don’t play the martyr, Tom. If you’ve got something to say, spit it out. We’re all trapped here. Might as well share the misery.”
Thomas’s gaze dropped to the floor, to the intricate knots of the rug, as if the pattern might answer for him. “It’s not... it’s not something you say. It’s something you feel. In the walls. In the quiet. After midnight, when the house settles, it doesn’t settle. It listens.” His voice trembled, barely above a whisper, and Eleanor felt a chill crawl up her spine, not from his words but from the rawness in them, the belief.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Felix snapped, throwing up his hands. “You’ve gone soft, Tom. Living here too long, breathing in the mould. It’s just a house. Bricks and mortar. It doesn’t listen. It doesn’t do anything.” But even as he spoke, his eyes darted to the boarded window, to the faint creak of the floorboards beyond the room, and Eleanor saw the doubt flicker across his face, quick as a shadow.
“Enough,” she said, her voice slicing through their bickering like a gavel. She stood, though her legs felt unsteady beneath her, and smoothed her tailored blazer, a futile gesture against the dust that clung to everything here. “We’re not children swapping ghost stories by torchlight. Father’s dead. His will is... unorthodox, I’ll grant, but we’re adults. We can endure seven nights. We’ve endured worse.” Her words sounded hollow even to her own ears, but she pressed on, her barrister’s training kicking in, the need to control, to order chaos. “Mr. Crowe, you’ve delivered the terms. What now? Do we sign something? Swear an oath? Or do we just sit here, waiting for midnight?”
The solicitor’s thin lips curved, not quite a smile. “No signatures, Ms. Ashworth. No oaths. Your presence is the contract. Your father trusted the house to bind you to it. As for midnight...” He glanced at the mantel clock, its hands creeping toward eleven, the tick a steady pulse in the stifling room. “I suggest you prepare. The key will lead you to the east wing. What you find there is not my concern. My duty ends with the delivery of his wishes.” He rose, slower than seemed natural, his black coat rustling like dry leaves, and gathered his folder. “I’ll retire to the guest quarters. The staff have been dismissed for the duration, as per instruction. You’ll find provisions in the kitchen. Good night.”
He inclined his head, a curt nod, and shuffled toward the door, his cane tapping a rhythm that echoed those unseen footsteps. Eleanor watched him go, her throat tight, a protest forming and dying before it could escape. The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence that followed was heavier than before, broken only by the clock’s relentless march and the faint, distant groan of the house itself, as if it were stretching awake.
“Well, that’s bloody comforting,” Felix muttered, dropping into a chair with a thud. He ran a hand through his hair, the strands sticking to his damp forehead, and shot a glare at the key still lying on the table. “Anyone fancy a wager on what’s behind door number one? My money’s on a pile of bones. Or a mad uncle we never knew about. Father was always one for surprises.”
“Shut up, Felix,” Margot said, her tone flat but her fingers tight around her charcoal pencil, the tip hovering over a blank page as if waiting for something to spill out. “You’re not funny. You’re never funny.” But her eyes kept drifting to the key, and Eleanor saw the hunger there, the same curiosity that gnawed at her own gut, though she’d never admit it aloud.
She turned away, crossing to the hearth where Thomas still lingered, his face half-lit by the dying embers. The heat was faint, barely pushing back the damp chill that seeped from the walls, and the scent of charred wood mingled with something fainter, sweeter—rosemary, perhaps, or lavender, a ghost of their mother’s scent that shouldn’t have lingered after all these years. “Thomas,” she said, softer now, her voice stripped of its courtroom steel. “What did you mean? About the house listening. I need to know. Not stories. Truth.”
He didn’t look at her, his eyes fixed on the embers as if they held answers. His hands, rough from years of tending the estate, clenched and unclenched at his sides. “It’s not... it’s not a sound you name, Eleanor. Not at first. It’s a feeling. Like when you’re alone, but you’re not. Like the air shifts, gets heavier, and you know something’s watching. I’ve felt it since I was a lad, stronger after Mother died. Father knew it too. Why d’you think he sealed the east wing? Not for us. For him. To keep whatever’s there... there.” His voice broke on the last word, and he turned away, his shoulders hunching as if to shield himself from her gaze.
Eleanor swallowed, her mouth dry as ash. She wanted to press him, to demand clarity, but the weight of his words sat on her chest, heavy as the house itself. She glanced back at the others—Felix slouched in his chair, Margot sketching now, her hand moving in quick, jerky strokes, and the key, glinting under the lamplight like a dare. The clock ticked louder, or perhaps it was her pulse, hammering in her ears. Eleven-fifteen. Less than an hour until midnight.
“I’m not waiting,” Felix announced suddenly, lurching to his feet. His eyes were red-rimmed, whether from exhaustion or something stronger Eleanor couldn’t tell, but there was a wildness in them now, a recklessness she remembered from their youth. “Sod midnight. Sod the rules. I’m taking that key, and I’m opening the bloody wing. Anyone coming with, or are you all too scared to move?”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Margot snapped, not looking up from her sketchbook. Her pencil scratched furiously, the sound like tiny claws against wood. “You heard Crowe. It’s not just a door. It’s... something else. You don’t even know what you’re walking into.”
“Better than sitting here, waiting for the house to eat us,” Felix shot back, snatching the key from the table before anyone could stop him. The iron looked too heavy in his trembling hand, the jagged teeth catching the light as he turned it over. “Come on, then. Let’s see what the old man left us. Bet it’s nothing. Bet it’s just another of his games.”
Eleanor stepped forward, her hand outstretched. “Felix, wait. We don’t know—”
But he was already moving, striding toward the door with a lopsided grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Know what, Ellie? That we’re trapped? That the house creaks like a coffin? I know enough. I’m done waiting.” He flung the door open, the hinges squealing, and disappeared into the corridor beyond, his footsteps echoing unevenly on the stone floor.
“Damn it,” Eleanor hissed, her composure cracking. She glanced at Thomas, at Margot, both frozen in their own ways—Thomas with his haunted stare, Margot with her pencil still poised—and made a decision she knew she’d regret. “Stay if you want. I’m not letting him do this alone.” She followed, her heels clicking sharp against the floor, the cold of the corridor biting through her blazer as she stepped into the dark.
The hallway stretched before her, a tunnel of shadow broken only by flickering wall sconces, their bulbs dim and buzzing. The air was colder here, damp with the scent of stone and decay, and the walls seemed to lean inward, their faded wallpaper peeling like skin. Felix was ahead, his silhouette weaving slightly as if he couldn’t walk straight, the key glinting in his hand. “Felix, stop!” she called, her voice bouncing off the walls, sharper than she intended. “This isn’t a game. We need to think—”
“Think what?” he threw over his shoulder, not slowing. “How to sit pretty for seven days? How to pretend we’re not all losing it already? I heard those footsteps, Ellie. Same as you. I’m not waiting for whatever’s making them to come find me.” He reached the end of the corridor, where a heavy oak door loomed, its surface carved with intricate whorls that seemed to shift in the half-light. A brass lock, tarnished green with age, sat at its centre, and beyond it, Eleanor knew, lay the sealed east wing.
Her breath caught, not from the run but from the weight of that door, the finality of it. She stopped a few paces behind Felix, her hand brushing the wall for balance, the plaster rough and icy under her fingers. “Felix, please. Just... wait for the others. We don’t know what’s behind there.”
He turned, his face pale in the dim glow, his grin gone. “That’s the point, isn’t it? Not knowing. Father loved that. Keeping us in the dark. Well, I’m done with it.” He lifted the key, fitting it into the lock with a scrape of metal on metal, and for a moment, time seemed to still—the corridor silent, the house holding its breath.
Then the lock clicked, a sound too loud, too final, and Felix pushed the door inward. It groaned on its hinges, revealing nothing but blackness beyond, a void that seemed to suck in the faint light from the sconces. A draft rushed out, cold as a grave, carrying with it a scent Eleanor couldn’t place—something metallic, bitter, underlaid with rot. Her stomach turned, and she took an involuntary step back, her hand still pressed to the wall.
Felix stood frozen, the key still in his hand, his bravado draining as he stared into the dark. “Bloody hell,” he whispered, his voice small now, almost childlike. “What... what is that?”
Eleanor forced herself closer, though every instinct screamed to turn and run. She peered past him, her eyes straining against the shadows, and saw nothing at first—just an empty corridor, or so she thought. Then, deeper in, a faint glint caught her gaze, something reflective, like glass or polished metal, winking in the dark. And beneath that, a sound—not footsteps this time, but something softer, wetter, like bare feet slapping against stone, retreating deeper into the wing.
“Do you hear that?” Felix asked, his voice barely audible, his hand trembling so badly the key nearly slipped from his grip.
“I hear it,” she said, her own voice tight, her heart a drum in her chest. She wanted to grab him, to drag him back, to slam the door shut and pretend this hadn’t happened, but her body wouldn’t move. The house held her there, its grip tighter than ever, and that sound—those retreating steps—grew fainter, but not gone. Never gone.
Behind them, footsteps of a different kind approached, hurried and uneven. Thomas and Margot appeared at the corridor’s end, Margot clutching her sketchbook, Thomas’s face pale as milk. “What’ve you done?” Thomas rasped, his eyes wide, fixed on the open door. “You’ve bloody well done it now.”
Eleanor turned to him, her mouth opening to snap something sharp, but the words died as she saw Margot’s expression—not fear, not anger, but a quiet, terrible recognition. Her sister’s gaze was locked on the darkness beyond the door, her lips moving silently, as if reciting something only she could hear. And in her hands, the sketchbook hung open, the page smeared with charcoal—a rough, frantic drawing of a corridor, a door ajar, and at its edge, a shape too vague to name, but too real to ignore.
The house creaked around them, a deep, shuddering groan, and from the east wing, that wet, slapping sound returned, closer now, deliberate. Eleanor’s breath hitched, her hand finding Felix’s arm, gripping hard enough to bruise. Whatever lay beyond that door wasn’t just a memory, wasn’t just a game. It was awake. And it knew they were there.