The Haunting of Elsinore Manor

That boy was in my room again. He was playing on the floor with my toys when I came upstairs last night. I turned on the light, and there he was. It scared me, and I jumped in bed and hid under the covers. When I peeked, he was gone. I have to tell mother.

~ * ~

13th of October, 1907

Dearest William ~

I awoke this morning with the strangest feeling. A feeling that something - something undefinable - was amiss. Wrong. However, try as I might, I couldn't (and still cannot) put my finger on the reason for it. I immediately checked on the children. The boys were still sound asleep in their beds. Ophelia, the little Charlotte Brontë that she is, was perched on her window seat, writing in her journal. She seemed unsurprised that I had felt the need to check on her. She always knows what I'm thinking. It's disconcerting as well as comforting. She is far too grown up for twelve years old.

I found your brother in the kitchen, preparing breakfast. He had tea, toast, and eggs already set out for me. The gesture reminded me so much of you that I nearly cried. I find I can no longer recall how long you have been gone. The days blur together as one unending twilight.

The children say that the manor feels different. Darker. I told them I feel the difference too. It's you. Or rather, the lack of you. You were always the light of Elsinore Manor. Your brother tries, and we're grateful to have him during your absence, but he will never fill the void you left.

I miss you terribly and think of you often. The children miss you as well. They ask me every day when you will return.

Please write soon. It seems like forever since your last letter arrived.

All my love,

Trudy

~ * ~

Oct. 15th, 1907

Dear Diary,

The days are getting shorter, and it makes me sad. How much longer will father be away? I'm certain he said he would return by autumn. I find I can't remember when he left.

The boys were arguing again last night. Rosen was yelling at Gilbert something fierce, claiming Gilly had hidden his precious wooden horses. Father made those horses for Rosen. Gilly swore up and down that he wasn't to blame. "Chester did it!" he had cried. Honestly, I realize he's only five years old, but why would Gilly need to make up an imaginary friend when he has a perfectly adequate older brother to play with?

I think he misses father. They both do. So do I. Uncle Claude is a poor substitute. He makes me uneasy. He stares too much and says too little.

The whole house feels different without father. I miss the way things were before.

Yours truly,

Ophelia

~ * ~

That boy came back. I came into my room and he had everything on my shelves rearranged. I asked him why.

"I like it better this way," he told me.

He wears funny clothes. But he seems nice enough. I told him we could play together as long as he stops scaring me. He said he didn't mean to.

~ * ~

Oct. 18th, 1907

Dear Diary,

It's raining again today. English autumn rain. The sky has been so dark with storm clouds this week that it never really looks like daytime outside. The boys are going stir-crazy. They were fighting about "Chester" again this morning. Rosen says he's made up. Gilbert is convinced he's real. Mother is weary of the whole situation. She tries to praise Rosen for being practical while simultaneously trying to not discourage Gilbert's imagination.

Poor mother. I can tell she misses father. I overheard her saying to Uncle Claude that she "...never expected a notary to have to travel for such long periods of time." I'm not entirely sure what a "notary" does, but it's father's job. Uncle Claude says father is currently in Romania, which, I gather, is very far from England.

Uncle Claude. I don't like the way he looks at mother. There's something strange about it. Something unsettling. I wish he would go.

Yours truly,

Ophelia

~ * ~

I found the boy playing in the upstairs hallway last night.

I asked him why he's always in our house.

"This is my family's house," he told me.

I told him that couldn't be right, because this is my family's house. "We live here now," I said.

"We've always lived here," he replied.

~ * ~

20th of October, 1907

Dearest William ~

The rain is unceasing, and a bitter chill has enveloped the house. I'm always cold. Has Cornwall always suffered such a drowning in October? I cannot recall. The season of sunlight and warmth seems so far away. Another lifetime.

Our sons keep me constantly entertained. Gilbert has created a fictitious friend named Chester. Apparently, Chester enjoys hiding Rosen's toys - a pastime of which Rosen is not fond! He is so stern and unyielding. Were you such a serious boy at the age of eight? I can't remember if you told me. Well, according to Gilly, Chester "has a strange way of speaking and dressing," and "is seven years old." Such detail! Can you imagine? The things his imagination conjures!

Ophelia has become more withdrawn. She observes your brother and I with silent, watchful eyes.

Speaking of your brother, I feel I should tell you plainly that there have been certain...flirtations. On his part, only. Nothing overt. A subtle touch on the hand, or a lingering smile. Yesterday he clasped my necklace for me, just as you used to. The beautiful string of pearls you inherited from your mother has such a delicate clasp. Claude offered his assistance, and so I accepted. Once the clasp was secure, he gently squeezed my shoulders. I nearly protested, but he'd already withdrawn his hands. Perhaps I'm imagining things. I mean to cause you no alarm, but instead wish to reiterate how very, very much I miss you. Your scent. Your touch. And countless other things I dare not put down in a letter.

I love you dearly. Please write soon.

All my love,

Trudy

~ * ~

I woke up to music. It was very dark. Before sunrise. I tiptoed downstairs and found the boy standing in the hallway, peeking into the den. When he saw me, he shooed me away.

"Who's playing that music?" I asked him.

"My mother," he replied. "She plays piano when she's sad."

"It's pretty," I said. I looked back at the partly closed door, nervous that I would start seeing the boy's mother, too. One sad mum in the house was enough.

"Want to see something else that's pretty?" he asked me.

"Yes," I said.

He led me to the kitchen.

~ * ~

Oct. 23rd, 1907

Dear Diary,

It seems we have a thief in our midst. Yesterday the ceramic salt and pepper shakers disappeared from the kitchen table, along with all of mother's cloth napkins and the matching tablecloth. Today, all of the candlesticks and their silver holders have vanished from the dining room. Mother is convinced the boys are playing a trick, and has sent them to their bedrooms.

Rosen is quite annoyed. He says he would have nothing to do with something so silly. He says his wooden horses have been taken, too.

Likewise, Gilbert has denied responsibility, insisting that, "It must've been Chester!"

Mother told Gilbert that nice imaginary friends don't take things that belong to others. Gilbert told mother that Chester is not his imaginary friend.

Mother asked: "What is he, then?"

Gilly replied: "A ghost."

Mother had nothing to say to that.

Yours truly,

Ophelia

~ * ~

26th of October, 1907

Dearest William ~

Still no letters have come. I understand if you are too occupied with work to write to me, but I now find myself concerned that you are not receiving the letters I write to you.

The last few days have been difficult. For a myriad of reasons, I find myself unable to sleep.

Allow me to explain:

Several items from the kitchen and dining room have gone missing. Items I know I have not touched. I questioned Rosen and Gilbert, despite knowing that most of these items were shelved too high to be reached by children. Then, earlier today, I could not find my teapot. I always keep it in the cupboard above the range, yet it was not there. As you know, it was a gift from my late mother. Its absence troubles me greatly.

Little Gilly has informed me that his elusive friend "Chester" is, in all actuality, a ghost. Perhaps it is the recent darkness that has fallen upon the manor, but this troubles me as well. The past several nights, I've left my book on the bedside table, only to find it tucked back in its place on the bookshelf the next morning. I have found doors open that I know I've closed. I have found dishes in the sink that I know I haven't used. Most eerie of all, I have heard my piano playing in the den. I've asked the children, but they claim to have no knowledge of any of it. I believe them.

Claude also claims ignorance. But I find I am less inclined to believe him.

I caught him in the red room yesterday. He was murmuring to himself and jotting notes into a small leather bound book. Why? What business could he have in there?

His advances have become more blatant. It's beginning to make me uncomfortable. When the children aren't present, the way he looks at me and the things he says to me are inappropriate at best. Last night he told me it was "a shame for a woman so beautiful to go to bed alone." Then he left a parting kiss on the apple of my cheek that was far from brotherly.

I am uncertain what to do. I wish you were here.

Please come home.

Yours faithfully,

Trudy

~ * ~

Oct. 28th, 1907

Dear Diary,

The lost items have been found.

Their finding has resulted in more questions than answers.

At a loss of where else to look, mother decided to search the red room.

That room was my grandmother's. Her bedroom while she lived here. Everything is exactly as it was, including the red walls, drapes, and duvet. My father had protested, calling her desire to saturate the room in scarlet "macabre," but grandmother had begun to go blind, and she swore that red was the only color she could still see with any clarity.

She died in that room.

It is the only room in the manor that my brothers and I are not allowed to enter.

And that is where my mother found the shakers, napkins, tablecloth, candlesticks, her teapot, several of her books, her hand mirror, a painted portrait of our family, and Rosen's wooden horses. All neatly packed into boxes.

Mother was beside herself. She came out of the red room in a trance. Rosen, Gilly, and I watched as she put each item back in its rightful place, her movements robotic.

At last, she handed Rosen his horses. With  chilling intensity, she looked at each of us in turn and said, "You stay out of there."

I've never heard her voice like that. It terrified me. Not because she sounded angry, but because she sounded like she was trying to convince herself that we were responsible. As though any other possibility was too frightening to consider.

Yours,

Ophelia

~ * ~

I cried last night.

When he appeared, I told the boy I didn't want to play with him anymore.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because I got in trouble!" I cried. "My mum is angry with me for moving things around the house, but I didn't touch them! This is your fault! Go away and leave me alone!"

He looked sad, but he left.

Once he was gone, I felt warmer.

~ * ~

Oct. 29th, 1907

Dear Diary,

Gilly announced at breakfast that he would no longer be playing with Chester.

For my part, I'm not sad to see Chester go. Late last night I heard the sounds of a child crying. It was an anguished, echoing cry that made me feel cold all over. I got up, certain it was Gilly. But the moment I stepped out into the hallway, the crying ceased. There was only silence. I don't believe Chester is a ghost, but I was scared. I remember shivering.

Uncle Claude had a visitor early this morning. A solicitor of some kind. They were in father's office, the door an inch or two ajar. I listened. Most of what I heard didn't make sense to me - the solicitor spoke in such odd jargon. But my uncle asked him more than once about inheritance.

"...in the event of your elder brother's death, Elsinore Manor and all inventory within would go to you." I believe that's what the solicitor said. I'm not sure if I'm remembering the wording correctly.

I don't know why Uncle Claude would be asking about such things, but I think I should tell mother.

She hasn't come downstairs yet this morning.

I saw Uncle Claude coming out of her bedroom last night. He looked angry.

He frightens me.

Yours in worry,

Ophelia

~ * ~

30th of October, 1907

William ~

No letters, no telegrams, no correspondence. You must come back. Soon. Now. If you do not, I fear there will be nothing for you to come back to.

I fear I will lose my sanity to this house.

The missing items aforementioned in my last letter were found. In the red room. The children know very well that they are not allowed in there, what with your mother's death and all her antique furniture and possessions inside.

I scolded the children, despite having been certain that they were not to blame. Heaven forgive me, their little faces looked so wounded! So hurt. And I am furious with myself.

I can no longer pretend your brother is not behind this.

The only other possibility...well, it's nonsensical.

Claude came into my bedroom last night, uninvited. I cannot bring myself to write upon this paper what he did. I will call it an "untoward advance." I sent him away, but not before enduring some harsh, undeserved words.

I could not breathe for the longest time after he left, I was so shaken.

This morning, Ophelia told me something that chilled me to my very bones.

I must confront Claude. It cannot wait. I will write more after I've spoken with him.

~~~

I must get out of this house! Away from that man!

Just now, your brother told me that you were dead.

Dead!

Rubbish and dribble, I said. Impossible. But Claude merely repeated himself, the same words over and over, as though I were a deaf, stupid child.

He said he'd received word two days ago of your demise in Bucharest. He said Elsinore Manor would fall to him.

He told me he would take care of me, should I agree to his terms. After the legal allotment of time has passed, he wants me to marry him.

I'm shaking as I write this. I'm furious and scared. I must get the children, and we must leave this cursed place!

In haste,

Trudy

~ * ~

Oct. 31st, 1907

Dear Diary,

I have Rosen and Gilbert hiding under my bed. The poor boys are whimpering, scared out of their wits. I'm scared too.

Last night, mother told us we would be leaving the manor, without Uncle Claude.

I awoke to shouts coming from downstairs. Father's office. Mother and Uncle Claude fighting. The boys came running into my room, and I held them close.

Now everything is silent. A moment ago, I heard mother cry out. A sharp cry - cut short. Now, I hear nothing.

There's a sound on the stairs. I think it's Uncle

~*~

I'm playing in the red room. I know I won't see the boy in here. His mum told him this room was off limits.

I pull a box out of the closet. It's all dusty, but I want to see inside. It might be more old toys. Like the horses.

No, no toys. It's just an old journal and a bunch of yellowed envelopes. Each envelope is stamped with faded red block letters: RETURN TO SENDER.

What's that mean? And who is "William Bard"? All the envelopes have his name on them.

The boy might know. His name was Gilbert Bard. But I haven't talked to him since the night I told him to go away. I got in trouble because of him. My mum thought I put back all those old things she had packed away, like the teapot. But I never touched them.

I open the journal. I can't read most of the words, but every entry is signed "Ophelia." Except the last one. That entry just stops. There's a smug in the ink.

There's a newspaper in the box, too. It smells funny. Like my old attic. I see pictures of Gilbert's family on the front page. There's a picture of this house in the background.

My mum pokes her head into the room. She's wearing her favorite ABBA T-shirt. She smiles at me. "Lunch time, Chester," she says. 

She's been sad since dad died, but I know she's trying.

"Okay," I say. I get up, dusting off my hands on my corduroys.

"What have you there?" my mum asks.

"Old stuff," I say. I hand her the newspaper.

"Tragedy at Elsinore Manor," she reads. "Widow Gertrude Bard and her three children, Ophelia, Rosen, and Gilbert… Bloody hell."

My mum trails off. Her eyes go wide as she stares at the words on the paper.

"What, mum?" I ask, tugging on her sleeve.

She shakes her head. "You're too young."

"Mum!" I holler. "Tell me!"

There's something sad in her eyes as she looks at me. "The whole family died, sweetie," she tells me. "In this house. Seventy years ago today."

*