[1/4] "Hollowing" Autumn & Halloween Ghost Story in the English Countryside
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Hello! It's time to begin our Autumn and Halloween story! Today I'm sharing part 1 of 4, with the next part going live every Saturday on the blog. The last chapter will be published on October 3rd - hopefully giving you a kick-start to the spooky month :D
What is "Hollowing" about:
On an unassuming Friday in September, Clare, a 42-year-old dispassionate office manager and wife, receives an email that turns her settled life upside down - a confirmation of her appointment as a Private Library Assistant in a grand manor house deep in the English countryside. Feeling her life is leading nowhere, weighed down by disappointment and loneliness, she accepts the position and leaves London behind, hoping for a new start.
At first, Clare relishes her new life in the countryside, getting close to Matt, a handsome gardener… but Blackwood Hall is not the peaceful country home she imagines. As the Autumn weather turns colder and Halloween approaches, Clare feels increasingly unsettled. A shadow lingers at the edge of her vision, and her nights are plagued by disturbing nightmares. The answer seems to lie behind the old basement door, which she is forbidden to visit… yet something is calling her in.
Technical difficulties, warnings and stats
One: I apologise for slightly strange formatting. My blog's indent tool doesn't work. It indents the entire paragraph, instead of just the first line. Trying to avoid long blocks of text, I have resolved to leave an empty line in between paragraphs, even if it's not always a new scene. I hope it won't be much of an inconvenience.
Two: warnings. The first part is totally safe. We're getting to know Clare, her motives, and her life so far. Parts 2-4 do have threat, danger, and mentions of blood, so they might not be for everyone, although please keep in mind that I'm not a fan of gore. I intend my writing to be atmospheric, not traumatic :)
Three - this one is important. I reserve the right to turn this story into a book. I set out to write a short story, maybe 10K words at most. 30 thousand words later, I was cutting out characters, simplifying scenes, and skipping parts of the story as I ran out of the time I had allocated to it. I think at some point next year I might sit down and write the full version of "Hollowing". I wanted to let you know in advance, because if I decide to do so, I will take the story down from the blog. Don't worry, if I do, I will let you know via our weekly email.
Four: This is my second attempt at writing fiction. I hope I have improved since writing "The Waiting Light" earlier this year.
Enjoy!
***
"Hollowing" Autumn & Halloween Ghost Story in the English Countryside - PART 1
The office around Clare is loud and busy: a phone rings, the outdated printer in the corner spits page after page with a mechanical sound, and someone talks over her head, but she blocks out all the noise. Her attention is fixed on the screen in front of her, staring at the words that just loaded in her inbox. She reads them again…
“Dear Ms Clare Watkins,
I am pleased to confirm your appointment as Private Library Assistant at Blackwood Hall for a fixed-term period of approximately two months, commencing on Monday, 5th October. (…)”
She got the job… the job she applied for after two glasses of wine on a Friday night and a long self-pity session about how she wasn’t doing anything worthwhile with her life. It was embarrassing to admit, but applying for jobs that represented the life she secretly dreamed of, like an archivist in a cathedral library or a manuscripts cataloguer in an old Edinburgh archive, became her little weekend ritual. A way of pretending she was taking steps toward the life she really wanted. Deep down, she did not expect to hear back from any of them. She knows well enough that these are highly sought-after positions, and she isn’t qualified - not in terms of education, but experience and, most importantly, personality. These are the kinds of jobs, Clare imagines, held by women who read Virginia Woolf and carry dark brown leather briefcases to meetings. Women who are highly educated, confident, and certain of themselves, unlike her.
At forty-two, there isn’t anything particularly wrong with Clare’s life, but there isn’t much to look forward to either. Physically and mentally, she isn’t old, but here, in this office, she feels like a dinosaur. She has spent the past seventeen years in this room, filling in forms, emailing reports, and watching people come and go. Some stayed for a couple of years, but everyone eventually seemed to move on to something better.
Everyone except her. She is still here; her role as manager earned more through persistence than through any real love for the job. And now she has a chance to move on too…
Clare remembers the feeling of arriving in this very office for the first time. The room smelled of brand-new furniture and the promise of new beginnings. Over the years, the lights and chairs have been replaced, but the heavy wooden desks remain, now old, marked by scratches and cup rings left by colleagues whose names she can’t remember. They have been in this office for as long as she has...
“Clare? Clare!” A voice pulls her out of comparing her existence to the worn-out desks. “The paperclips delivery from last week - where is it?”
“Oh…” Clare stammers, her attention snapping back to the present. “Top shelf in the cupboard on the first-floor landing.” She recites automatically.
“Thanks,” says the young colleague, already turning towards another colleague who has only just started this week. “See? I told you she knows everything about this office,” the girl added with a light laugh.
“Oh…” Clare stammers, her attention snapping back to the present. “Top shelf in the cupboard on the first-floor landing.” She recites automatically.
“Thanks,” says the young colleague, already turning towards another colleague who has only just started this week. “See? I told you she knows everything about this office,” the girl added with a light laugh.
Clare follows them with her gaze as they chat and giggle before disappearing down the staircase. Her eyes return to her own desk: an old keyboard bearing obvious signs of years of lunches eaten over it, a mouse mat with curling corners, and a dent on the right-hand side of the desk. Once, an electrician dropped a heavy tool while repairing the light above, shattering her favourite mug. She looks back up at her screen. The email is still there; she didn’t imagine it. In two weeks, she could be given a new start in rural Devon - away from London, away from this rut, away from the version of herself she has unintentionally become.
She searches for Blackwood Hall, and the images that load on the screen are impressive: a 14th-century manor house with splendid views of the countryside. Only a handful of photographs show the interior, including a grand drawing room with a fireplace so large that several people could stand inside it. Below the image results, on a website dedicated to historical houses in England, a small line of cursive writing reads: “Private property. Not accessible to the public.”
Something - a feeling of excitement, maybe? begins to rise in her chest, but she pushes it back down. Her life is good enough, and this… this is a fantasy. Clare knows better than to chase dreams beyond her reach, risking the safety of the life she has built.
“Stop it. You’re being ridiculous. You can’t drop everything for two whole months. Stop daydreaming,” says the familiar, rational voice inside her head. She looks at the email one more time before logging off and shutting down her desktop.
“I will think about it at home, in peace. I know I’m not going to do it; I just want to think about it a bit more,” she decides, allowing herself a few more hours of foolish hope before refusing the offer and returning to reality.
Walking down the busy street towards Chancery Lane tube station, Clare is in a surprisingly good mood. It is Friday, which means she doesn’t have to go back to the office for two full days. The September sun turns the grey London streets into warm shades of orange and gold, while shops display their autumn fashion. Cosy jumpers, checked scarves, and oversized coats are everywhere, accompanied by orange pumpkins and garlands. Her favourite time of year - autumn, followed by the festive period - begins. A few orange leaves scatter across the pavement, and she smiles, feeling the cooler breeze against her skin. After the sweaty summer, she loves wearing her knitted cardigans again. And then there is the email. The email that could change everything…
Her phone buzzes. She takes it out of her handbag - a message from Rob, her husband.
“Won’t be home tonight. A delivery is scheduled to arrive between 6 and 8 pm. Try to be home in time to receive it.”
“Won’t be home tonight. A delivery is scheduled to arrive between 6 and 8 pm. Try to be home in time to receive it.”
She glances at the time. It is already 5:15. Clare planned to stop at the artisan bakery to pick up something for dinner - perhaps a warm focaccia sandwich or quiche - but queuing now meant she might miss the delivery. In their block of flats, missing parcels are a real problem; it is better to be home to receive them than to risk the driver leaving them on the doorstep. She hurried towards the tube.
***
Clare gets home, slightly out of breath, minutes before 6 pm. She unlocks the door, hears a clunk as dishes go into the kitchen sink. Rob is still home.
“Ooh, you cooked,” she smiles, pleasantly surprised, peeking into the kitchen from the corridor. But his expression made her stop.
“I had a quick snack before heading out. I thought you’d get something on your way,” he replies.
“Well, yes…” she says, feeling her throat tighten. “But you asked me to rush. You know I couldn’t make it back by six if I queued at the bakery…”
But Rob is half-listening, heading towards the corridor and reaching for his jacket.
“Who are you seeing?” Clare demands.
“A couple of guys from work. I’ll be back later,” he replies dismissively.
Then, as he opens the door, he adds over his shoulder, without even turning towards her, “Oh, by the way, I think your boss left a voice message on the landline; he sounded serious. You might want to check it. Okay, bye.”
And he leaves.
“Ooh, you cooked,” she smiles, pleasantly surprised, peeking into the kitchen from the corridor. But his expression made her stop.
“I had a quick snack before heading out. I thought you’d get something on your way,” he replies.
“Well, yes…” she says, feeling her throat tighten. “But you asked me to rush. You know I couldn’t make it back by six if I queued at the bakery…”
But Rob is half-listening, heading towards the corridor and reaching for his jacket.
“Who are you seeing?” Clare demands.
“A couple of guys from work. I’ll be back later,” he replies dismissively.
Then, as he opens the door, he adds over his shoulder, without even turning towards her, “Oh, by the way, I think your boss left a voice message on the landline; he sounded serious. You might want to check it. Okay, bye.”
And he leaves.
Clare stands in the narrow corridor between the kitchen and the front door, her left hand clutching the handbag still hanging from her shoulder. Her good mood gone; the humiliation and unbearable loneliness somehow leave her hollow inside - a deep, black hole where the heart is supposed to be. This feeling has been there for a long time, but it has worsened since their son, Tom, took a gap year to travel and work abroad. She is happy for him, of course, but his absence only highlights how far she and Rob have grown apart. She isn’t even sure she likes her husband anymore, and it seems he doesn’t care much for her either - two strangers living under one roof.
Clare walks into the living room, still fully dressed. She pick up the phone and presses the button to listen to the recorded messages. Her boss’s dry, monotone voice comes through:
“Clare, there’s an issue with the paperclips. Two of our new staff members weren’t able to locate them, and that’s not really acceptable…”
There was a brief pause. Was that laughter in the background? Then:
“Also, they mentioned how disorganised the storage is. I expect this to be properly addressed next week.” The line clicked off.
“Clare, there’s an issue with the paperclips. Two of our new staff members weren’t able to locate them, and that’s not really acceptable…”
There was a brief pause. Was that laughter in the background? Then:
“Also, they mentioned how disorganised the storage is. I expect this to be properly addressed next week.” The line clicked off.
Clare’s hand turns white from gripping her handbag so tightly. She stares at the phone in her other hand as if it is a poisonous snake. She slams it down with more force than necessary.
Her happy mood is now a distant memory. Is this what her life has become? Decades with Rob, seventeen years in the office, and she is treated like an afterthought by her own husband while her boss - someone who has known her from day one - belittles her to show off in front of the young staff. Paperclips. Seriously?
Her happy mood is now a distant memory. Is this what her life has become? Decades with Rob, seventeen years in the office, and she is treated like an afterthought by her own husband while her boss - someone who has known her from day one - belittles her to show off in front of the young staff. Paperclips. Seriously?
Her cheeks flush with frustration; the heat in the room is unbearable. She needs fresh air. She spins around and almost runs for the door to escape - what? This life, Rob, herself? - When she hears the knock. The delivery is here.
Clare reaches for the handle instantly, yanks the door open, and snatches the parcel from the deliveryman’s hands, glancing at the label - addressed to Rob. Without hesitation, she flings it hard onto the corridor floor. The box hits the ground with a dull clunk. The delivery man’s eyebrows shoot up as she pushes past the shocked man.
“It’s not you. You’re fine,” she mutters through her teeth, slamming the door and barging past him. She storms downstairs and out of the building.
Blinded by anger and disappointment, she strides to a small green space beside a medieval church, surrounded by old graves, trees, and a few weathered benches. Autumn has already arrived here too, and the churchyard is littered with fallen leaves and chestnuts. No one is here, which isn’t unusual. Their home is in a quiet residential area in London Zone 4, a forty-minute tube ride from central London. The commute is hell, but the rent is lower here, and it makes it easier to escape to the countryside now and then.
Countryside…
This thought brings the job offer back to mind. She opens the email on her phone and reads it again. It isn’t a joke - she really has been offered the job.
A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity: cataloguing and sorting old books in a private library in a grand, historic manor house. Room and board are included, and the two months' pay is equivalent to four, almost five months of what she earns now. She could give her two weeks’ notice, citing personal reasons. Mental health wouldn’t even be a lie...
She dwells on the money side. What will she do after it ends? With her small savings, she could still pay half the rent and have enough to get by while she looks for something else. For the first time in decades, she won’t be working until midday on Christmas Eve. She can have a break - start again in January, properly this time. This would give her time to think things through and to look at her life from a new perspective because things aren’t good. It is time for Clare to admit it to herself. She sits in silence, looking at the church without really seeing it, twirling an autumn leaf in her hands.
“How much more can I bear?” she asks herself honestly, feeling as if the hollowness inside her might swallow her like a black hole. Will anyone even notice if she disappears?
The anger has left her body, but the bitterness remains. Tears brim in her eyes. Clare would love to wave her resignation letter in her boss’s face and leave him to hire some newcomer to orchestrate a whole office full of people who don’t really care.
Even more than that, she would love to simply pack her bags, walk out the door, and tell shocked Rob that she is leaving for two months to work in a private library, so she won't be home to receive his deliveries - sorry, not sorry. Then she would close the door behind her and walk away, all while wearing an elegant tweed blazer, high leather boots and a black velvet bow in her hair, like that countryside influencer she sometimes watches online. She laughs at her own fantasy. “No, I’ll skip the bow”, she chuckles, but the imaginary scenario makes her feel a little better.
Even more than that, she would love to simply pack her bags, walk out the door, and tell shocked Rob that she is leaving for two months to work in a private library, so she won't be home to receive his deliveries - sorry, not sorry. Then she would close the door behind her and walk away, all while wearing an elegant tweed blazer, high leather boots and a black velvet bow in her hair, like that countryside influencer she sometimes watches online. She laughs at her own fantasy. “No, I’ll skip the bow”, she chuckles, but the imaginary scenario makes her feel a little better.
Clare looks around. It is getting dark, but the last light of the sunset still illuminates the churchyard. Colourful leaves cover the old graves, their stones crooked by weather and time.
“This is where it all ends eventually,” she ponders, looking at the closest grave. “But I still have…” She stops for a moment, calculating. “Another forty, maybe even fifty years if I’m lucky - before I end up down there.” She slowly nods her head. “So what am I going to do?”
Clare takes a moment, then gently places the autumn leaf on the bench beside her, almost as a companion, and, with shaking hands, types:
Dear Mr Blackwood,
Thank you for your offer. I am pleased to accept the position.
I confirm that I will be available to start on the morning of 5th October.
Kind regards,
Clare Watkins
Her finger hovers over the send button for a moment, but she presses it. To her own surprise, she feels a sense of… relief, or maybe even freedom. She realises how much the idea of spending the rest of her life in that office was weighing her down. Although the future is uncertain, it feels better than the certainty of almost three decades in that soulless office, before she would eventually retire.
Feeling a little bit bolder, Clare drafts her resignation letter and sends it to the HR team without CCing her boss. He will find out soon enough; there was no need to make a scene.
She slowly puts her phone back in her pocket, sits back on the bench, and takes a deep breath. She never imagined this random Friday in the middle of September would turn her life upside down, but it had. “I’ve done it. Now that the resignation letter is sent, I can’t back down."
Feeling a little bit bolder, Clare drafts her resignation letter and sends it to the HR team without CCing her boss. He will find out soon enough; there was no need to make a scene.
She slowly puts her phone back in her pocket, sits back on the bench, and takes a deep breath. She never imagined this random Friday in the middle of September would turn her life upside down, but it had. “I’ve done it. Now that the resignation letter is sent, I can’t back down."
It gets completely dark by the time Clare leaves the churchyard and walks towards her favourite Chinese takeaway. She orders a generous meal, a dessert, and a can of Coke. No calorie counting tonight. While waiting for her food on the uncomfortable plastic chair - which, tonight, doesn’t feel that uncomfortable - she messages Rob:
“I have a bad headache. I will take some painkillers and sleep in the guest room. Please try not to wake me up when you come back.”
Done. This gives him a green light to stay out until the early hours and guarantees her the evening to herself. She doesn’t want to see him or talk to him or anyone else, for that matter.
“I have a bad headache. I will take some painkillers and sleep in the guest room. Please try not to wake me up when you come back.”
Done. This gives him a green light to stay out until the early hours and guarantees her the evening to herself. She doesn’t want to see him or talk to him or anyone else, for that matter.
Back home, Clare changes into her comfortable pyjamas, lights a candle, and bundles up in the guest bedroom with her food and laptop resting on her knees. She closely examines pictures of Blackwood Hall again, researches the nearby village, watches some bookish vlogs and browses for white shirts, tweed jackets, leather boots, and handbags, but underneath all of it is a sense of a new beginning - a feeling that she has been given a second chance - by Mr Blackwood or maybe even faith.
Tonight, the hollowness inside fills with hope and joy. For the first time in a long while, she experiences something she had almost forgotten: excitement for the unknown and life itself.
Tonight, the hollowness inside fills with hope and joy. For the first time in a long while, she experiences something she had almost forgotten: excitement for the unknown and life itself.
***
Two weeks later, October the 5th
The steady rhythm of the train was somewhat calming for Clare’s nerves. She checks her watch - the train arrives at Westleigh, a village in Devon nearest to Blackwood Hall, within the next twenty minutes. Her stomach flips - not for the first time. To be honest, it has been flipping constantly over the past two weeks, every time she thinks about what she has done: leaving the security of her job, and now, it seems, ending her marriage as well. By this point, her stomach is practically doing somersaults.
The HR team confirmed receipt of her resignation letter and her final working day: 2nd October. Her boss didn’t say a word. But a couple of days into the week, he nominated an employee to take over her role and asked Clare to train him, which she did without hesitation. The new manager showed little interest in the day-to-day workings of the office, focusing mostly on hiring and firing procedures, and everything else rolling off him as unimportant. Clare isn’t vindictive, but she couldn’t help feeling a small sense of satisfaction at the chaos that would descend on the office once she was gone. The news of her leaving spread quickly, but she was relieved that only a few colleagues said something like “We’re going to miss you, Clare”. She just wanted to be gone quietly.
All in all, leaving her job of seventeen years was easier than she expected, but things with Rob were much more difficult. She would have understood his anger and outburst if they had been in a normal, functioning marriage… but if they were, she would never have accepted this sort of job without a serious conversation with him. But Rob had been growing distant with each passing year, treating her more like a roommate than a romantic partner, and then he got angry that she decided to stop playing the role of a submissive sheep.
Perhaps that was the issue, Clare thought: he had grown used to having things his own way, while comfortably splitting the bills and having her on hand to pick up his suits from the dry cleaners, receive deliveries, and always stocking the fridge with eggs and milk.
Perhaps that was the issue, Clare thought: he had grown used to having things his own way, while comfortably splitting the bills and having her on hand to pick up his suits from the dry cleaners, receive deliveries, and always stocking the fridge with eggs and milk.
Clare struggled to find a way to even bring up the new job with him. One day, she took her suitcase out from under the guest bed, began packing, and left it out in the open. She hoped he’d notice and ask why there was a suitcase in the guest bedroom, giving her a chance to tell him about her new position. But he completely ignored it, despite Clare making sure to leave it in plain sight, with the room door wide open. She finally decided to talk to him on Monday night - one week before she was due to start her new job. But as she walked towards the living room, she heard Rob speaking on the phone in a hushed voice. She stopped in her tracks. Clare would never eavesdrop or spy on him. She had never checked his phone or bank account. But this time, for some reason, she froze and stayed put.
Rob was talking to someone on the other end of the line, barely able to speak from laughing so hard. “…and she thinks I’m going to ask her why there’s a suitcase full of clothes on the bed, so she can tell me she wants a divorce, hoping I’ll try to stop her, and beg her to stay, ha ha ha”.
But he wasn’t laughing anymore in the early hours of Monday morning the following week, as she packed the last few things into her suitcase and zipped it shut with one single, satisfying pull. With as much coldness and composure as she could muster, she told him she would keep paying her half of the bills, but from now on, the car petrol and food would be his responsibility. Rob was furious. He threatened her, saying that if she left now, she would not be allowed back and that he would get rid of her belongings at the recycling centre. That made her stop and think. Perhaps she should also take her important documents and the few trinkets she had inherited from her grandmother. She did just that. Afterwards, Clare told him, with complete honesty, that he was welcome to do whatever he wanted with the rest of her belongings. However, if he decided to throw them away, he should let her know so that she could stop paying her share of the bills.
He opened his mouth to say something, but the words never came. Clare marched out of the house wearing an elegant tweed blazer and leather boots, dragging her suitcase. It wasn’t as grand an exit as she had imagined, but it felt good nevertheless.
“Perhaps I should have worn the velvet bow in my hair for dramatic effect.” Clare chuckles at the thought, then immediately feels guilty for making light of the situation. The truth is that deep down, she is unsure of her decision and growing more nervous with every passing minute. She is due to arrive very soon.
It is pretty warm, but Clare is determined to keep her new jacket on. She has carefully planned her first-day outfit: a white shirt, brown trousers that really do her figure justice, a tweed jacket that cost more than she would normally spend, and a brown leather handbag that she's holding tightly as she watches the Devon countryside pass by the window - fields, woods, and villages slipping past in the morning light, all drenched in the orange, gold and brown hues of October. The West Country is truly beautiful, and Clare feels a pang of guilt for not having made more of an effort to get out of London, even though she has always said how much she wished to live in the countryside.
The whole journey took almost five hours, including the wait for the connecting branch train. It is now 9 a.m., and she can see the train station. Clare takes a deep, steady breath to calm her nerves.
“It’s just a job,” she reminds herself. She has some savings, and in an emergency, she has her mum. She didn’t beg anyone to employ her. They needed her.
Mr Blackwood has arranged transport from the station to Blackwood Hall. His email simply states that Matt will be waiting at the station. Who Matt is or what he looks like, Clare doesn’t know. But the moment she appears in the train doorway, trying to manoeuvre her large suitcase down the tiny steps, a pair of strong hands reaches out, lifting it effortlessly onto the platform, then offering to help her step off the train. She gratefully accepts and then raises her head to meet a pair of kind eyes.
“You must be Clare.”
“Yes, hi, are you Matt?”
“That’s right, Mr Blackwood asked me to give you a lift to the Hall.”
“Thank you very much. I very much appreciate it.” She instantly feels stupid for saying very much twice, and her nerves keep her babbling as they walk out of the station, Matt carrying her suitcase.
“It was such a long journey, and Mr Blackwood said there’s no taxi service in the village and hardly any signal, so I wasn’t quite sure how I was going to get there. I even checked Google Maps, and it’s over ten miles. I thought I might end up having to walk and probably wouldn’t arrive until nightfall.” She gives a nervous laugh at her pathetic joke, but Matt simply listens with a patient smile.
“Gosh, I’m really babbling, aren’t I? Thank you for giving me a lift.” She stops there, embarrassed by how much she has been talking. They’re now walking through the car park towards his car.
“Oh, don’t worry. I have two sisters and a mother who runs the village pub. All they do all day long is talk - to the customers and to each other. I’m very much used to it.” Now Matt is laughing.
“That’s why I work with plants,” he adds. “They are silent.”
“Gosh, I’m really babbling, aren’t I? Thank you for giving me a lift.” She stops there, embarrassed by how much she has been talking. They’re now walking through the car park towards his car.
“Oh, don’t worry. I have two sisters and a mother who runs the village pub. All they do all day long is talk - to the customers and to each other. I’m very much used to it.” Now Matt is laughing.
“That’s why I work with plants,” he adds. “They are silent.”
He opens the car door for her, and she quietly eyes him as he sits in the driver’s seat, puts the belt on with one smooth movement, and begins driving. He looks about 45, maybe a little more, with greying hair, short beard, strong forearms, and the uneven tan you get from a day of working in the garden rather than from lying on the lounger. And no wedding ring. She doesn’t want to be awkward, but she is curious about so many things: about Mr Blackwood, about the house, about Matt, his job, even his mum, whom she has just learned ran a village pub. She can’t help herself:
“So you work for Mr Blackwood?” Clare asks.
“Yes,” Matt replies. “I manage Blackwood Hall grounds. I have a small landscaping business. Nothing big - just me, my son, and a couple of employees.”
He glances towards Clare.
“I’ve been managing the Hall gardens for over fifteen years now. When the Hall was empty, it was mostly just basic maintenance, making sure everything didn’t become completely overgrown. But now that Mr Blackwood is back, he wants the gardens, driveway, and grounds brought back into shape, so I’m spending more time there.”
This is all new to Clare, and she wants to know more.
“So Mr Blackwood hasn’t been living in his home all this time?”
“No. I believe he was travelling, and the Hall was empty for all those years. But he asked my parents to look after it while he was away…”
Clare must have looked puzzled, because he quickly explains:
“Oh, my parents own the village pub, and it has a few rooms for guests. They already had people helping with cleaning, laundry, and general upkeep, so it made sense for Mr Blackwood to ask them to take care of the Hall as well. Not much to do anyway, since no one was living there. You know, basic maintenance jobs like checking for mice, leaks, a bit of dusting every few months, things like that. Especially since they all grew up together, everyone in the village knows everyone else, to be fair.”
Clare imagines for a moment how wonderful it must be to be part of such a tight-knit community. But the next question was already brewing in her.
“How did you know it was me at the train station?” Now Matt lets out a heartfelt laugh, glancing at her sparkling new shoes and unworn blazer.
“I was told a lady from London was coming to the West Country, and you look exactly like a lady from London who has just arrived in the West Country.”
He laughs again.
“What do you mean?” she asks, but his good-natured laugh makes her laugh with him.
“All you Londoners, who come here for the weekend, arrive wearing brand-new tweed coats and polished boots, without a speck of mud on them. You’ll need about twenty Devon winters before those clothes start looking like they actually belong here,” he points out.
But nothing in his voice is rude or accusatory; he is simply stating facts. So she replies with more confidence than she feels.
“Oh well, I still love my London-turned-country-girl outfit.”
“And rightly so,” he agrees gentlemanly. “But I’ll let you in on a secret. If you really want to look like a local, get the £14.99 wellies from the garden centre. That’s what people wear around here.”
“Wellies!”, exclaims Clare. “Oh my goodness, I haven’t even thought about them!” That makes him laugh even more.
Clare enjoyed the ride immensely. They arrive at the large, old-looking gate, which stands open. Her face must show her amazement, because Matt notices and adds:
“The drive up to the Hall alone is over a mile long.”
“Wow… The grounds must keep you busy.”
“Yeah, I’m looking to hire a couple more people to make sure I can keep up with this and the other properties we manage. There is always more work than hands. You wouldn’t believe how hard it is to find workers in rural areas.”
She nods, but says nothing because the sight of the house takes her breath away.
They approach Blackwood Hall from the right side. The front of the house overlooks extensive open fields, with sheep grazing in the distance, while behind the Hall, much closer, stand rows of trees separating it from the small country road they have just travelled along.
Matt parks across the driveway, and Clare is grateful - it gives her a moment to take in the building. It is imposing, like something from the period dramas she loves watching. The October morning sun casts a golden glow over the honey-coloured stone, highlighting the fallen leaves on the drive and the ivy climbing along parts of the walls. The large windows reflect the morning autumn sky, and smoke curls from two of the many chimneys, promising warmth inside.
“It’s quite something, isn’t it?” he remarks as they walk across the drive, Matt still carrying her luggage.
“It is! How do we get in? Do we knock or something?” The entry door is enormous and ancient, and the idea of knocking seems almost ridiculous.
“The main door is usually open during the daytime,” Matt replies. Holding the luggage with one hand, he pushes the heavy door open with the other and gestures for Clare to go inside.
“The drive up to the Hall alone is over a mile long.”
“Wow… The grounds must keep you busy.”
“Yeah, I’m looking to hire a couple more people to make sure I can keep up with this and the other properties we manage. There is always more work than hands. You wouldn’t believe how hard it is to find workers in rural areas.”
She nods, but says nothing because the sight of the house takes her breath away.
They approach Blackwood Hall from the right side. The front of the house overlooks extensive open fields, with sheep grazing in the distance, while behind the Hall, much closer, stand rows of trees separating it from the small country road they have just travelled along.
Matt parks across the driveway, and Clare is grateful - it gives her a moment to take in the building. It is imposing, like something from the period dramas she loves watching. The October morning sun casts a golden glow over the honey-coloured stone, highlighting the fallen leaves on the drive and the ivy climbing along parts of the walls. The large windows reflect the morning autumn sky, and smoke curls from two of the many chimneys, promising warmth inside.
“It’s quite something, isn’t it?” he remarks as they walk across the drive, Matt still carrying her luggage.
“It is! How do we get in? Do we knock or something?” The entry door is enormous and ancient, and the idea of knocking seems almost ridiculous.
“The main door is usually open during the daytime,” Matt replies. Holding the luggage with one hand, he pushes the heavy door open with the other and gestures for Clare to go inside.
The entrance hall is as impressive as the outside - stone floors, walls covered with paintings in rich frames, and above them hangs a large, heavy chandelier.
Matt leads her further into the house, towards the drawing room she recognises from the photos she has seen online. But it is even more impressive in person, with a real fire burning high in the medieval fireplace.
A rich Persian rug covers the floor, while various highly polished side tables and bookcases line the walls, filled with rows of books. The room has the unmistakable feeling of a place that has been carefully preserved for generations; some of the furniture is probably worth more than Clare’s yearly salary. And the smell… the room smells of wood polish, old books and history itself.
A couple is sitting by the fireplace: a curvy woman with short, curly hair and a pleasant face, and an older gentleman with neatly cut silver hair, both in their mid-60s. He stands as they enter the room, revealing a tall, slim figure.
“Ah, Clare, I presume?” He offers his hand. It is warm, dry, and strong. “Welcome to Blackwood Hall. I hope your journey was not too exhausting.”
“Not at all, Mr Blackwood?”
“Yes, very nice to meet you.” He scans her face more intensely than she feels comfortable with. “Feel free to call me Charles, or even Charlie. Everyone seems to insist on calling me Mr Blackwood, like I’m some old man.” He laughs at his own joke, and everyone in the room chuckles with him. Behind the politeness, his demeanour commands respect. If he laughs, everyone laughs with him.
“Ah, Clare, I presume?” He offers his hand. It is warm, dry, and strong. “Welcome to Blackwood Hall. I hope your journey was not too exhausting.”
“Not at all, Mr Blackwood?”
“Yes, very nice to meet you.” He scans her face more intensely than she feels comfortable with. “Feel free to call me Charles, or even Charlie. Everyone seems to insist on calling me Mr Blackwood, like I’m some old man.” He laughs at his own joke, and everyone in the room chuckles with him. Behind the politeness, his demeanour commands respect. If he laughs, everyone laughs with him.
“So, Clare. Are you ready for what comes next?” Mr Blackwood asks, his voice suddenly serious.
She looks at him, unsure what he mean. “What comes next?”
“The transformation,” he states calmly.
She gives a small laugh, slightly confused.
“The transformation?” she repeats his words again, now feeling positively sheepish.
“Of the library,” he adds, motioning towards the hallway.
“Oh, yes, of course,” Clare replies, relieved. What was she thinking?
“I can’t wait to start!”
“Of the library,” he adds, motioning towards the hallway.
“Oh, yes, of course,” Clare replies, relieved. What was she thinking?
“I can’t wait to start!”
***
Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed meeting Clare and look forward to seeing what Blackwood Hall has in store for her. We continue next Saturday here on the blog. In the meantime, you can always treat yourself to our Autumn candles inspired by the seasons of the English countryside and, of course, my slow living book. Let me know what you think, and if you enjoyed it, please share with friends or anyone who likes a spooky story! :)
Adriana x