[2/4] Hollowing: A Hauntingly Cosy Autumn & Halloween Mystery in the English Countryside
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Hello! Welcome back to part two of "Hollowing". I'm glad so many of you enjoyed the beginning of the story, and without holding you up any longer, let's get straight into Part Two.
Read PART ONE of "Hollowing" here
***
“I’m glad to hear that you’re enthusiastic. I’m afraid you’ll need a great deal of it in the coming weeks. The library is in quite a state,” says Mr Blackwood. “But before I drown you in a sea of books and catalogues, I think it’s best if Mrs Parker shows you your room first.”
He turns to the short, plump woman who now stands beside him with a genuine smile that seems strangely familiar. Clare’s eyes automatically move from her face to Matt.
The woman sees it and laughs out loud.
“Yes, you’re right. I’m his mum. Nice to meet you, Clare. I’m Donna. How lovely to have a new face in the village!” she exclaims. It is immediately clear she is a happy, sociable person. “Let’s go; I’ll show you your room.”
Clare reaches for the suitcase, but Matt gestures that he will carry it, so she follows Mrs Parker, who is walking surprisingly fast. She catches up with her on the large stone staircase.
“The house is huge, but you won’t get lost. All the rooms lead off the main corridor on each floor.” She smiles over her shoulder. “It is only you and Mr Blackwood living here, but you’ll see me and some of my girls around, and probably Matt and his lads too. So if you ever feel lonely...” She slows down and turns to look Clare in the face. “Just come and have a chat.” She starts climbing again. “Anyway, we gather every evening for dinner. I’ll explain how the meals work in a moment, but first…” She stops in front of a large, old-fashioned door, one of many lining the long, dim corridor, its wooden floor covered by a muted red carpet. “…this is your room.” She pushes the door open and steps aside, letting Clare in.
Clare feels as if she has walked into an episode of Downton Abbey. The room is beautiful. Sunlight falls through the large windows with views over the front of the house and the miles of open countryside stretching before it. There is a huge bed, dark polished wooden furniture, a vanity table, her own en-suite bathroom, and another stone fireplace - smaller than the one in the drawing room, but still impressive. And it is all hers for the next two months. The only thing that doesn't quite match the elegant furniture is the floral bedding. It is lovely in itself; just slightly out of place in such a grand room. A fire is already burning in the fireplace, making the room wonderfully warm and cosy. Donna watches her happily.
“You’ll find that some of the features are quite outdated, like the sink in the bathroom, but everything works perfectly well. The plumbing is sound; the radiators come on automatically when the temperature drops below a certain level. They do make a whole lot of noise," she warnes Clare, "and you can always light the fire if you need a bit of extra warmth. These old houses can be terribly draughty, especially now we're in autumn, with winter just around the corner. Anyway, I’ve personally scrubbed the room, so it’s all clean and fresh. I even got brand-new bedding and towels. I think this is much nicer than the old bedsheets in the cupboard. Some of them must be nearly a hundred years old…”
She shakes her head in disbelief and continues her monologue, while Clare tries to remember everything that has been said.
“As for food, the fridge is fully stocked with eggs, cheese, ham, butter, milk, and some fresh vegetables from the garden. There’s coffee, tea, sugar, and most of the usual condiments in the cupboards. You’re welcome to have anything you like for breakfast and lunch, and if there’s anything particular you’d like - I don’t know, whatever you people eat in London - matcha and avocado? I can get it for you when I’m shopping in town; just let me know. Dinner is served at the pub any time between three and eight pm. You can have anything from the menu. It’s not a long walk from here to the village, but I’ve asked Matt to walk with you tonight to show you the way…” She finishes with a smile.
“Thank you so much; both you and Matt are so incredibly kind to me. I feel lucky to be staying in such a beautiful house for work and to meet lovely people like you…”
As Clare speaks, Donna reaches into her pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper.
“Oh, I almost forgot about this,” she says, handing it to her.
Clare unfolds it. It is a list of names and phone numbers. Apart from Donna and Matt, she doesn't recognise any of them.
Donna
Matt
John
Emma
Lucy
Colleen
Rebecca
Dorothy
Tom
The Pub
Post Office
Patricia T
Patricia S
Tea Room
The list goes on
“If you ever need anything - anything at all, or if something feels out of the ordinary - don't hesitate. Phone me straight away,” she says.
“Of course. Thank you, I truly appre-”
Before Clare can finish her sentence, Donna steps closer. She gently places a hand on Clare's forearm and lowers her voice. “You seem like such a lovely lady, Clare.” She holds her gaze. “I'm being very serious. If anything doesn't feel right, phone Matt or me immediately, no matter what time of the day or night it is…”
Clare blinks, surprised by the sudden change in Donna's tone.
“Yes… of course. Is there something I should know about the house or Mr Blackw…” she begins, her voice lowering too, but Matt enters the room with the suitcase. He places it next to the bed and glances at the paper in Clare’s hands.
“Did you give Clare every phone number in the county?” he asks.
“No, silly. I gave her every phone number in the village,” she replies with a chuckle. It is clear that they have a great relationship. Matt turns to Clare.
“I hope Mum isn’t scaring you with ghost stories. She loves them.”
“I don’t love them; I am simply stating the facts. I live and work in a twelfth-century pub, where we have our own resident ghost,” Donna nods confidently as if that alone proves her point.
“Anyway, I’d better get going. We have a couple of Americans checking in at 12:30, and I want to be there to welcome them. They saw the ghost of the white lady during their last stay, too!” She pats Clare’s forearm in a friendly gesture. “I’ll see you at dinner, sweetheart”, and leaves the room.
“Mother can be intense,” Matt says, as if he is apologising for her.
“No, she’s fantastic!” Clare replies. “Donna said you would kindly walk me to the pub tonight to show me the way? I really don’t want to be a burden, but I would be grateful.”
“It’s not a problem. I need to walk my dog anyway. Daisy is usually with me at work, but I left her at home today in case you don’t like dogs, are allergic to them, or anything like that... I’d hate for her to ruin your perfect tweed jacket with some dog hair.” He ends with a cheeky smile.
“I love dogs, and I wouldn’t mind a few hairs!” Clare exclaims, laughing with him. Her face aches from all the smiling, and it is only day one.
They agree he will be back around 5:30 pm. Then Matt leaves, closing the door behind him and leaving her alone in the room for the first time.
She twirls around, slightly overwhelmed. This is better than she could have ever imagined. She walks to the window and stands there for a couple of minutes, taking in the view. Sunlight filters through the old glass, its warmth touching her face, while the fireplace behind her gives off gentle heat and the occasional soft crackle. She finally takes off her tweed jacket. If its only purpose was to help her have a bit of banter with this rather pleasant man, then it has been worth every penny. No, Clare isn’t looking for romance, not on a temporary job. She isn’t even sure what will happen with her marriage. But it is nice to be seen for once. She throws the jacket behind her onto the bed without looking and takes a couple of steps backwards, sitting on the edge while still looking out of the window.
Her hand feels something wet and warm. Clare turns around in surprise. In the centre of the bed lies a slaughtered pig, its blood slowly drenching the sheets; the heavy, metallic smell of blood fills her nose and throat. Her left hand is covered in it. It is a macabre view, clearly intended for her eyes. She screams, stumbles backwards, falling onto the floor.
Is someone in the room? Did they leave the pig there while she was lost in thought, staring out the window? How did she not hear anything?
Panicking, she tries to remember where her phone is. It is still inside the pocket of her tweed jacket, lying on the edge of the bed.
She braces herself, wanting to grab the jacket and run out of the room, when her eyes fall upon the bed. It is perfectly tidy. In the middle sits a neat pile of pink towels, left there by Donna. Clare stands up slowly and stares at the bed. All is in order. Is she hallucinating?
“Gosh,” Clare whispers, letting out a sigh of relief. Of course, she is tired. She has been awake since 3 a.m., has fought with Rob, and has spent five hours travelling by train. The bright pink towels and the red flowers on the bedding must have played tricks on her mind. She cautiously looks at her hand. Nothing. She reluctantly touches the towels. Perfectly normal. Hopefully she didn’t alarm Mr Blackwood with her scream, but since she can’t hear any footsteps approaching, she doubts anyone heard it.
Clare looks around the room, her heart still pounding: the cheerfully burning fireplace, the dressing table with the vintage mirror, the large old wardrobe that Donna has already filled with non-slip hangers. Everything is exactly as it should be. She pulls herself together. She’d better stop being silly and find Mr Blackwood to learn more about the job. She takes the phone and steps out into the corridor, carefully closing the bedroom door behind her.
Now, without Donna or Matt around, the Hall feels very still and silent. She hesitates for a moment, realising that her footsteps will disturb the quiet. Donna had said only she and Mr Blackwood would be living in the Hall, but standing there now, Clare realises just how enormous the house really is for only two people. She passes several closed doors before curiosity gets the better of her. She turns one of the brass handles, which opens with a small metal click, and peeks inside.
Heavy furniture stands beneath white dust sheets. They look like ghosts, frozen in time. In one corner, she can make out the shape of a piano, also covered. The tall windows let in the autumn light that catches specks of dust drifting slowly through the air. She carefully closes the door, trying not to make any sound. The next room looks much the same. Covered armchairs. Covered beds. Chandelier wrapped in protective cloths.
Clare walks down the wide stone staircase and glances into the drawing room, but Mr Blackwood is no longer there. Only glowing embers remain in the fireplace. She turns and continues along another corridor. On her left is a grand dining room with a table so long that it could seat a large wedding party. She keeps walking as quietly as she can, trying her best not to disturb the silence. Then, at the far end of the corridor, she sees a pair of grand double doors standing slightly ajar. From inside comes the sound of shuffling, of things being moved, and the occasional muffled bang. For some reason, her heart skips a beat. Clare holds her breath as she peeks inside.
Mr Blackwood stands beside a mountain of books, picking them up one by one, glancing at each cover and setting them aside. As though he senses her presence, he looks up.
"Ah, Clare. I was hoping you'd make your way here." He gestures for her to come in.
"Welcome, welcome to this disaster zone that was once one of the finest private libraries in the entire region." He smiles.
Clare steps inside and looks around, speechless. Books are everywhere: on tables, on chairs, stacked on the floor, piled on window seats and balanced on ladders. There are new books, old books, handwritten books, books without covers, and loose pages scattered among them. Towering bookcases stretch from floor to ceiling, and the scent of old paper, leather bindings, and dust fills the air.
“With your help,” says Mr Blackwood, watching her take it all in, “we can make it functional again.” He looks around, spots two chairs hidden among the piles of books, and carefully makes his way towards them. He moves a few volumes aside and gestures for Clare to sit.
She follows, trying not to step on any of the books scattered across the floor.
“So, Clare,” he says, settling into his chair, “honestly, what do you think?”
She takes a moment to gather her thoughts before speaking. “I’m equally shocked, amazed, impressed, and motivated. This seems like a truly extraordinary place, filled with knowledge, history, and stories stored away for generations. I genuinely feel proud to be the person who gets to try and bring some order back to it.”
Mr Blackwood clasps his hands together, delighted.
“Yes, yes, that is exactly what I was hoping for.” He looks around the room. “I don’t want someone to come here and simply dig through this place looking only for valuable books in a monetary sense. I want this library to be cared for as a whole, so it can continue serving future generations.” He nods.
“Forgive me if that sounds pompous. I suppose it’s one of the privileges of getting older - you begin to see a little further than the end of your own nose.” The two of them chuckle at this and sit quietly for a moment before Mr Blackwood speaks again.
“Right, Ms Watkins. House rules, so that we are on the same page.”
He leans forward slightly. “I lock the main entrance every day at 9 p.m. during autumn and winter. If you ever need to leave after those hours, use the back servants’ entrance.”
He pauses for a moment.
“I won’t be regulating your working hours. Do whatever works best for you. Whether you’re an early riser who likes to start at five in the morning, or someone who prefers working late into the night, it’s entirely up to you.”
He glances around the library.
“I set this job for two months, but honestly, I have no idea how long it will take. It might be a month; it might be four. Money is not exactly a concern, so I’m happy for you to stay as long as you need to put this place back together and catalogue the books. Your computer is somewhere over there.” He gestures towards a corner near the door. “I’m afraid I have very little understanding of these things, so I’ll leave you to set it up.”
He continues the monologue, and Clare regrets not bringing a notepad to take notes.
“I would be grateful if you could give me regular updates, particularly if you come across any books of historical value or family diaries.” He pauses, as if to highlight what he is about to say. “There is one diary in particular that I am interested in finding. It belongs to Eleanor Ann Blackwood, my late wife, and is bound in tan leather.”
He looks at Clare carefully. “If you find it, I must ask you not to read anything inside. It is strictly confidential and deeply private. Eleanor struggled with mental health issues, and for her sake, I do not want anyone reading her personal thoughts.”
He glances around the room. “To be completely honest, part of this disorder is my own doing. I spent considerable time searching for the diary myself, but without success. I don’t believe it is here, but just in case…” He holds her gaze. “Do you understand that you must not read Eleanor Blackwood’s diary?”
“Yes, Mr Blackwood, I fully understand. If I find it, I will immediately hand it to you,” Clare says with complete certainty. She isn’t a nosy person, and she would never violate someone’s right to privacy, especially when mental health is involved.
“Good, good. Just from looking at your picture on your CV, I could tell I could trust you.”
He pauses, as if remembering one final detail.
“One last thing. You are welcome to wander through the entire house and have a look wherever you like. Some of the rooms are quite remarkable, and it is a shame that no one is there to use them.”
His expression becomes slightly more serious. “But I strongly advise you to avoid the basement. The entrance is in the service wing. It is the oldest part of the building, officially dating back to the twelfth century. Still, family historians believe it might be much, much older, and my insurance does not cover that area.”
He gives a small, humourless smile. “If a stone falls on your head, you would have little more than emergency care available, and I would probably spend the rest of my life in prison for allowing this to happen.”
He waves a hand dismissively. “Besides, there is nothing interesting down there. Mostly cobwebs, old, disused household equipment, and stuff that has not been touched in years. The only reason I occasionally go there myself is for the wine cellar.”
“Absolutely, I understand.”
“Great. I might not be around on some days, so if you need to report anything to me, try calling me. For less urgent matters, leave a note on my desk in the office. You’ll find the room easily; it’s near the main entrance.”
They spend another hour or so brainstorming how to begin sorting the books, and eventually Clare promises to write down a full step-by-step process once she starts, implement the ideas in practice, and adjust based on what works best.
Mr Blackwood leaves, and Clare spends a bit of time clearing the most beautiful wooden Georgian desk and setting up the desktop and printer. She finds the small plastic card with the Wi-Fi details. This makes her life considerably easier, as she can research books through collectors’ databases to help estimate their rough value.
A couple of hours later, Clare’s neck stiffened from leaning over the desktop, setting up the cataloguing software. It is already 2 p.m. She straightens up and arches her back when she suddenly realises how hungry she is. She hasn’t eaten anything since the previous evening. She is thirsty and desperately needs to find a bathroom. Satisfied that the computer is set up, she puts all the printed papers into a neat pile and makes her way through the sea of books back to the main corridor.
Clare has no clue where the kitchen or the loo might be, but after wandering around the ground floor for a little while, she finds a small, narrow, dark staircase leading downstairs. She knows enough about historical buildings to figure out that this sort of staircase was usually meant for servants and led to the kitchen and service wing, so she carefully begins walking down. The narrow space is dark; her steps echo on the worn stone, but she can see what she thinks is daylight at the bottom.
The staircase leads down to a long, rather dark corridor unmistakably meant for servants. The low ceiling and stark simplicity contrast with the main house. It stretches to the left, with more doors on one side of the wall and a single large entrance on the other. Inside, she sees the kitchen, with big windows, cooking utensils hanging along the walls, and a large table in the middle. The corridor ends at a wide-open back door, which explains why it is so cold down here. Clare feels the cold draught and hears birds through the open door, but otherwise the downstairs is completely silent.
To her right, the corridor is much shorter, and a single, very old-looking door stands at its end. It is darker here, as the light filtering from the kitchen and open back door fails to reach this far. Clare takes a few steps towards it and squints to see better. An iron handle and huge iron nails are firmly fixed to wood that must be centuries old. The door itself is small, narrow and low, further suggesting its medieval origins. Without thinking, Clare raises her hand to touch it. She runs her fingers up and down, circling the head of one of the iron nails and feeling the cold iron. Despite its age, it is sturdier than most modern doors. Is this the entrance to the basement Mr Blackwood mentioned? Well, she has no reason to ever go beyond it. Goosebumps form on her forearms, and she isn’t entirely sure if it’s just from the cold. This ancient door makes her feel uneasy.
A shudder runs through her as she picks up a sound: faint footsteps that stop on the other side of the basement door. Is someone there? Then, a low voice behind her makes her jump.
“Nice to see you again, London-turned-country girl. How is your first day going?”
It is Matt, standing by the open servants’ door at the far end of the corridor. Clare turns to look at him, running her hand through her hair. She really needs a good night’s sleep; she is starting to imagine things. It must be Matt’s approaching footsteps that she heard. He is probably wondering what on earth she is doing, staring at the basement door.
Clare shakes off the strange feeling and replies with a smile, “It’s excellent, thank you. I was just wondering if I need to hunt down a pheasant if I want to have lunch in the countryside."
“If you wish, but I’m pretty sure the fridge is stocked with decent food,” Matt says as he walks down the corridor, opens one of the many doors along the wall, and puts a couple of bottles labelled “Lawn Magic” on the shelves inside.
Clare sees mops, buckets, modern cleaning products, and paper towels, and makes a mental note that if she ever needs anything of the sort, this is where she’ll find it.
“I’m off now. I’ll be back at 5:30. Is that still okay?” It is, and they agree to meet at the main entrance. Matt turns around to leave, but just before he does, he thinks of something. He steps back inside and toggles a switch on the large switchboard nearby. A strong light illuminates the dark corridor. “There, these corridors can seem quite creepy in the darkness,” he says with a smile as he shuts the door behind him.
They certainly are. Clare’s eyes wander back to the basement door, but Matt is right. In the strong fluorescent light, she doesn’t feel any threat, just an old door leading to a disused basement that she would never have any reason to visit.
She makes her way to the kitchen and is chuffed to find locally made cheese, real butter, and huge beef tomatoes. She cuts herself a chunky piece of bread and eats a simple cheese and tomato sandwich with great appetite. She can get used to this country life, she muses.
With a glass of water in her hand, she walks back to the library and spends another couple of hours among the books, undisturbed and calm. She hasn’t seen Mr Blackwood again today, and at around 5 p.m., she returns to her room to freshen up before dinner.
Donna is right about the room. Aside from the taps giving only ice-cold or boiling-hot water with far too much pressure, the room and bathroom are comfortable and have everything she needs.
She leaves the Hall a bit earlier, but Matt is already there, waiting on the front lawn with what seems to be some Labrador mix. The dog jumps happily, chasing the ball its owner is throwing.
Clare has a chance to look at Matt from a distance. He is dressed casually but elegantly, in dark brown trousers and a khaki coat. He moves with ease, squatting to pick up the ball, throwing it for the dog, and running after it. He stops when he notices Clare walking towards them.
He whistles and calls out, “Daisy, come here, girl.”
The dog happily trots over to his legs and sits down.
“Hi, Clare. Meet Daisy.”
Clare bends down with a smile.
“Oh, hello, beauty. Look at you, how gorgeous you are…”
The dog looks at her as if she understands the compliments and wags her long tail happily, soaking up the attention and gentle pats on her head.
They walk to the village along a narrow country lane accessible only on foot. Matt explains that following the main road means making a huge detour, while this shortcut gets them to the village centre in just ten minutes.
“If it rains, you can always ask someone from the pub to come and pick you up,” he says. “There’s always someone on standby, ready to collect inn guests from the train station or drive them into town, so it’s not much of a problem.”
They reach the village, and although the Hall has made a grand impression on her, it is the village itself that steals her heart. Little cottages with whimsical gardens are already dressed in autumn colours; a small post office stands next to a village shop with a window display of acorns in a wicker basket and an autumn leaf garland. A bakery and a little tea room nearby are already closed for the day, both looking utterly charming... this village seems like a dream place to live.
Oh, if only Clare could find a way to stay here. It is only her first day, but somehow the thought of going back to London is already breaking her heart.
They approach the pub, which is bustling with life. A group of people sits on the benches outside, greeting Matt. A man exiting the door shakes his hand and pats him warmly on the arm, but Matt doesn’t stop to chat with any of them. Instead, he leads Clare inside. He is clearly well liked and respected here, thinks Clare. She finds herself feeling the sudden weight of curious eyes. Unsure how to act, she looks down at her feet and follows him.
The inside of the pub is simply charming. Exposed beams, stone walls, a log burner, and a couple of comfortable-looking chairs beside it, which are occupied by two older gentlemen who are discussing something passionately.
Clare notices Donna behind the counter, chatting to a couple. When she spots Clare and Matt, she waves smiling and says, “I sat you at 12,” before turning back to her conversation.
Matt leads Clare to the table by the window marked with a small number 12, and asks, “Do you prefer to sit alone?”
Of course, she wants to sit with Matt. Her curiosity and eagerness to ask all questions she has been carrying since that morning haven’t faded, despite how tired she is.
They choose their food and keep talking even after they finish eating. Clare asks why Matt isn’t working in the pub with his parents and sisters. He explains that he loves them dearly, but he has always wanted to make something of his own. He is also far more interested in nature and plants than in cider and customer service.
Matt doesn’t know much about Mr Blackwood, other than that he has been travelling for the last fifteen years after his wife passed away. He has known Matt’s parents since childhood and is considered a fair employer and respected in the village. However, Clare can’t shake off the feeling that he hesitates slightly when speaking about Mr Blackwood, weighing his words carefully, so she doesn’t push any further.
Instead, she braves a more personal question about his family life. Matt tells her he is divorced and has an eighteen-year-old son who lives with him after his ex-wife left to pursue her corporate career, first in Bristol and later in London.
He loves Devon, the slower pace of country life, and his own garden. He spends his free time growing vegetables, walking and learning local history. The more he speaks, the more Clare realises he truly loves nature and being outdoors.
In return, she finds herself being unexpectedly honest about Rob and everything that happened last night. Somehow, talking to this stranger comes easier than opening up to anyone at her old office job or even the few friends she has.
Matt listens intently to everything she says. When she asks what he thinks, for an objective opinion, he stays quiet for a moment before answering.
“Whatever is happening between you and your husband,” he says, and Clare feels a wave of anger at the word “husband”. “It doesn’t sound like there’s much love left on either side. He sounds like - forgive me - a prick, but you don’t sound like a woman in love with a broken heart either.”
Clare turns his words over as he walks her back towards the Hall. Darkness has fallen, and without a torch, she relies on the light from her phone to guide her way. They walk in silence, Clare lost in her thoughts.
No, she doesn’t love Rob. She hasn’t loved him for years. But she has always believed she needs a reason to leave, something undeniable. He would have had to cheat on her, or mistreat her in a terrible, cruel way. Something big would have to happen to justify leaving.
Instead, the distance between them has simply grown over time. He became distant, leaving her feeling increasingly lonely and forgotten. She pushed these feelings deep inside to focus on raising Tom, but now that he has begun his own adult life, it has left a hole, an emptiness. She can’t pretend anymore that her marriage is just fine. Clare has been waiting for a reason to leave, as if the lack of love and her own unhappiness weren’t enough. Now, this job gives her that opportunity, and she is finally doing what she should have done years ago. Matt’s voice pulls her out of her thoughts.
“I won’t be at the Hall tomorrow; I’m at another client, but if you need anything, just ring me. I should be working on the grounds again Thursday or Friday, depending on the weather.”
She thanks Matt for driving her again, for walking with her, and for answering her endless questions; otherwise she has no energy left to joke or banter. She says her goodbyes, walks through the dark corridors, intuitively trying not to disturb the quiet of the Hall, and climbs the stairs.
As she reaches her floor, she halts abruptly.
A shadow looms at the end of the corridor, just outside her door. She stands petrified, her tired eyes struggling to make sense of what she is seeing. The dim light casts strange shapes across the walls, and she can’t tell if someone is actually there or if exhaustion is playing tricks on her mind.
Then, Clare notices her door is open. She is sure she closed it. Or had she? These old doors could be temperamental. She realises it’s just the moonlight from her room window filtering into the hallway, making it seem as though a silhouette is standing in the doorway.
The flicker of fear is swallowed by exhaustion. After everything that has been happening since last night, she no longer has the energy to be afraid.
She walks up the corridor and steps into her room, which feels very cold, probably because of the open door. She takes off her coat and places it neatly on the chair - she will hang it in the wardrobe tomorrow; she is too tired now. Clare walks to the bathroom, brushes her teeth, and barely manages to crawl to bed before collapsing into sleep.
Had she turned and opened her eyes, she would have seen the shadow standing over the bed, watching her silently. But she doesn’t.
That night, Clare dreams vividly. Dark images twist through her mind: moving shadows, whispers, old books bound in human leather, blood dripping from an inkwell, a man in ceremonial robes with his hands raised in prayer, chanting ancient texts in a language she has never heard before.
Her dreams are full of fear and dread, but by morning she doesn’t remember any of them. She only knows that she slept.
***
PART 3 coming 26 September 2026
Thank you for reading! Let me know what you think about Part Two. We'll continue next weekend.
Adriana x