[3/4] Hollowing: A Hauntingly Cosy Autumn & Halloween Mystery in the English Countryside
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Happy last weekend of September! There is no video on YouTube this Sunday, as I took a little time off filming in favour of writing. Some of you might know that I'm currently writing my first fiction book, and it's going very smoothly so far. I'm well over a quarter in! My video schedule will be back to normal next Sunday, but this weekend I leave you with Clare and her adventure in Blackwood Hall. Next week is already the last instalment, so it's not long until all the secrets are revealed. Enjoy!
Ps. Just a little reminder of what I said in Part One - I do apologise for weird formatting, but the blog's indent tool doesn't work and it indents the entire paragraph, instead of just the first line. I have resolved to make a space between some paragraphs (even it's not an entairly new scene) to avoid long block of text that is hard to read, I hope it's not too much of inconvinience.
HOLLOWING, PART 3
Clare wakes on Tuesday to dim light filtering through the window. She didn't draw the curtains last night, and now she can see the eastern sky slowly brightening. It is seven o'clock, which means she has slept for over ten hours. She can't remember the last time she slept so deeply, but she clearly needed it.
Rolling out of bed with great energy, Clare gets ready for her first proper day of work. She dresses smartly but comfortably, brushes her hair, slips on a pair of flat shoes, and marches towards the library, determined to bring order to it.
She doesn't see anyone in the Hall on Tuesday, Wednesday or Thursday. An empty coffee mug left in the kitchen sink suggests that Mr Blackwood was home in the early hours, but she never crosses paths with him, Donna, or anyone else. She doesn't mind. Her head is entirely occupied with devising the most efficient, yet diligent, system for organising the library.
The work demands both mental concentration and physical effort. She spends hours moving piles of books from one place to another - some so fragile they fall apart at the slightest touch, others heavy and smelling of damp. There are thousands of them. She will know exactly how many once she finishes cataloguing every last volume.
Most of the bookcases lining the walls are anchored in place, but those that aren't have clearly been moved before, as though someone had been searching for something hidden behind them.
“It must be Mr Blackwood,” Clare thinks, “looking for the diary. He really is determined to find it.”
She cleans the thick layers of dust and sweeps away the spiderwebs behind the shelves before pushing them back into place with all her might. It is hard, absorbing work, but she loves every minute of it.
Each day, around midday, Clare takes her lunch break. She walks downstairs to the kitchen to prepare her meal and coffee, always passing the creepy door leading to the basement.
“No”, Clare tells herself firmly on Wednesday lunchtime, stopping her thoughts in their tracks. “It is just an old door. I really need to stop this.”
But the truth is, she quickens her pace every time she passes the basement door, as if someone - or something - will suddenly fling it open, reach out, and drag her down into the darkness, where no one would ever find her again.
She shudders as she stands outside the servants’ entrance with her cup of coffee, taking her lunch break and watching the wind sweep fallen leaves across the ground. Some are still in their prime autumn shades of yellow, red and orange, while others have already turned brown. The sunshine makes the colours pop, but the wind is cold - a reminder that it is already October and the year is coming to an end. She wonders if Mr Blackwood decorates the Hall for Christmas. Probably not, but she bets the pub must look straight out of a film scene, with evergreen branches hanging from the beams and a Christmas tree. If she could only find a way not to return to London…
The silence here is wonderful. The gentle swaying of trees and distant bird calls are both peaceful and soothing. Clare sits on the stone threshold, wrapped tightly in her oversized scarf, and imagines that if she ever moves to Devon, her son Tom would love it here. One of the main reasons he travels is his love for nature and hiking, and Devon offers miles upon miles of beautiful coastal paths and countryside walks.
Dreaming about what the future might hold for her, Clare relishes this very moment. The October air brings colour to her cheeks, the wind plays gently with her hair, her scarf wraps around her like a blanket, and the coffee mug warms her hands.
Suddenly, a door groans behind her - a long, slow, unmistakable creaking of old hinges at the far end of the corridor. She freezes. Clare looks around, searching for the source, but deep down she already knows where it came from. Tentatively, she turns towards the basement entrance... to her horror, she sees the heavy wooden door standing ajar. She scans the empty corridor, but there is no one else there.
With a pounding heart, Clare places her mug on the ground and slowly stands up, straining her eyes towards the other end of the corridor.
“Hello?”
Silence.
“Is anyone there? Mr Blackwood?”
Nothing.
A strong urge to run washes over her, but she maintains composure. She has to be reasonable; it’s just an old door in an old house. She reaches for the light switch and flicks it on. Harsh artificial light floods the corridor, leaving no doubt: the door is open.
She is certain it was closed when she walked past it earlier. She would have noticed if it had been standing open.
Keeping her eyes fixed on the medieval doorway, as if something might crawl out of it, Clare edges backwards to the threshold. With her heart pounding, she picks up the mug, then moves slowly towards the kitchen entrance, all without breaking her gaze.
Once inside the kitchen, she places the mug in the large sink, takes a deep breath, and steps back into the corridor, desperately hoping that perhaps Mr Blackwood will emerge with a smile, holding a bottle of wine - or that the door is actually shut, proving it was a mere trick of the light or her imagination.
But the heavy door remains open, and no one is around. “Shit.”
She unwinds the scarf from around her, freeing her hands, and, despite the fear, walks towards the basement. She resists the urge to glance inside. Instead, she pushes it shut with all her strength.
A cold draft of air escapes from the darkness beyond, carrying the smell of earth, dampness and… lavender.
Clare is certain she could smell it.
She stands there for a moment, staring at the door - the worn wood, the iron nails hammered into it by a skilled carpenter centuries ago, every scratch and mark visible beneath the harsh fluorescent light. It is just an old door, she reminds herself - nothing to fear.
Warily, she leans forward and presses her ear against it. The distant birdsong or rushing wind fades; no footsteps, no movement. A heavy silence falls. There is only her own heartbeat, slowing down as if the threat has passed.
After a moment, Clare steps away from the door and returns to the library to continue her work.
She pushes the unease deep down, determined to carry on as if nothing happened. But in her gut, she can't shake the feeling that something wants her down in that basement.
On Thursday afternoon, Clare prints out a detailed plan for organising the library that she promised Mr Blackwood and leaves it on his desk before heading to the pub for dinner.
She hasn't seen Matt over the last few days, but she has enjoyed several lovely conversations with one of his sisters, who handles the evening food service. The pub is busy and full of life - Donna glowing among the customers as she chats, wipes tables, and darts energetically between them, while Matt's father pours pints behind the bar and hauls crates in and out of the storeroom.
The warmth and energy here starkly contrast with the Hall’s emptiness, putting her foolish fears into perspective. How could she possibly be afraid of a basement door? She thanks Mr and Mrs Parker for the meal and goes back to her room, feeling much lighter.
Friday is the complete opposite of the previous three days. It seems as though, all of a sudden, everyone has decided to get in touch with her.
At nine o'clock, she receives a phone call from the new manager at her old job. He has called her private number to ask about procedures she distinctly remembers explaining during his training. Clare tells him she can spare five minutes and walks him through the most important points again, pausing often as he frantically scribbles down her instructions on the other end of the line.
At ten o’clock, Donna pops into the library. She was in the kitchen restocking the fridge for the weekend and wanted to let Clare know that one of the housekeepers will be cleaning her bedroom that afternoon. Clare expresses her gratitude, and they chat for a bit about Donna's Christmas plans for the pub.
Clare promises - more to herself than to Donna - that she will visit during the festive period, even if she is no longer in the area. She will gladly make the journey from London just to try the Christmas menu that Matt's mother is so visibly proud of.
Clare is tempted to ask Donna what Matt has been up to over the last few days, but she doesn't want to appear too eager or make the conversation awkward, so she keeps the question to herself.
But as if summoned by her thoughts, Matt appears around lunchtime, carrying a basket of late-autumn tomatoes.
He takes off his khaki coat, revealing a knitted navy jumper over a blue shirt, and hangs it over the back of the chair at the kitchen table before smiling at her. He looks well, just tired.
“Long week?” asks Clare.
“Yeah,” he replies. “And it’s not over. I’ve got more to do today and all day tomorrow.”
He follows her with his eyes as she moves from the sink to the cooker, putting the kettle on.
“But I thought I’d stop by with some fresh tomatoes from my greenhouse and see how you’re getting on. Are you up to anything on Sunday?”
Clare looks back at him. Grey temples, low voice, strong hands, no-nonsense attitude. What a man…
He offers to show her some walking paths around the village, and afterwards they could eat at the pub or drive into town if she fancies it.
Clare agrees enthusiastically, though secretly she hopes they will stay in the village. She doesn’t want to leave - not even for a few hours. As if going away means she might never come back.
He leaves soon after, and Clare returns to the library to get some work done. It isn’t long before Mr Blackwood emerges from between the rows of books, holding the papers she left on his desk.
He has underlined several sections and goes through them methodically, listening intently as Clare explains her ideas. In return, he answers the many questions she has accumulated over the past few days. He seems pleased with the plan and informs her that he won't be around much the following week. Clare wonders if that implies he has been around during the previous three days, despite the fact that she hasn’t seen him once.
“Are you settling in well enough?” he asks.
The basement door flashes through her mind, but something tells her it’s best not to ask. He had expressly forbidden her from entering the basement, so she mustn’t show any particular interest. To avoid appearing as though she is ignoring his instructions - or being nosy - she says nothing about it.
Instead, Clare speaks honestly about how much she loves the job, the house and its idyllic setting, looking and gesturing toward the large window and the beautiful view beyond it.
When she turns back, she realises Mr Blackwood isn’t looking at the view at all; his eyes transfixed on her. His hungry expression surprises her.
His gaze is calculated, an eagerness she has not noticed before, as though he is studying her. For a brief moment, she feels she is looking at someone entirely different from the gentleman who had welcomed her into his home on Monday morning... but then, just as quickly, his features soften, the polite smile returns, and he becomes Mr Blackwood once more.
This frightens her more than any darkness behind the old basement door.
Week 2
At the end of the second week of her stay, Clare is frantically searching her room on Friday morning. She double- and triple-checks the bathroom, lifts the bed cover, checks the wardrobe, and even goes down on all fours to look under the bed, but her hairbrush is nowhere to be found.
She sits on the edge of the bed, defeated.
When did she last use it? She is certain she brushed her hair yesterday morning, since it was her hair-wash day, but did she use it when she returned to her room that evening after Matt walked her home from the pub? She can’t remember.
Her thoughts drift back to Matt and the time they spent together last Sunday. She had arrived for their weekend walk wearing her highly polished boots, prompting Matt to make the executive decision to buy her a pair of wellies from the garden centre. With Daisy happily trotting alongside them, they picked out a pair of dark green wellies that complemented her scarf and jacket, then decided to stay for coffee and cake while they were there.
They talked about everything - their childhoods, favourite films, Matt’s ex-wife, his idea of a road trip around Iceland, Clare’s plans for the future, and her dream to escape London and start her own YouTube channel.
Matt then took Clare along his favourite walking route, and they hiked for over three hours. By the end, her wellies were covered in mud, her cheeks flushed from the chilly wind, and her face ached from all the talking and laughing.
Eventually, they decided it was time for dinner.
At Clare’s request, they stayed in the village and enjoyed a Sunday roast together. As the pub began to empty towards the end of the day, the armchairs beside the log burner became free, so they moved over, and Matt brewed them both cups of tea.
Clare knew it was time for her to leave, but she found it incredibly difficult to go. She envied Matt for the life he had built here - with his family close by, liked and respected within the community, quietly living his country life.
As she was saying her goodbyes, Matt insisted on either walking or driving her back. Just then Donna and John joined them, each carrying a cup of tea. They pulled two chairs closer to the fireplace, and Clare happily settled back, grateful for an excuse to extend the evening just a little longer.
Clare could see that, although Matt had inherited his mother’s smile, his character was much more like his father’s. John was a bit reserved, matter-of-fact, and no-nonsense at first, but once someone got to know him better, he became a warm, charming man who truly loved his wife. Clare could see it in his eyes every time he looked at Donna.
They chatted about lighter matters for a while until John turned to Clare and asked directly,
“How do you find Charles?” Seeing her confusion, he added, “Mr Blackwood.”
“Oh.” Clare hesitated. “He’s... well...”
She struggled to find the right words. The look in his eyes during their conversation in the library had left her with a lingering sense of unease.
Instead of answering, she looked towards Donna, carefully weighing her words.
“On Monday, you told me to reach out if anything was wrong,” she said. “Did you mean anything specific by that? Is there something I should know about the Hall… or Mr Blackwood?”
The question came out more directly than she had intended.
Donna and John exchanged a glance before both letting out a quiet sigh.
“There is,” John said at last, “and there isn't. It’s just... he’s not the same man who left. He looks the same, of course. Older, but still Charles. Yet there’s something about him that worries me.” He frowned, staring into the flames dancing in the fireplace.
“He was always a bit eccentric. But then, who wouldn't be after growing up in a place like that?” He gestured in the direction of the Hall. “But after Eleanor passed away, he withdrew from everything and everyone for a time before announcing that he was closing Blackwood Hall and leaving to travel. He made quick arrangements with us, dropped off the keys, left a very generous cheque, and simply walked away. No explanation. We were shocked. I don't know what happened during those fifteen years he was away, or what he got himself involved in, but whatever it was... it changed him. There’s a darkness about him now that wasn’t there before.”
Donna nodded slowly. “And then there’s this sudden determination to restore the Hall to its former glory,” she said. “First the gardens, then the library, and now he wants to reopen the rooms and modernise the kitchen... for who?” she asked, though she wasn't expecting an answer. “For a while we thought he’d met someone, that perhaps there was a new woman in his life and he wanted to get the house ready for her. It would have made perfect sense. But now...” She looked worried “Now it doesn't feel like that at all. It all just seems... odd.”
John went silent for a few moments before speaking again. “There is one more thing.”
He glanced at Donna, who looked as if she were holding back tears.
“Just before Charles left fifteen years ago, Donna asked him where his late wife, Eleanor, was buried. They were friendly, and it wasn't an unreasonable question. She only wanted to pay her respects…”
Donna slowly shook her head.
“… But he completely lost his temper,” John continued. “He never answered her. He just flew into a rage.”
“Fifteen years later,” Donna said quietly, “we still don't know where her body is.”
She looked genuinely upset, and Clare's hand flew to her mouth.
Before anyone could speak again, Matt broke the silence.
“It's all right,” he said gently. “We're not trying to frighten you.” He smiled reassuringly.
“Charles can be difficult, but he isn't some raging psychopath. Many local people work for him, including us,” he gestured to his parents and himself, “and there has never been any trouble.”
He paused, gathering his thoughts before continuing.
“It is only fair you know how people around here feel. If anything ever strikes you as odd, or if something doesn't sit right with you, don't ignore it. Just... be careful. Better safe than sorry.”
His smile was warmer this time.
“And if you ever need anything, you know where to find the Parker family. Just ring the pub, or even better, me.”
***
It is reassuring to know that Matt and his family sense something isn't quite right, but Clare doubts they know the full extent of it. The pleasant Sunday she spent with Matt already seems like a distant memory on this gloomy Friday morning, almost a week later.
The good thing is that she is seeing Matt much more often this week. He and his son have been working at the manor almost every day, and even if he is out in the grounds while she is tucked away in the library, it is comforting to know he is close by.
The trouble is that very little of what has worried Clare in recent days could be easily shared with anyone without making her sound as though she were losing her mind.
How could she possibly explain to the Parkers - or to anyone - that she feels watched, even though she knows there is no one there? The feeling grows stronger with each passing day, and even she can’t explain it rationally. More and more often, a shadow flits across the very edge of her vision, only to vanish the instant she turns her head.
Who in their right mind would believe her? But this morning is even worse.
She woke to find her bedroom door standing wide open. She leapt out of bed and looked around the room, bewildered, half expecting someone to attack her at any moment. But once again, no one was there.
She cautiously peered out into the corridor, but it was empty too.
She closed the door and tried to reason with herself. It must have been a draught. The old house was full of them - Donna herself had said so - and perhaps she hadn't closed the door properly before going to bed. From then on, she decided to wedge a heavy chair beneath the handle every night to make sure it stayed shut.
She was frightened, but how could she explain it to anyone?
I woke up, and my bedroom door was open. Big deal. Oh no, so terrifying... Was it?
What weighed most heavily on her mind on this Friday morning wasn’t the open door, the creeping shadows or the lost hairbrush, but her dreams.
Ever since she arrived at the Hall, they had become unusually vivid. Only a couple of nights in, she dreamt of a book bound in human skin while whispered spells echoed around her in a language she had never heard before.
While working in the library, she came across quite a few ancient-looking tomes, bound in every kind of leather imaginable and written in dozens of languages, some so old they no longer resembled any modern tongue. Many were probably brought back from abroad by Blackwood’s ancestors - God knows how long ago or by what means they were obtained. At the time, she dismissed these dreams as her mind simply processing everything she saw during the day.
But last night, it got much worse. She couldn't feel her body. As hard as she tried, her arms and legs did not respond to her commands. Her eyes darted around, trying to peer through the darkness as numbness took over. She was nothing more than a puppet, hollow inside, while someone else pulled the strings. The sensation was utterly terrifying; she had awoken that morning wrapped tightly in her own arms, pinching her skin as if to reassure herself she could still feel. Somewhere deep within her, beyond logic and reason, a primal instinct was warning her, even if she couldn’t understand what of.
And then she noticed the open door.
She takes a long, loud breath, then turns her head to look at herself in the mirror of her vanity unit.
“Great,” she tells herself. “Now get up. Get to work. You can’t afford to be spooked.”
This is the real issue, Clare admits to herself later that day, as she sorts books by condition before examining them more closely for age and value. She cannot afford to walk away.
The thought of going back to live under the same roof as Rob is nauseating. She would rather sleep on a park bench.
On the other hand, arriving at her mother’s door with her bags would only worry her. Clare loves her mum to bits, and the last thing she wants is to disturb the peaceful retirement she deserves after a lifetime of working as a nurse for the NHS.
Who else is there? She could never talk to any of her friends from London. She isn't even sure how many of them already know what she’s done.
Clare imagines calling Jane, her neighbour, and explaining that she left her job, is about to file for divorce, walked out of her flat in the middle of the night with one suitcase, and is now temporarily living in a medieval hall that she suspects might be haunted - and that her employer is up to no good, though she doesn’t know exactly what.
Gosh, it sounds ridiculous. A midlife crisis. That’s what it is.
She checks the clock. It’s almost 1:00 pm. She needs coffee and, more importantly, to stop being ridiculous.
She makes her way down the corridor, deliberately keeping her eyes fixed on the kitchen entrance and avoiding even a glance toward the basement door. That is when she hears voices.
Stepping inside, she finds Mr Blackwood and Matt standing face to face. Matt’s rigid posture and frown display his frustration, while Mr Blackwood appears composed, though his jaw is visibly tight and his eyes are cold. Clare can tell they’re clearly in a disagreement.
Then, as if sensing her presence, they both turn their heads towards her and fall silent.
Mr Blackwood speaks first, with a pleasant smile. “Ah, Clare, I was just telling Mr Parker what excellent work you’ve been doing in the library.”
Clare immediately puts on her professional face. “Thank you, Mr Blackwood,” she replies. “Do you need me for anything at the moment? I only came in for a lunchtime coffee.”
“Oh no,” Mr Blackwood says lightly. “I would never dare stand between a woman and her coffee. Enjoy your break, and I’ll see you around.” His footsteps echo along the corridor, but they stop a moment later. Clare holds her breath. Has he stopped by the basement door?
A second later, the footsteps resume. She listens as he walks up the stairs, the sound gradually fading until the Hall falls silent once more.
Clare turns to Matt.
“What was that about?”
“It's nothing. Don't worry about it,” Matt replies, though his face is still darkened by whatever has just passed between them.
Clare doesn’t press. She doesn’t know Matt well enough, and honestly, she is just tired. She needs coffee, a good night’s sleep, and to stop letting her anxiety get the better of her.
Saturday morning dawns gloomy, with dark clouds covering the horizon and a light mist blanketing the fields stretching out before the Hall. It looks as though it might rain, but it hasn't started yet, so Clare decides to go for a stroll around the grounds before putting in a couple of hours' work in the library. Afterwards, she will have an early dinner and spend the evening in her room, reading by the fire. It sounds like a good plan and exactly what she needs.
She wraps up warmly, walks down to the servants' entrance - keeping her eyes fixed straight ahead as she passes the basement door - and pulls on the muddy wellies she has been leaving in the cupboard by the door. She doesn’t meet anyone on her way downstairs. She unlocks the servants’ door, which means neither Donna, Matt, nor any other staff are around. Stepping outside, Clare relishes the crisp October air. She can smell woodsmoke drifting on the breeze, undoubtedly from the chimneys in the village. She isn't sure whether Mr Blackwood is home this morning, but the drawing room is empty and its fireplace cold.
She wanders for a while through the formal gardens, where Matt and his son, Ben, have been preparing the grounds for winter. The flower beds have been cut back, and the borders tidied. She would love to see the gardens in spring and summer; somehow, she doesn’t doubt that Matt will make them beautiful.
She passes the large kitchen garden, where winter prep has also begun. Will they grow fruit and vegetables here? But who is all this food for? Mr Blackwood must have grand plans for the Hall that he hasn't shared with the Parkers yet.
Clare carries on walking, passing what she thinks is a rose garden, now quiet and winding down for winter. A few weary blooms still cling to their stems among yellowing leaves.
Is it strange that she loves this atmosphere? The quiet, melancholic peace of autumn.
There is beauty in this season that no other time of year possesses. Perhaps it’s because autumn never struggles against the natural flow. When the time comes, it lets go effortlessly, allowing nature to become what it is meant to be. The last twenty years of Clare's life have felt like an uphill climb - a long struggle she just accepted as her fate. How wonderful it would be to let go and just enjoy moments as they come and go.
Deep in her thoughts, she finds herself in the wilder parts of the grounds on the path that leads her into the woods. After a few blissful minutes under the autumn canopy, she reaches a small meadow.
At the opposite end of the clearing stands a stone building - a mausoleum, by the look of it - surrounded by graves. Some are large and elaborate, others little more than simple headstones. All look very old.
Clare realises she has stumbled upon the Blackwood family graveyard. It is a poignant and beautiful place. The murky sky filters what little light there is, illuminating the circular graveyard against the dark woods. The ground is covered in fallen leaves that crunch beneath her boots, but the silence around her completely swallows the sound.
She steps slowly among the graves, reading the names and dates, occasionally bending down to push creeping ivy aside to reveal a hidden inscription. She expects one of them to be Eleanor’s. But after checking every headstone twice, she is certain that none bear Eleanor’s name - the graves are far too old anyway. Most of them date back well over a century, and many inscriptions have been worn almost smooth by time.
Clare realises she doesn't actually know how Eleanor died.
Mr Blackwood mentioned her mental health problems, and Donna and John spoke about her body, but what if there was no body to bury? What if she was cremated? What if she jumped from the clifftops and was never found? Or what if she disappeared - escaped with a lover, perhaps - and Mr Blackwood is too ashamed to admit the truth?
She looks up at the mausoleum. The heavy wrought-iron gate rests slightly open.
Clare leans forward and peers inside, trying to read the names carved into the stone plaques within. She has had quite enough of being spooked recently to willingly walk into an old mausoleum in the middle of the woods just to get a better look. “They're definitely not making a horror film about me,” she mutters, chuckling at her own joke. A glance from the outside is enough to tell her that Eleanor isn't there either.
The mist, which had lifted slightly when she was in the formal gardens, is now creeping back in from the surrounding woods, growing thicker by the minute. It is time to go; otherwise, she might struggle to find her way back.
Standing at the edge of the circular meadow, Clare casts one last look around the Blackwood family graveyard. She is alone, even though it doesn’t feel that way - the sense of being watched returns, stronger than before.
She retraces her steps, pushing the feeling of fear as far back into her mind as she can, but her pace quickens with each step until she reaches the servants' entrance.
She shuts the door behind her with her entire body, locks it, and, without looking towards the other end of the corridor, flicks on the lights.
Still looking down, she removes her wellies and coat, places them in the cupboard, and slips on the lighter shoes she wears around the Hall. Then, with a deep breath, she finally looks towards the basement door.
Closed.
Everything is in order. I’m just being silly.
It is an old house. Of course it feels strange. How many places has she lived in that had their own graveyards and medieval foundations, potentially dating back centuries? The answer is none.
While downstairs, Clare makes herself a cup of tea and a sandwich, then takes them upstairs to the library. She places the cup carefully on the Georgian desk, using a coverless book as a makeshift coaster, and looks around.
She has certainly made progress.
The room looks more impressive than it truly is. She has achieved a lot by grouping the books and organising the shelves, creating a system that lets her begin her work properly. Now she has to go through the tomes one by one, research the older volumes, catalogue them, and record every detail.
It could take months, and Clare would love every minute of it - especially since Mr Blackwood hasn’t given her a fixed deadline. She only wishes she didn't feel so spooked all the time. If only I could get a proper night’s rest… The dreams worry her more than she wants to admit, even though she knows how irrational it sounds.
Clare works longer than planned, lost among the rows of books. Each one is different in size, weight, and age; each carries its own story. She wants to be diligent and do them justice, knowing that someone, at some point, poured their time, knowledge, and probably a piece of their soul into creating it.
Still, she hasn't seen anyone else in the Hall, and it's late afternoon, so she decides to wrap up her work for the day when her phone buzzes.
It is Matt, asking what time she will be at the pub. She replies that she will be there in about half an hour, and he tells her he is looking forward to seeing her.
Clare realises how much she has come to rely on seeing Matt almost every day this past week. She can't quite believe how quickly she has grown accustomed to these cosy pub dinners and his gentlemanly companionship.
With a slight rush, she adds two more books to the small stack on her desk - the ones she plans to bring back to her room and read tonight. She picks them up and goes to her room to get ready.
A touch of powder, a quick comb through her hair using the mini comb she always carries in her handbag, and she is ready to go. I really need to buy a proper hairbrush, she makes a mental note, since she still hasn't found hers and, at this point, it's most likely gone forever.
The day remains dull, with the low mist limiting visibility. Now, she has company for the walk - not just Matt, but also Daisy. She meets them halfway to the village, and together they walk to the pub. Clare wishes this could be her life, not just a temporary adventure...
Amid the gloom of the late afternoon and the light mist hanging in the air, Clare stops in her tracks, transfixed by the sight of the pub. The sash windows looking out onto the street have carved jack-o'-lanterns, glowing from within. A few more pumpkins decorate the entrance.
It looks magical.
Clare realises it is exactly two weeks until Halloween, one of her favourite days of the year.
“Yeah, Mum loves all this decorating. Wait until you see Christmas,” says Matt, correctly reading the joy on her face.
Inside the pub, even more pumpkins have been placed around the log burner, on the counter, and along the windowsills. One even sits beside their usual table. Clare loves it, and though she feels a pang of sadness at the thought that she might not be around for Christmas, she pushes it away. She just wants to enjoy the here and now.
“So, you like Halloween?” asks Matt.
Clare honestly admits she loves anything associated with the BER months, which she patiently explains are SeptemBER, OctoBER, NovemBER and DecemBER. It is her time of year. Matt laughs hard at the explanation, but admits he enjoys the cooler weather and the feel of the last four months of the year, too.
Matt tells her about the village’s annual Halloween lantern walk after nightfall. It is their local tradition, going back centuries; he remembers taking part in it ever since he was a child. The lanterns vary from modern, shop-bought ones to carved turnips or pumpkins. This year Halloween falls on a Saturday, so it’s expected to be especially good. His middle sister, Emma, pauses by their table and says how excited she is about the occasion, adding that Clare should absolutely join them.
“Would you like to?” Matt asks.
Clare composes herself and simply replies, “Yes, that sounds lovely.” Inside, however, she is practically squealing with joy.
A couple of hours later, Clare is back in her room. It still isn't completely dark, and the sky has faded to a murky twilight - nightfall will come soon.
The creeping mist has thickened over the grounds, and Clare is grateful that Matt walked her back to the Hall. Now, safe in her room, with the chair wedged against the door, she manages to light the fireplace, following a step-by-step guide she found online. Somehow, it works.
She then pushes the heavy armchair from the corner closer to the fireplace, brings over her cup of tea and the pile of books, and settles down.
She has a few books about the countryside, a romance, and a couple of thrillers, but she doesn't feel like reading anything remotely spooky. She sets the thrillers aside, reads the back cover of the romance novel, and then picks up one of the books about country life.
That’s when she notices the slim volume bound in tan leather. She doesn't remember adding it to her pile. Intrigued, she flips through it. The pages are filled with handwriting.
A month ago, an entire handwritten book would have been surprising. But not anymore - not since she started working in the Blackwood Hall library. She opens it at a random page and begins to read.
“I told him I want a divorce. I cannot live like this anymore, being nothing more than a servant to his whims. He thinks of a wife as a mere possession - something he owns, devoid of personality, thoughts, and desires of her own. I am expected to do only what he does, enjoy what he enjoys, and speak only of what he approves. Any mention of visiting my sisters, suggestion of a trip to London, or even a casual outing to town with Donna sends him into a fury. My phone, bank account, even my family - he monitors everything.”
“I can’t stand it anymore. I’m contemplating ending it all. The more I try to distance myself, the tighter his grip becomes, which only drives me further away. I can’t have friends anymore because he tracks my emails and phone and won’t let me leave the house unless he’s with me. I don’t know what to do. How can I live like this, a prisoner in the most beautiful cell? Everyone thinks he is a good husband, but I am the only one who sees him for what he truly is - a controlling abuser.”
It is a diary. Clare feels her stomach drop. Before she can think, she flips to the last written page.
“I can’t… I don’t want to…. Tonight, I will end this. But I am afraid that even then, he will not let me go - that even after my spirit has left my body, he will still find a way to keep me as his.”
She notices the entries are dated. It starts in November 2007, with the final entry dated October 31st, 2011. That was fifteen years ago… Is this Eleanor’s diary?
Her hands move quickly, turning back to the first page. Written clearly inside the cover are the words: Eleanor Ann Blackwood. Her worst fear is confirmed.
Clare stares at it - what is she supposed to do? She wasn’t meant to read it - never intended to. But how has it found its way into her book pile? She would have noticed it before; it is completely different from the printed books she brought to her room.
She needs to give it to Mr Blackwood. That is the right thing to do. But Eleanor seemed so afraid of him, and Clare understands why. She will never forget the look on his face that day in the library. The cold calculation. The hunger…
But reason takes over. She can't afford to fight a battle that isn't hers. What if Eleanor truly had mental illness? What if the diary isn't about Mr Blackwood at all? What if she had been married before or if there was another explanation entirely- one Clare hasn't even considered?
She stands shakily, pushes the chair away from the door, and slips out into the corridor, barefoot. She makes her way through the shadows of the Hall. The house feels entirely still, as if waiting.
She pauses outside Mr Blackwood's office, feeling the coldness of the stone floor beneath her feet. The light is off. No sound comes from within. He isn't here.
Clare turns the handle. The click breaks the silence as she enters. Dark, polished furniture fills the room, and antique maps cover most walls. Pale moonlight filters through the window and falls across the desk. Above her, the forbidding expression of an ancestor stares down from a large portrait.
She takes a few steps forward, the Persian rug silencing any sounds, and slowly places the diary in the centre of the desk. It feels wrong, but she tells herself she doesn't know the whole story. She can't accuse someone based on a few diary entries she wasn't even supposed to read.
She turns quickly and walks back towards the door, feeling the eyes of Blackwood’s ancestor on her back. Or is it someone else? Just as she steps out into the corridor, the door slams shut behind her. The loud bang echoes through the house.
And then, from deep within the dark corridors of Blackwood Hall, comes a long, mournful howl. It sounds like a wounded animal. Or a lament.
Clare abandons any attempt to remain quiet and runs back towards her room at full speed, her bare feet slapping loudly against the stone floor. Fear grips her, along with the overwhelming certainty that she just made a terrible mistake.
***
PART 4 - the final part! - coming 3rd October 2026
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Until next week
Adriana x