[4/4] Hollowing: A Hauntingly Cosy Autumn & Halloween Mystery in the English Countryside
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Happy October! The season of the witch has begun. I hope "Hollowing", especially this final part, will put you into a proper October mood - a little spooky, but cosy and safe. If you read the entire story, please let me know in the comments; it makes it feel so much more "real" and precious to hear from you, rather than just seeing numbers on the screen.
HOLLOWING, PART 4
Week 3
Surprisingly, the following week went by without a hitch. In Clare’s mind, this was the best week so far. The night she found Eleanor’s diary, she barricaded her bedroom door, turned on all the lights, and piled more wood on the fire; eventually, she calmed down enough to think rationally. She decided it must have been an animal. Maybe a fox had made its way inside the Hall or got trapped somewhere close by. Did Mr Blackwood or Matt have animal traps on the grounds? She wasn’t even sure they were legal, but who knew? In London, foxes were a common nuisance, and surely country men had their own ways of dealing with them. Even though she didn’t like the thought of it, trapped wildlife was still a better explanation than a howling fiend from the depths of hell.
Aside from the memory of the lament - no, Clare stopped herself; it was an animal howl - her days strangely improved. The presence she’d been catching at the edge of her vision was gone. Her bedroom door remained closed; no whispers or shadows followed her anymore, and the Hall had gone quiet. The entity dwelling in its shadows felt as if it had returned to where it belonged… perhaps the basement, whose door also remained firmly shut. The suspicion that every unsettling thing in the Hall was connected to the basement had taken root in her mind, and now she was almost convinced… even if she wasn’t ready to say it out loud. Anyway, it didn’t matter anymore, as whatever that was had apparently vanished.
She continued her work, slowly but steadily making her way through the books, while enjoying her lunchtime coffees by the open servants’ door, breathing in the autumn air of the countryside, or sitting at the wooden kitchen table, watching raindrops slide down the large windowpanes. This would certainly be an October to remember. She was finally relaxing, truly enjoying this unexpected, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to make such a grand place her home for a couple of months. What an extraordinary experience it was turning out to be!
But truth be told, in those three weeks at the Hall, Clare had pretty much made up her mind. The house was incredibly beautiful, and her time here would definitely be a story for her grandchildren one day. But she wouldn’t miss living here. She didn’t belong in spaces like that; a small cottage with a log burner and an armchair by the window was more her style. She loved the countryside, and she had decided she wouldn’t be going back to London. She would rent something in a nearby town for the time being, and once she found a long-term job and settled her finances, she would move to the village. Maybe she would even buy a little house with a garden - somewhere that she could call her own.
She smiles at the thought as she takes pictures of the books she needs to check against the collectors’ online databases when the door opens. Mr Blackwood appears and walks toward her, smiling. He hasn’t mentioned the diary, and she hasn’t dared to ask, but from the get-go she can tell he is in a good mood. She has bumped into him a few times this week - once in the kitchen, another time by the front door, and once in the corridor leading to the library - and each time he was unusually cheerful. This Thursday afternoon is no different.
“It feels like I’m leaving you completely alone for days at a time, so I came to say hello,” Charles says. In his mid-60s, he is slim and agile; he certainly takes good care of himself. They talk about the progress on the library, some of the interesting books Clare has come across so far, the Hall, and the village. He shares a few childhood memories, noting how much the area has changed over the decades; he also speaks of Donna and John with genuine sympathy, having known them his entire life and expresses gratitude for how well they’ve managed the estate in his absence.
They chat in a polite, relaxed manner, until - before realising what she is saying - Clare asks about the day she walked in on him and Matt in the kitchen, when they were clearly disagreeing. Mr Blackwood takes a moment before answering, and Clare instantly regrets asking.
He finally replies, “I truly respect Donna and John; they are fantastic people. Matt… he is a good man, highly capable, but even as a child, he was incredibly stubborn. Things always had to be his way. I shouldn’t say much…” He hesitates.
Clare immediately adopts the corporate attitude she knows so well from her years in the office. “Absolutely, Mr Blackwood, I wanted to make sure I hadn’t caused any friction; perhaps I shouldn’t have been wandering the gardens or…”
“No, it’s not that.” Mr Blackwood waves his hand, dismissing the thought. “All I’m saying is… be careful with that man. I’ve noticed you two chatting, and I’d hate to see you get hurt. People in the village whisper, Clare. They say he’s very controlling - that’s the real reason his wife left. Now, I don’t know if it’s true, and I don’t like to judge someone based on mere rumours, or spread such gossip any further. It’s simply what I’ve heard.”
“No, it’s not that.” Mr Blackwood waves his hand, dismissing the thought. “All I’m saying is… be careful with that man. I’ve noticed you two chatting, and I’d hate to see you get hurt. People in the village whisper, Clare. They say he’s very controlling - that’s the real reason his wife left. Now, I don’t know if it’s true, and I don’t like to judge someone based on mere rumours, or spread such gossip any further. It’s simply what I’ve heard.”
Clare’s heart sinks. This is not the impression she got of Matt at all; in fact, the description is more like what she has read in Eleanor’s diary. Confused, she decides it is best to change the subject. She simply nods in a vague, non-committal way before asking the first question that comes to mind:
“Will the Hall be decorated for Christmas?”
A big smile forms on Mr Blackwood’s face. “Would you like it to be?”
“I’m afraid I won’t still be here by then, but yes, I imagine the Hall is truly grand when it’s decorated for the festivities.”
“Oh, but you will be!” He looks at her intensely. “Somehow I doubt you’ll be finished here by the year's end. And besides, once the cataloguing is done, I’ll need someone to manage it - let in guests, researchers, and source new books. You would be perfect for it. After all, who will know this library better than you?”
The glimmer in his eye brings back the familiar feeling of unease, but the offer sounds too good to let her unfounded fears ruin it.
“Oh, that would be wonderful, Mr Blackwood; I’d like it very much.”
“That’s it, then - settled,” he says with a wide smile, truly pleased. “Oh, I almost forgot. My accountant has arranged for your salary to be transferred to your account on the first working day of the month - the second of November, I believe?”
He pauses, calculating the dates in his head. “Eleanor’s anniversary is on Saturday… the 31st,” he murmurs, almost to himself. Something seems to click. He looks back at Clare and asks, “Halloween falls on a Saturday this year. Are you doing anything fun?”
Clare hesitates for a second before replying, “Not quite sure, but I don’t think I am. I’ll probably just get cosy in my room with the fireplace and some books… maybe carve a pumpkin, too.” She adds with a smile, trying to hide the fact that she is lying. She is actually meeting Matt for the lantern walk, but after hearing Mr Blackwood’s warning, her instinct tells her not to admit it. She has never been a good liar, and she isn't entirely sure what the right thing to say is. I can always claim I decided to go at the last moment, she tells herself.
Overall, everything is falling into place, and the cherry on top arrives on Friday morning. Someone from HR at her old job phones to ask how she is getting on and whether she is satisfied with her new employer, pay and holidays… Clare is surprised by the sudden check-in.
The reason, however, becomes abundantly clear when the HR representative drops her official tone for a moment and, almost whispering, admits that the last three weeks have been absolute chaos: missed deadlines, upset clients, and some who are already threatening to leave - exactly as Clare expected. While she isn't vindictive, she admits it does feel good to be vindicated. They want her back, and they are offering a considerably higher salary.
To clear her head, Clare takes a walk through the village. She buys a takeaway coffee and a pastry at the bakery, and continues along some of the paths Matt showed her, weighing her options. No matter the money, going back to London is out of the question. The mere thought of working in that office again is stomach-churning. No, there is no going back, not now that she has tasted country life.
She phones them back and politely declines. Although she can’t say if staying is the right decision, she knows going back would be the wrong one. The uncertainty of what her future might hold seems far better than the guaranteed misery of her old life.
Clare spends the rest of the week relaxed and content, working quietly in the library. She carves a wide smile on a pumpkin she got in the village, and places it on the windowsill near her desk. On the weekend, she sees Matt again; they go for walks and cosy up by the pub fire. She doesn’t dare to mention anything Mr Blackwood said. She thinks it through and decides that whatever the issue is between the two men, it isn’t her problem. Matt has been nothing but kind and helpful since they met three weeks ago, and deep down she wants his company.
On Sunday evening, Clare is tired but happy: happy with the progress in the library, with Mr Blackwood’s offer of work beyond the two months, and with the time she spent with Matt. Her son also sends her pictures from - she can’t even tell which country he is in now - but he looks well. He knows about his parents’ separation and imminent divorce, but thankfully he is too busy living his own young life to worry. Good, thinks Clare, as she closes the curtains in her room and gets ready for bed. She goes through her usual skin routine, puts on her comfy PJs, slips into the large, comfortable bed, and sighs. Life is so good, really good - just this one last thing… her dreams. Maybe tonight is the night when she finally gets to sleep, without the dreams that have tormented her every night, leaving a feeling of unease in the pit of her stomach that she has been trying so hard to silence…
Week 4 - Halloween
Clare starts her Monday at her desk, wrapped in her oversized cardigan, rain gently pattering against the window. She is planning her week and realises Halloween is already this weekend. She squeals with excitement in her mind. She hasn’t been this excited for it since Tommy was little, when they both dressed up and walked through the neighbourhood collecting sweets. Back then the joy lay in seeing him so happy, his little hand clutching the orange bucket as it gradually filled with sweets. But this year… this year she gets to enjoy it for herself. Matt did say it’s a magical view: people from the village carrying lanterns made of turnips and pumpkins through the darkness of the fields. If they are lucky, he said, it might be foggy - it only makes it better. Matt showed her videos and photos from previous years; in one, Daisy was dressed as a pumpkin, which made Clare laugh. She was simply adorable. But she pushes those thoughts aside for now. She is determined to get as much done as possible this week to show significant progress. If Mr Blackwood is serious about extending her contract, she intends to prove she deserves his trust.
The week passes by in the blink of an eye. On Friday, Clare is in the library, slightly out of breath but filled with immense satisfaction. She has now cleared one of the corners, and she sighs with a mix of joy and relief - a perfect ending to this week. Slowly, she will get through all these books, and the further she gets into the process, the easier the physical manoeuvring becomes. The volumes are now stacked in neat piles, with no loose pages littering the floor, and an empty corner presents an opportunity to move some over, freeing up space around the door and her desk.
While relocating, a large, heavy tome catches her eye. It appears to be in decent condition, though fragile from age. Clare is certain it must be very, very old. She immediately sets aside the other tasks and carefully carries it to her desk. She examines it more closely in the daylight falling through the window, and audibly gasps. No way, absolutely no way; this couldn’t be… it can’t be the Gutenberg Bible?! Only a few copies survive; she saw one on display at a museum in New York many years ago. There is no way one of these books has sat here in this rural library for over five hundred years. To be honest, she has no idea how old the library itself is, but the book must have been here for at least a couple of centuries… Clare is speechless. She isn’t qualified enough to handle such a rarity. She delicately peeks inside, but doesn’t dare to open it wide - or, God forbid, turn the pages. She gently closes it, grabs the phone, and calls Mr Blackwood, wondering if he knows, or if anyone in his family has ever mentioned the possibility… but after a while, with no answer, she disconnects.
She stares at the book, mesmerised by her find. This is the moment when a smoker would reach for a cigarette, but she doesn’t smoke. She needs chocolate. The pain au chocolat she bought at the bakery comes to mind, waiting in the kitchen cupboard downstairs. Yes, what she needs is a quick dose of sugar. Her heart pounding, she walks downstairs, passes the basement door - for once paying it no attention - puts the kettle on for coffee, finds her pastry, and, skipping the plate, shoves it into her mouth, taking a big bite. Gosh, it tastes so good. She closes her eyes in delight.
She takes a seat to wait for the kettle to boil, her mind still racing over the discovery, when she hears a noise in the corridor. Clare holds her breath, focusing all her senses on the sound. She isn’t mistaken - it is definitely the slow, ominous creak of old hinges she heard once before. Her heart stops for a moment, before beating frantically again. No, not now, she thinks. She places the pastry on the table and wipes her mouth. Dignity. If they find me dead, I’m not going to have crumbs on my lips. Carefully, she peeks out of the kitchen and down the corridor towards the old door.
Her worst fear is confirmed: it’s wide open, and she can’t take her eyes away. The walls and floor just past the threshold are stone, like the corridor, but much rougher. An old wooden ladder and some buckets are propped against one side, and she notices a narrow track of footprints in the dust. Someone has been down there recently. She spots an old-fashioned light, but it isn’t on, and the kitchen light doesn’t reach far, illuminating maybe one or two metres inside. Clare stands there completely still, listening for any sounds coming from the darkness… but all is silent. The smell from the basement is the same she sensed last time: a mixture of earth, dampness and… lavender. It is unmistakable, which makes the whole situation even more peculiar and eerie.
She takes a moment to decide whether to brave getting closer to shut it or escape through the servants’ door. The latter is the more reasonable option, but as she turns, a ghastly whisper seeps from the darkness: “Clare… Clare…”.
Fear paralyses her at first, but then her fight-or-flight instinct kicks in. Before she can fully process what is happening, she speeds past the open door, up the narrow staircase, toward her room. Without a thought or a plan, she simply runs from whatever lurks in the depths of that ancient basement. It terrifies her that it knows her name.
She reaches her corridor and, with a sinking heart, sees her door wide open… In this house full of rooms, she doesn’t know where else to go, so she approaches the threshold carefully and scans the room. There is no one there.
Slightly relieved, she steps in and turns to close the door behind her - but then she sees it again.
A shadow waits further down the corridor. This time it doesn’t linger at the edge of her vision; it stands in full view, as if observing her from the deepest gloom. Somehow, it is even darker than the shadowed corner where no light reaches. Clare stumbles backwards in panic, shuts the door, jams the chair beneath the handle, and, not knowing what to do, crawls under the bed.
She steadies her breathing, straining her ears for footsteps or attempts to force the door, but once again, all is silent. No footsteps, no whispers, nothing calls her name anymore. As the adrenaline begins leaving her body, her eyes fill with tears. Why, why me?
Still under the bed, she reaches into her pocket for her phone. She shifts slightly to the side, making it easier to wriggle her left hand into her pocket, when her gaze slides across the underside of the mattress frame. What is that?
She cranes her neck uncomfortably to get a second look. A line of strange symbols is carved across the wooden slat. Awkwardly, she touches one and feels the roughness. These markings are definitely not part of the original design. The slats are polished and smooth, but these carvings are crude, as if someone scribbled them with a sharp nail or a knife.
She studies them, but none are immediately recognisable as pentagrams or anarchy symbols she knows from films. What the hell is this? She finally pulls out her phone and takes photos as best she can in this cramped position.
A couple of minutes pass, and nothing threatens to get her. Clare crawls from under the bed, her breathing steadier now, though fear still buzzes in her veins. She sits in the armchair and examines the symbols in the photos more closely. One resembles a human outline. Another shows a head with two faces. Then, unmistakable: a pair of eyes, one open, the other crossed out. Next is a square - maybe a box - with a human face etched onto it. Followed by what is potentially a door, and then, finally: a spiral. It is all very odd and unsettling. Why are such markings carved under her bed? Is it just hers? Do the other beds in the house have them?
Clare listens to her surroundings once more, but all is quiet. She lies flat on her back and wriggles under the bed again, this time face up for a clearer view. The markings run horizontally along the wood - not at random but ordered. There is no doubt they are deliberately placed. The smallest are on the edges, leading to the largest in the centre. The central symbol is simple: a circle with another, smaller circle right in the middle. Clare snaps a picture of it and, still lying under the bed, runs a reverse image search.
The results are mixed - ranging from technical carpentry symbols and knitting patterns to alphabet colouring pages and new age witchcraft graphics - but one catches her eye. She taps the link and scrolls impatiently until she finds the picture of a circular symbol. Just like the one she found, it is carved in wood and accompanied by other sigils, though not identical to those under her bed. She reads the text below the photo:
Sigil of the Empty Vessel. Origin unknown, first documented in an anonymous fifteenth-century grimoire. A symbol associated with soul-transference rituals in medieval occult manuscripts.
She stares at the words, almost unable to process what she just read. She begins to feel truly scared. This isn’t panic, nor is it a fleeting feeling of being spooked by some silly ghost stories. Ghosts don’t carve into wood. The gut feeling she’s been trying to silence for three weeks finally comes with full force. Something here is seriously off. Lightheaded, she wriggles out from under the bed and almost sits on its edge before thinking better of it. Her instincts scream that the sigils aren’t there for a good reason, and she wants to keep away from them.
She returns to the armchair instead, her head between her hands as she thinks. What do I do? What is happening here? Almost instantly, she resolves to check the other bedrooms for markings. She’s going to do it right now, but she needs something to protect herself with. Clare eyes the bedside lamp with a heavy brass base - this is it. She unscrews the bulb, removes the lampshade, wraps the electric cable tightly around the pole so it doesn’t dangle, and flips it upside down, gripping it like a club. If anyone tries to come for her, she won’t hesitate to use it.
Heart pounding, Clare wanders down the corridor quietly, expecting someone to jump out at her from behind every door and corner, but all is still. Using her phone torch, she peers under each bed, but she finds no other symbols, not even one. It really is just her bed that someone - or something - has marked.
Clare weighs her options. She can’t leave until November the 2nd - her supposed payday. She laughs humorlessly at the idea that she is too poor to abandon everything and just run to save her life. Her small savings are meant to carry her through the beginning of next year, and her entire plan to settle in the countryside relies heavily on getting paid. Can she say for certain the money is coming? No, but Mr Blackwood may have nothing to do with any of this and still intend to pay her as promised. However, if she leaves now, she'll almost certainly not see a penny.
Clare decides to stay until 2nd November, wait for the money to hit her account, and in the meantime, stay on her guard at all times. She resigns herself to sleeping in the armchair; she won’t touch that bed ever again and will pretend everything is perfectly normal. Yes, she tells herself, no one can know she discovered the sigils. It will buy her time. She only needs to hold out for a few more days.
She returns to the library, forcing herself to pretend nothing happened over the past couple of hours, when her eyes land on the book she suspects might be the Gutenberg Bible… Gosh, in the terror of recent events, she completely forgot about it! She left it right on her desk as if it wasn’t worth a fortune and didn’t hold priceless historical value.
Clare takes a deep breath. She will keep the book safe until someone qualified is summoned. Gingerly, she moves it to an empty, freshly dusted bookshelf - far away from direct sunlight - and tries to resume her cataloguing, but struggles to focus. Her thoughts jump between a Bible potentially worth thirty million pounds sitting on the shelf next to her, the ghastly voice calling her name from the darkness, and the ritual sigils carved beneath her bed. As she tries to make sense of it all, she realises with true dread that the answer lies in the darkness of the basement. Something wants her down there.
Perhaps… perhaps she should answer it. She’s been hiding her entire life, chipping away pieces of herself - the funny Clare, the emotional Clare, the silly Clare - to fit the moulds other people needed her for, until so little of her is left… but now she has a chance to start over, in a new place, a new community. She can build herself up again. If she can figure out what all this means and what is being asked of her, she will be able to protect herself better.
Yes, that’s what it is, she thinks. The things we don’t know or can’t see scare us most. The unknown is the worst part of every story. If she sneaks down to the basement and takes a quick look, she’ll understand the true scale of the danger and what steps she needs to take to face it. Not completely convinced, she mulls it over while uploading pictures of the books to her computer. The library door opens, and Mr Blackwood steps in. “Hello, dear, I have a missed call from you. I’m sorry, I was caught in a meeting. How can I help you?”
Clare immediately adopts her professional demeanour, mustering her enthusiasm, and informs him about the rare book she discovered. In any other circumstances, she would be beside herself with pride at having found it, but right now everything fades under her fear and uncertainty. Nevertheless, it works; Mr Blackwood doesn’t pick up anything off about her. He takes the book to his office, saying he will call his London contacts who have an interest in and understand such extraordinary volumes. He praises Clare profoundly for recognising what she has found and for taking good care of it in the meantime.
Aside from the book’s staggering value, it is a perfectly normal interaction with her employer and stands in stark contrast to earlier today, when she was crawling under beds researching the meaning of the strange symbols carved beneath her own. She wishes it were a misunderstanding, or that Matt, Donna, and a few friendly faces from the village would tell her it’s all just one big joke.
But it isn’t a joke; there’s nothing funny about finding the sigil of an empty vessel from a medieval occult book carved under your bed. Nor is hearing your name whispered from the basement. For a prolonged moment, Clare looks out the window. Feeling defeated, she realises she only has two choices:
Run away like a coward the moment she’s paid, or brave the basement and face whatever is down there.
***
Later that day at the pub, she excuses her flat mood with tiredness. Matt tries hard to perk her up by talking about the lantern walk the next day. How is Halloween already tomorrow? Clare shakes her head in disbelief. She arrived in Westleigh on the 5th of October - she’s been working at the Hall for almost a full month.
Clare’s eyes wander around the pub. The log burner is lit; jack-o’-lanterns with tealights inside seem to float in the half-light. Donna is behind the bar with her husband, explaining something to him enthusiastically. Yellow leaves still hang from the tree outside and a light mist clings to the windows. She imagines looking at herself and Matt from a distance: a middle-aged couple sitting in a cosy pub on a Friday afternoon, talking about their days and enjoying each other’s company.
How she wishes this could become her life. The Parkers’ life is simple. Not easy - she doesn’t doubt that running a pub or landscaping company is hard, even challenging at times. She means simple in the sense that the Parkers know who they are and what they want from life, unlike her. For the longest time, she believed she was doing all the right things, and yet - except for her son, Tom - what good has any of it done her? Her marriage broke down long before she decided to take the job at the Hall; her work life was dull and uninspiring, and she hadn’t developed any hobbies outside of it. Is this really all she amounts to?
The whole point of taking on this job was to start living, to feel something again. But now, at the first sign of trouble, she is considering running away. If she goes back to London, whatever life she could have with Matt will be over before it even starts.
It is time to fight for her life. And she will do just that. She will go down to the basement and face the nightmare that lives there.
She nods, deep in thought, when Matt’s fingers gently brush her hand.
“Clare, are you ok?” His voice is soft, almost concerned.
“Yes, I am.” Her hand trembles, but she doesn’t pull away. “I think it’s the house getting to me. Living in such a grand, old space can really play tricks on your mind,” she admits with a small, embarrassed laugh.
But Matt isn’t laughing. “It absolutely can, Clare. Please remember that I’m here if you ever don’t feel safe.”
Back in her room at bedtime, she settles into the armchair with her legs propped on a stool, feeling cosy and warm by the fire. Matt’s touch and calming words replay in her mind as she drifts off, and for the first time in weeks she has a good night’s sleep. No dreams of strange spells and books disturb her rest, and on the morning of October 31st she wakes up energised, alert, and with a fully formed plan.
The Halloween lantern walk begins at 6 pm, giving her an entire day until then - and she isn’t going to waste it. Instead of her usual spot at the desk, she sits at the windowsill on the opposite side of the library overlooking the main entrance. It isn’t the most productive few hours she has spent at work. Since it is Saturday, she usually only handles light tasks anyway. Her real goal is to spot when Mr Blackwood leaves the Hall today, but she has no luck. She checks his office, and it is empty. She doesn’t even know where his private room is; it never occurred to her to ask, for safety reasons. What if there is a break-in or he suffers a heart attack? Ultimately, she can’t tell whether he is home or not, and she doesn’t want to risk being caught snooping around the basement entrance, or worse, inside it.
Around lunchtime, she goes to the kitchen as always. While the kettle boils on the stove, she searches a few of the rooms lining the servants’ corridor. Some hold cleaning products, others have piles of linens, and another is completely empty. Eventually, she finds exactly what she is looking for: a large, strong, modern torch. She tests it, and its powerful beam illuminates the entire storage room. Satisfied, she places it back exactly where she found it, ready to retrieve it the moment she can sneak down to the basement.
***
The day passes with no sign of Mr Blackwood, and Clare eventually abandons her hopes of exploring the basement; she'll have to do it on another day. At around 5:30 PM, Clare makes her way downstairs again, expecting to meet Matt by the servants’ door, waiting for her. The evening is foggy, but not rainy - the perfect weather according to Matt - and she is very much looking forward to experiencing Halloween in the countryside with its centuries-old traditions. She feels a little flustered, in a good way. It’s one of the most magical nights of the year, and she gets to spend it with a kind and, admittedly, very handsome man who clearly cares about her.
Things will be alright, Clare tells herself.
Matt is already waiting for her at the servants’ door, but to her surprise, he isn’t alone. He is nodding along as Mr Blackwood speaks to him with a warm, almost fatherly smile. As Clare approaches, Mr Blackwood spins toward her and says quite jovially, “Ah, Clare, darling, I’m afraid I have to hold up your date plans for a short while.”
With a pang of guilt, she remembers she told Mr Blackwood that she had no Halloween plans, so she quickly replies, “Oh, no problem at all; it was a bit of a last-minute idea. I can definitely wait if Matt is needed.” She’ll explain it to Matt later.
Mr Blackwood turns back to Matt: “Would you mind if we go check the tree quickly now? It’s not dark yet, and I will sleep better knowing it hasn’t done any damage to the building”.
To be honest, Matt doesn’t look happy, and he does seem to mind, but after Clare assures him she is fine and will happily wait, he promises they won’t be gone more than fifteen or twenty minutes. Clare watches the men as they tread toward the wooded area and disappear between the trees.
Clare looks to the far end of the corridor at the ominous door. This is her chance. She double-checks that the men aren’t coming back, rushes to retrieve the torch, and marches straight to it. This is it. She’s going to face whatever lurks there. Her heart is pounding, but her mind is clear. Deep down, she hopes to find nothing - to prove to herself that it is simply an old basement. But the markings under her bed, the shadows following her… the voice whispering her name… She didn’t imagine any of it. She has to find out.
She hesitates, reaches for the old iron handle and pulls the door with all her strength. It opens with a familiar grinding moan of old hinges, like an omen of what’s to come. Clare crosses the threshold as quietly as she can and feels along the wall for a light switch, but then she decides against it - if Mr Blackwood returns or someone is hiding down there, the overhead light will instantly alert them. She shuts the door behind her, which feels strangely final.
Any light filtering from the corridor is instantly cut off, immersing Clare in total darkness. She listens intently. Dead silence; she can almost hear her own heartbeat. The familiar, earthy, damp scent of the basement, with unexpected lavender notes, fills her lungs. With shaking hands, she switches on the torch. In this tight space, it is incredibly strong, so she quickly turns it down to level one out of three. The light dims just enough for her to see ahead and hopefully avoid detection.
Aware that at least four or five precious minutes must have passed, she hurries forward, trying to be as stealthy as possible. The corridor is long and narrow, sloping downwards, with cavities on each side packed with barrels, old ploughing equipment, and rusty metal scraps. The rough-hewn stone and low ceiling make it clear this place was never intended for the masters and ladies of the house. Mr Blackwood had mentioned that family historians believe this section is even older than the fourteenth-century wings of the main house - perhaps even pre-medieval. She shines her light on the low, uneven ceiling, praying it won’t collapse onto her head, as he had warned.
After a short while, the path opens to a large cavernous room… The smell of lavender is more potent here. Clare looks up, half-expecting to see bunches of purple flowers hanging to dry, but the ceiling is bare except for a single lightbulb. The space is filled with more barrels, an old table, and a chair with a missing leg, along with other broken or unused household items gathered over the decades, or centuries… A pile of china sits in one corner alongside fishing rods, old-looking boxes of ammunition, dog collars, empty window frames, and a broken mirror, all covered in dust and cobwebs.
Clare wonders just how old it all is when a slight movement catches her attention. Is it a flickering fire?
She instantly turns off her torch, and in the blackness her eyes adjust until she spots a tiny flame burning behind a pane of glass. She tiptoes closer. It is a separate room, and she is looking through the dirty glass of a small, narrow door. Like everything else, the door is old and covered in dust, though it looks considerably more modern than the ancient door at the top of the stairs. She can’t make out the room's layout, but judging by the size and steady flicker, she is almost certain someone left a candle burning inside.
She waits in the darkness a moment longer, straining her ears for the faintest sound - like breathing - but she is alone. Still, the candle proves someone uses this room, so she needs to be vigilant. Clare feels around for a handle, finds it, and holds her breath as she presses it down. The door gives easily, and she pushes it wide open in case she needs to escape. The lavender scent here is almost suffocating. The orange glow of the dancing flame isn’t enough to reveal what’s in the room. She clicks her torch back on, risking more light for a clearer view. It takes her brain a few seconds to register what she is looking at before an audible gasp escapes her lips.
The room is rectangular, with the entryway in the middle of the wall. To her right is a desk with a chair and laptop, surrounded by piles of leather-bound books… and in the far corner, a bed. The shelf above the desk is packed with heavy tomes. All of them look old, very old. Some spines are unreadable, but she can still discern some titles: Malleus Maleficarum, The Lesser Key of Solomon, and The Rites of Soul and Flesh. She knows these titles from horror films and books, but her instinct tells her these are not mere props, but the real thing. On the desk, next to the laptop, is the Gutenberg Bible she found. Several passages in Latin are underlined in black ink. Tentatively, she inches closer and lightly taps the laptop’s touchpad. The screen springs to life, but the webpage that loads isn’t anything Clare recognises. The bold heading at the top reads:
THE PASSION OF CHRIST: RITUAL INVERSION AND THE CORRUPTION OF SACRED TEXTS.
Oh no. This isn’t good, thinks Clare. Pure dread washes over her, so she looks away, towards the bed. Who in their right mind would sleep down here? She turns her head to the opposite side of the room, but it is even worse.
“What the …” Clare swears quietly in disbelief.
A coffin stands there, surrounded by bunches of dried lavender. This is where the suffocating scent emanates from, and a wave of nausea hits her as she realises the air from this room drifts all the way to the entry door and, right now, fills her lungs. Clare doesn’t want to know if the coffin is empty or if a body lies inside it. No way is she going to lift the lid to look… intuitively, she knows whose remains it might contain. She only needs to glance ahead to what looks like an altar in the middle of the room to confirm her worst fears. Eleanor. Eleanor’s body is in that coffin.
A photograph on the altar shows a couple standing in front of the Hall; the man is unmistakably a younger Mr Blackwood. Next to him stands a slim, well-dressed woman who isn’t smiling. At first, Clare thinks they are holding hands, but on closer inspection, through the blurry details, she can tell that he is gripping the woman’s wrist.
There is one more photo on the altar: a portrait of the same regal-looking, beautiful woman - Blackwood’s wife. A small cursive inscription at the bottom of the photo reads: “Eleanor Ann Blackwood”. She is stunning, thinks Clare, a true beauty. Her countenance speaks of intelligence and pride.
A muffled thud cuts through the silence - a shifting of weight or maybe a step. Clare stiffens, listening intently. She braces herself, raising the heavy torch like a weapon, but nothing moves. Silence. She waits another minute, but hears or sees nothing else. No one is here.
She knows she should make her way back upstairs so as not to raise suspicion, but she wants to take one more quick look at the altar. She points the torchlight at the centre, and she really doesn’t like what is revealed. A large book stands in the middle, and to its left… Clare’s eyes widen in disbelief… her missing hairbrush, a few strands of hair still tangled in the bristles.
“Exactly, what kind of hell is this?” she asks herself. She automatically reaches to snatch the brush, but stops at the last second. If it goes missing, whoever brought it here will know she has been snooping around. It feels wrong, but she leaves it there and sets her sights on the book.
It is placed upright on a wooden stand. She has seen this book before. Not in the library or Blackwood’s office, not even in the museum… it is the book from her dreams. The ancient, hand-lettered volume used to cast spells. It is open to a page with a large, artistically inscribed title at the top:
“The Ritual of Hollowing”
An illustration in the middle depicts a human body split open with something - maybe a spirit? - flying out on the left and another flying in on the right. If she was scared before… now she is utterly terrified. She scans the page.
On the Preparation of the Vessel:
The Vessel must be emptied before another may dwell within.
Hollowing begins long before the ceremony.
Hollowing begins long before the ceremony.
The vessel must forget itself little by little until it welcomes another mind as its own.
Do not mistake resistance for failure. The vessel will grieve, rage, and deny. These are merely signs that the old spirit understands what must be surrendered.
Do not mistake resistance for failure. The vessel will grieve, rage, and deny. These are merely signs that the old spirit understands what must be surrendered.
Clare trembles with fear, but her mind is strangely clear - the vessel. The vessel is a living person.
I am the vessel. Shit.
I am the vessel. Shit.
This is enough. She needs to leave and inform the police where Eleanor’s body is. Charles Blackwood is a dangerous man, an occultist who is targeting her… But before she turns around, before she can even finish the thought, a heavy blow strikes the back of her head. Clare stumbles forward; disbelief flashes through her mind that this is how her life ends, and then everything goes completely black. She loses consciousness before she hits the ground.
***
Clare slowly comes back to her senses; she is confused by the unfamiliar place, the light, the smell… not knowing where she is or why her head throbs… but memories flood back within moments. She is curled up on the floor, her vision blurry, her mouth dry. She can’t tell how much time has passed, but the candle at the centre of the altar has definitely burned low. The room is now aglow with dozens of lit candles, their dancing flames casting shadows… almost as if they are alive. She carefully lifts her pounding head and sees Mr Blackwood sitting in the chair, his back to her. As if sensing her, he turns away from his laptop with a friendly smile.
“Ah, Clare, I’m glad that you woke up,” he says. “The most important moment of your entire life is coming. I’m afraid you’ll have to stay conscious the entire time.” He appears happy, almost excited.
She tries to move, only to realise her wrists are bound tight with duct tape, and so are her ankles. She drags herself to sit up with effort, using the side of the stone altar for support.
Her first instinct is to scream and threaten him to let her go, but she thinks better of it. Instead, she says: “Mr Blackwood, please, you are a man with social standing; hurting me will ruin your reputation. My family… Matt… they will come looking for me. They will know something bad has happened if they don’t hear from me”.
Mr Blackwood shakes his head. “Hurting you, my darling? I’m not planning to hurt you! I’m going to enrich your sad, empty life beyond anything you’ve ever known. Once the transformation is completed, you will walk out of this basement better than you ever were.”
“What do you mean? Please, just let me go,” pleads Clare. She doesn’t hope for any mercy from this maniac, but tries to buy herself time as she scans the room for any sharp object or edge she can use to cut herself free from her bonds. “I will never mention any of this to anyone, not even Matt.”
“No, of course you won’t, certainly not to that simpleton. I have taken care of him,” he says with a dismissive wave of his hand.
Clare trembles. Did he hurt Matt? Despair grows in her chest, but Mr Blackwood continues. “I will explain what will happen to you so you can appreciate the blessing that has fallen upon you." He makes a dramatic pause. Clare can tell he's been waiting for this. "My wife, Eleanor, was an extraordinary woman and my only love. But unfortunately, her family and so-called friends poisoned her with lies; she didn’t seem to enjoy our life together. I noticed the change in her and sensed her desire to leave, so I started looking for ways to keep her with me forever. This is when I first began learning about medieval European occultism… believe it or not, money opens doors to knowledge that transcends anything you’ll ever find in an ordinary library or at a university. By the time my dear Eleanor took her own life, I had enough knowledge to prevent her spirit from leaving. I bound her to her coffin, locked her inside the Hall and began searching for ways to transfer her precious soul to another vessel”. He speaks in a quiet, calm, practised way.
Clare can tell he doesn't see any wrongdoing in pushing his wife to suicide or planning to kill Clare. She listens to him, facing him, but she slides her bound hands between her knees, searching the floor beneath her for anything - a sharp piece of rock, chipped glass, an old nail. She won’t just sit there, waiting to die.
Charles continues. “I spent nearly fifteen years travelling from country to country, gaining access to libraries and occultists who would teach me how to do just that, and eventually, I found it.” He gestures towards the book on the altar above Clare’s head. “The ritual of Hollowing is exactly what I need to bring Eleanor back.”
Clare doesn’t want to converse with a madman, but still, trying to buy some time, she asks, “But why me? You could have chosen someone prettier, younger - why me?”
“Ah, that’s a very good question, very good indeed. You see, once I found the answer to bring Eleanor back, I realised that I needed to get the house in order, ready to welcome her back. My lovely Eleanor, even in a different body, her spirit will know the Hall very well. She would remember it as open, bright and lively. I can’t bring her back here with overgrown gardens and dusty rooms,” he says, shaking his head.
“So, I began reopening the house and posted a job offer for someone to organise the library. You were among many, many applicants. Don’t get me wrong, I actually wanted someone to sort out all those books, but when I saw your picture, I knew I had found the perfect vessel for Eleanor.”
Clare's confusion must be visible on her face, because he stands up and reaches above her head. She ducks in fear, but he merely pulls down the photograph of his late wife, his eyes fixed on it. He says: “Look at how similar you two are. You could be sisters.”
To Clare, that feels like a stretch. In the picture, Eleanor is a woman in her mid-forties with regular facial features, cream skin, and brown hair. But honestly, that is where the resemblance ends. To say they look alike is an overstatement. They have different eyes; Clare’s are round, while Eleanor had a gorgeous cat-like shape. Their noses and jaws don’t match up any better either. An air of sophistication and elegance still clings to Eleanor, even in a single photograph from years ago. He truly is delusional, seeing only what fits his narrative.
“But there’s more”, he adds happily. “Just looking at your CV was enough to know you’ll make a perfect vessel. Same uninteresting job for seventeen years; no real interests, recent training, or achievements. I asked an old friend to look more closely at your private life, and he only confirmed that your soul will be easy to remove, since there is little to anchor it. A grown child who has already left the nest, no passions, no real friendships, not even much vanity. Women your age tend to cling to their looks - their hair, nails, beauty treatments, or whatever else they do these days - but not you. Grey, boring Clare. You are perfect for the ritual, because you are already practically hollow.”
His words sting more than she cares to admit, but they aren’t entirely true. Anger builds inside her at the unfairness. Yes, Tom has grown up, but that doesn’t lessen the love and bond they share. She doesn’t have many friends, but she’s always been willing to help anyone in need. She has a wonderful relationship with her mum too. She has love, kindness, and passion, and she's ready to share them whenever she can. She thinks of Matt, how he ignited a fire in her heart again… no, she certainly isn’t hollow! She has interests, feelings, hopes and dreams. She had finally decided to act on them; accepting the job at the library was an act of bravery, and even rebellion, to fight for a better, more fulfilled life.
“No, I am not hollow!” she shouts, but Charles only chuckles.
“…the strongest proof that you are perfect for this ritual is the fact that you are the very person who handed me the missing ingredient - Eleanor’s diary. You see, the ritual requires something very personal, that holds a piece of the person’s soul. With you, it was easy - a few strands of your hair. But Eleanor has been dead for fifteen years; her hair no longer holds the same potency, though I knew she used to keep a diary. I spent months searching for it, and you brought it to me so easily,” he says, nodding as if that sealed her fate.
Clare’s gut feeling that night had been right. The diary had appeared in her pile of books as a warning, and she had foolishly handed it to this dangerous man, against her better judgment and against another woman's warning. She had ignored all the red flags just to keep her job. If I get out of here alive, I will always listen to my instinct, she promises to herself.
Mr Blackwood checks the time. “It’s nearly midnight on All Hallows’ Eve. The veil is at its thinnest, and it’s the most potent time for soul transference, so I think we should begin, my dear…” He lifts the cloth draped over the back of the chair and puts it on. It is the ceremonial robe she saw in her dreams. Was he really the one haunting her sleep these past weeks?
Sweating with fear and panic, she watches him reach behind the book for a hidden object she hadn’t noticed until now. Mr Blackwood draws a sharp knife with inscriptions running along its blade. He looms over her with his eyes closed, his palms open and facing upward with the knife resting on top of them. He recites a low prayer in an ancient tongue. Clare can’t understand a single word, but she knows it does not bode well.
He opens his eyes, looks down at her, and says, “If you willingly give your flesh, you will know wealth beyond anything you have ever experienced. Your family will be rewarded, with an inheritance being passed on to your son…” but Clare isn’t going to have it. The fight-or-flight instinct kicks in; he is about to stab her with that knife! No, she won’t willingly lose her soul for money; she won’t participate in this sick ritual; she is going to fight for her life.
Upstairs in the Hall, the clock strikes midnight.
Mr Blackwood, raising his voice, repeats, “Do you willingly give your flesh?”
Panicked, Clare curls into herself, her bound arms covering her head as if they could stop a sharp knife, and shouts with all her might, “No, I do not! I am not hollow! I do not belong to you…” An ugly flash of anger makes Mr Blackwood truly terrifying. The final chime echoes through the house, reaching the furthest corners of the basement, and total silence envelops Blackwood Hall. It is the first of November, All Saints’ Day.
They both freeze, sensing that something is coming. Suddenly, in a single breath, all the candles go out. Clare strains her ears and eyes, trying to peer into the darkness, when Mr Blackwood’s voice cuts through. “Eleanor, my love, is that you?” he asks aloud, with a mix of hope and… fear?
Clare hears a matchbox being opened. After several attempts, the wooden match crackles, dimly lighting up Mr Blackwood’s face and their vicinity. He is staring past Clare’s shoulder, at the coffin behind her… with an expression of unspeakable terror. She immediately turns her head in the same direction, but she can’t distinguish the shadows before the match burns down to his fingers. He drops it with a whimper, immersing them in darkness once more. The room grows unnaturally cold, and Clare huddles closer to the stone altar in fear.
Mr Blackwood quickly lights another match and looks intently into the shadows. “Eleanor, no! Eleanor, I did everything right!” His voice is now panicked, as if fending off what is coming for him. “I found you a vessel so that you can return to me.” The match goes out again.
In the darkness, Mr Blackwood’s scream pierces the air, and then the room goes silent. Clare squints and braces herself, expecting to be next, but nothing happens. The chill seems to leave the room, and a moment later, the artificial light above her head turns on. Clare quickly looks around. Mr Blackwood lies on his back, his mouth open in a silent scream; his eyes bulging with terror. No one else is here with them. She crawls to him on her hands and knees to snatch the knife, but he doesn’t move. She stares at his chest and mouth, but he isn’t breathing. He is dead.
In the bright yellow, artificial light, the small room looks grotesque: the coffin, the altar, Mr Blackwood’s face frozen in a scream, and the overwhelming scent of lavender. Clare has to leave this basement immediately. She wedges the ceremonial knife’s handle between her bound feet, angling the blade upwards so she can cut through the duct tape around her wrists. Then she cuts the tape around the ankles. She straightens up, her legs protesting, when something tumbles from the desk onto the floor. She immediately recognises it. It is Eleanor’s diary. There are no windows in the basement, yet its pages flip as if fanned by the wind, until they stop on an entry from late August.
Clare squats down to read it:
“… He thinks he knows what’s best for everyone, especially me. He never asks me what I want, never listens to anything I say…”
Clare understands in an instant. The ritual failed because her own soul refused to leave her body, and Eleanor’s had no desire to possess it either. Just as in their life together, he never asked what his wife truly wanted; he did not consider that she would reject being restored to inhabit another woman’s body. The failed ritual, or maybe Charles' death, freed her soul… whatever was binding her to this basement no longer held power over Eleanor.
The diary snaps shut before her eyes, as if marking the end of the spirit’s journey. Clare picks it up carefully and places it on top of the coffin. Eleanor will get the burial she deserves, with family and friends who cherish her memory. And Clare… Clare has learned she wasn’t as lost as she thought, and she certainly isn’t hollow. She came to Blackwood Hall to escape a life she didn’t love, but in the process she learned how much she actually loves it. She doesn’t need a completely new life - she just needs to take care of the one she already has.
Clare walks out of the room and up from the basement, too exhausted to feel scared. Her head throbs where she was struck, but otherwise unscathed, she pushes open the heavy door. It gives its familiar groan as she steps into the servants’ corridor.
Just as she does, Matt enters the building from the opposite side. His head, coat and hands are covered in blood, but he dashes towards her. “Clare! Are you hurt, Clare? Blackwood has gone mad…”
“I know, I’m alright, Matt. You are covered in blood,” she replies, worried.
“I’m fine! He blindsided me, hit me over the head with a metal pipe, and tried to lock me in the mausoleum. After I woke up, I ran here as fast as I could, Clare…” He draws her in tightly.
She feels so precious in that moment; he really is scared for her. She looks up at his face and says, “Matt, I think Mr Blackwood is dead… he is down in the basement; we should call the police…”
The next few hours pass in a blur of flashing blue lights from police and ambulance cars as they give details of what happened. Matt refuses to go to the hospital for his wound, so a paramedic cleans it and places a dressing over it.
Everyone is shocked by the ritual chamber, but the most damning revelation is Eleanor’s body, which Mr Blackwood had hidden for fifteen years. Clare feels at peace knowing the truth has finally been uncovered. Eleanor saved her life. Despite all the danger she faced last night, Clare is glad it led to the discovery of the body and the freeing of Eleanor’s spirit, even if she’s the only one who knows. The police dismiss any mention of supernatural occurrences as Clare being in shock, and the official cause of Mr Blackwood’s death is ruled a heart attack.
Clare spends the remainder of the night at Matt’s home, with his arms tightly wrapped around her. Whatever the future holds for her, she wants this man to be there.
The next day, after the police conclude their work, the coffin is taken away by the coroner. Matt, Clare, sobbing Donna - who believed everything Clare had told her about last night - holding her hand tightly, and Matt’s father stand together by the servant’s door to say their goodbyes.
Clare watches the men carry the coffin toward the van when she catches a slight movement at the edge of her vision - a shadow walking away between the trees. No one else seems to notice it; everyone’s eyes are fixed on the coffin.
Clare nods and smiles. She knows it is the last time she will see Eleanor’s shadow, and she bids it a heartfelt farewell. Looking back, she understands that Eleanor did everything she could to scare her away from the Hall, trying to save her from Charles' madness. Yet, Clare would not change how things went down. Both women helped each other when they desperately needed it. Eleanor found freedom, and Clare found herself.
The end 🤎
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This is it! I hope you enjoyed Clare's adventure!
A few notes:
1) The story turned out to be longer than originally planned, and still, I haven't really written everything that I outlined. I actually had a lovely reason for Clare to stay in the village independently of Matt and his family, which would be a perfect new beginning for her. Of course, Matt and Clare are destined to be together, but I like my heroines to build a happy life on their own and then mindfully choose to enter a relationship on their terms. Unfortunately, this would mean several new characters, settings, and lots of conversations; I just couldn't squeeze it in.
2) Reading your lovely comments, I begin to get more and more certain that I might expand the story into a standalone book. I am currently in the writing trenches of my second book, so I don't want to decide just yet; I'll see how I feel when I finish. Please let me know what you think!
3) Please share the story with any of your friends who might enjoy it; it helps tiny authors like me very much. And you, if you haven't, consider checking out my slow living book here
Thank you for reading,
Adriana x