The Journals
1961 Words
Adrian left Blackwood House at 8:15 that morning.
He drove directly to Wrenford.
The village consisted of a church, a post office, a pub, two shops, and a row of cottages that appeared to have been built before electricity and never entirely accepted its arrival.
He parked outside a café.
Clara had refused to accompany him.
She had simply said:
“Ask about the house.”
So he did.
The café owner was an elderly woman named Mrs Bell.
When Adrian mentioned Blackwood House, her expression hardened.
“You're the new owner.”
“Yes.”
“Thought so.”
“How?”
She poured coffee into a cup.
“People like you don't come here unless they're looking for something.”
“What do you mean?”
She placed the cup in front of him.
“Blackwood.”
Adrian sat down.
“What can you tell me?”
“Nothing good.”
“That's not very specific.”
“It doesn't need to be.”
He waited.
She eventually sat opposite him.
“House has been empty for years.”
“Mrs Ashcombe lived there.”
“Alive, yes.”
“Did you know her?”
“Everyone knew of her.”
“Did she come into the village?”
“Never.”
“Then how did everyone know her?”
Mrs Bell smiled faintly.
“Because Blackwood has been here longer than any of us.”
Adrian took out his notebook.
“Do you know when it was built?”
“Early nineteenth century.”
“Who built it?”
“The Ashcombes.”
“Why?”
“Family money.”
“What did they do?”
“Mining.”
“Coal?”
“Lead.”
Adrian wrote it down.
“Were there stories about the family?”
“There are always stories.”
“What stories?”
Mrs Bell looked toward the window.
“People disappearing.”
Adrian stopped writing.
“Who?”
“Servants. Workers. Children.”
“When?”
“Over generations.”
“Evidence?”
“No.”
“Then they're stories.”
“Perhaps.”
She stood.
Conversation over.
Adrian closed his notebook.
“Mrs Bell.”
She paused.
“Do you know Eleanor Ashcombe?”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever meet her?”
“No.”
“Then why did you look frightened when I mentioned her?”
The old woman looked at him.
“I wasn't frightened.”
“You were.”
She leaned closer.
“Mr Vale, if you want my advice, don't ask questions about people who lived in Blackwood.”
“Why?”
“Because sometimes they answer.”
Adrian left.
He returned to the car.
For several minutes he sat without starting the engine.
He was beginning to understand why historians were advised not to become personally involved with their subjects.
Distance was essential.
Without distance, evidence became obsession.
Obsession became interpretation.
Interpretation became belief.
And belief was the enemy of scholarship.
He started the engine.
Then he saw the photograph.
It lay on the passenger seat.
He had not placed it there.
The photograph from his bedroom.
Blackwood House.
On the back, beneath the original message, new words had appeared.
Third night. West room. Midnight.
Adrian stared.
Then he laughed.
A single, nervous sound.
“Fine,” he said aloud.
“Let's see what you want.”
He spent the afternoon in the Wrenford library.
The librarian, a young woman named Helen Price, was surprisingly helpful.
There were records of Blackwood House dating back almost two hundred years.
Adrian requested property documents, newspaper archives, parish registers, and local histories.
He worked until sunset.
The pattern became apparent gradually.
Blackwood House had been associated with unusual deaths for generations.
Not many.
Not enough to establish anything.
But enough to be unsettling.
In 1827, a young Ashcombe heir died after falling from the tower.
In 1854, two servants disappeared.
In 1891, Edward Ashcombe's wife died suddenly.
In 1924, Charles Ashcombe vanished for eleven days and returned without explanation.
In 1968, Eleanor Ashcombe inherited the estate.
In 1971, her husband disappeared.
In 1983, a groundskeeper drowned in a pond that was barely four feet deep.
In 1997, a housekeeper died in her sleep.
And in 2016—
Adrian stopped.
A newspaper clipping.
LOCAL HISTORIAN MISSING FROM BLACKWOOD ESTATE
The photograph beneath the headline showed a man.
Adrian recognised him.
It was the stranger he had seen among the trees.
He read the article.
Professor Daniel Mercer, 54, disappeared while researching the Ashcombe family. Police found his vehicle outside Blackwood House. No body was recovered.
Adrian's stomach tightened.
Mercer.
Jonathan Mercer.
The solicitor had the same surname.
He read further.
The professor had been researching Blackwood House for a book.
He had disappeared on 14 November.
Ten years ago.
Exactly ten years before the current date.
Adrian checked the calendar.
November 29.
The article said Professor Mercer disappeared on November 29.
Today.
Adrian closed the file.
He suddenly felt watched.
He looked around the library.
No one.
Helen was at the front desk.
A child was reading in the corner.
Rain had begun outside.
Adrian stood.
“Can I make a copy of this?”
Helen nodded.
“Of course.”
He gathered the papers.
Before leaving, he asked:
“Who was Professor Daniel Mercer?”
Helen frowned.
“Why?”
“He was researching Blackwood.”
She stared at him.
“My grandmother knew him.”
“Did she?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
Helen hesitated.
“She said he found something.”
“What?”
“I don't know.”
“Did he leave notes?”
“Not that I know of.”
Adrian waited.
Helen lowered her voice.
“She said he discovered that the Ashcombes weren't burying their dead.”
Adrian stared.
“What?”
“She said they were hiding them.”
Blackwood House was waiting when he returned.
The front door stood open.
Adrian had locked it.
He was certain.
He stepped inside.
The house smelled different.
Not damp.
Not old.
Something sweeter.
Flowers.
Fresh flowers.
He looked toward the drawing room.
A vase of white roses stood on the table.
Adrian approached.
One of the roses had been cut recently.
A drop of water clung to its stem.
He did not touch it.
Instead he went to the library.
The black notebook was gone.
In its place was a stack of journals.
Seven of them.
Bound in dark leather.
Each carried a date.
1827
1854
1891
1924
1968
1983
2016
Adrian sat down.
He opened the first.
The handwriting was elegant.
I have been told that the house keeps what belongs to it.
The next page:
Father says this is superstition.
Then:
But I have seen the room.
Adrian turned the page.
A drawing.
A floor plan.
He recognised the house.
The west wing.
A room at the end of a corridor.
No windows.
No door indicated.
Only a black square.
Underneath:
THE ROOM THAT IS NOT THERE
Adrian's pulse quickened.
He opened the 1854 journal.
Two servants are missing.
The next page:
Father says they ran away.
Then:
I know this is a lie.
The 1891 journal:
Mother heard footsteps in the west corridor.
1924:
Charles has disappeared.
1968:
The room has opened again.
1983:
Do not sleep in the west wing.
2016:
Professor Mercer believes the house is not haunted.
Adrian stopped.
The next line had been crossed out.
He held the page near the lamp.
Beneath the black ink, he could make out words.
He tilted the journal.
The hidden sentence became visible.
He believes it is remembering.
Adrian closed his eyes.
Then he opened the final page.
There was only one sentence.
Adrian Vale will arrive on the 29th.
The ink was fresh.
Adrian looked at the date.
November 29.
His hands went cold.
He turned the page.
Blank.
He turned another.
Blank.
Then the final page.
A new entry appeared.
He watched the ink spread across the paper.
Letter by letter.
As though an invisible hand were writing.
He is reading this now.
Adrian dropped the journal.
It hit the floor.
The house became silent.
Then he heard a sound from upstairs.
A door opening.
Slowly.
A long creak.
Then another.
Adrian stood.
He knew what the door was.
He knew what room it led to.
The west room.
Midnight was approaching.
He looked at the clock.
11:47.
He should leave.
Every rational instinct told him to leave.
Instead, he picked up the journal.
The final page had changed again.
One sentence.
You have eleven minutes.
Adrian walked upstairs.
The corridor was dark.
At the end stood a door he had not seen before.
It was black.
There was no handle.
Only a keyhole.
Adrian reached into his pocket.
The brass key from Mercer was there.
He had forgotten about it.
He inserted it.
The lock turned.
The door opened.
Beyond it was a narrow staircase descending into darkness.
Adrian stared.
The house was not built with a basement beneath the west wing.
He knew that from the architectural plans.
Yet the staircase was real.
He stepped down.
One step.
Two.
Three.
The air grew colder.
He descended farther.
At the bottom was a corridor.
Stone walls.
No windows.
At the end stood another door.
This one was covered in scratches.
Hundreds of them.
Some were deep enough to expose the wood beneath.
Adrian approached.
He heard breathing on the other side.
Slow.
Patient.
Human.
He stepped backward.
The breathing stopped.
Then a woman's voice whispered:
“Adrian.”
He froze.
The voice was familiar.
Impossible.
He knew that voice.
It belonged to his mother.
“Adrian,” it whispered again.
His eyes filled with tears.
He had not heard his mother's voice in six years.
He moved toward the door.
His hand reached for the latch.
Then he stopped.
Something was wrong.
The voice had said his name exactly as his mother used to.
But there was one difference.
His mother had never called him Adrian.
She had called him Ade.
Always.
He withdrew his hand.
The voice on the other side fell silent.
Then it laughed.
Not loudly.
Not cruelly.
Almost tenderly.
And suddenly Adrian understood the warning.
The house did not merely know his name.
It knew his memories.
A sound came from behind him.
Footsteps.
He turned.
At the far end of the corridor stood Eleanor Ashcombe.
The same woman from the portrait.
The same black dress.
The same dark hair.
But now she was older.
Much older.
Her face was pale and thin.
Her eyes were fixed upon him.
“It's too late,” she said.
Adrian could barely breathe.
“You're dead.”
“Yes.”
“How are you here?”
She smiled.
“I've been here for a very long time.”
“What is this place?”
Her expression changed.
Fear.
Real fear.
“The house.”
Adrian looked at the door.
“What is behind it?”
Eleanor stepped closer.
“The reason you were chosen.”
“Chosen for what?”
She stopped three steps away.
“To remember.”
The door behind her began to shake.
Once.
Twice.
Then violently.
Eleanor turned toward it.
Her face drained of colour.
“Go,” she whispered.
Adrian did not move.
“Why?”
“Because it knows you're here.”
The shaking stopped.
Silence.
Then the door opened by itself.
Darkness spilled into the corridor.
Eleanor whispered one final sentence.
“Whatever you hear, Adrian, don't let it convince you that you're the first.”
The darkness reached them.
And the house remembered his name.
Adrian.
Adrian.
Adrian.
The lights went out.
And somewhere beneath Blackwood House, something began to wake.
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