Chapter Three: The Watcher Pt. 1
1393 Words
The wind scraped at the windows like nails down glass. Evelyn startled awake in the dark, unsure of what had roused her only that something had. The silence in the house was too deep, too deliberate, like it had swallowed whatever noise had come before. She sat up in bed, pulse fluttering like moth wings against her throat.
The bedroom was cold, the fire long since dead. Outside, the storm had not yet broken, but the sky held its breath. She reached for her robe, slipped into it without turning on the lamp. Light made things real. And tonight, she wasn’t ready for real.
Down the hall, the old floorboards groaned under her bare feet, as if the house itself objected to her being awake. She moved slowly, each step echoing just a bit too loud in the hush.
The front door was open.
Just an inch. Just enough to let in the chill.
Her heart stuttered. She hadn’t left it open. She was sure of that.
Wind curled through the c***k and whispered across the marble floor. And there, resting on the threshold not outside, but just inside was a folded piece of cream-colored paper. It had been placed carefully, deliberately, the way Gideon used to leave notes by her teacup when they still played at being in love.
A wax seal, deep red and unbroken, held it closed.
She crouched slowly, robe pooling at her knees, and lifted the letter as if it might crumble in her hands. The paper was thick. Smooth. Rich. The seal cracked like a bone as she opened it.
Her breath caught.
When you cried in the music room, I waited outside the door. You never knew. But I heard you.
She read the line twice. Then a third time. Her hands trembled. The handwriting wasn’t Gideon’s. But whoever had written it whoever had watched her had seen something private. Something real. Something she thought no one had.
A floorboard creaked behind her.
She stood quickly, hiding the letter against her chest as Marjorie appeared at the top of the stairs, wrapped in her nightgown and half-asleep. Her voice was low and gravelly.
“Evelyn? What are you doing up at this hour?”
Evelyn turned smoothly, letting the front door swing closed behind her with a quiet click. “Couldn’t sleep,” she said. “The wind.”
Marjorie’s eyes flicked to the foyer. “Was the door open?”
“I must not have latched it properly,” Evelyn lied.
Marjorie frowned. “Let me make you some tea.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Evelyn replied, stepping past her, the letter still hidden beneath her robe’s fold. “Go back to bed.”
She climbed the stairs without looking back. Only once she was alone again did she let her composure falter. In the safety of her bedroom, she locked the door and unfolded the letter once more, letting her fingers brush the slanted ink. Not Gideon’s hand but someone who had known them. Someone who had been in the house. Maybe still was.
Lightning flashed through the window. For just a moment, she thought she saw a shape on the edge of the lawn.
But when the thunder followed, nothing remained.
Just the letter. And the feeling that she was no longer alone in her grief.
Morning brought no comfort.
The storm had passed, but its fingerprints remained salt dried in streaks on the tall windows, wind-flattened grass along the cliff’s edge, and a heaviness in the air that refused to lift. The mansion seemed to creak more than usual, like it remembered something Evelyn didn’t.
In the dining room, the tea was already poured. Marjorie had resumed her morning ritual: newspaper folded, plate of toast untouched, gaze flitting between Evelyn and the grandfather clock. Time it seemed, was more loyal than trust.
Evelyn took her seat in silence, the letter hidden away in her vanity drawer upstairs. She hadn't slept again after Marjorie went back to bed only sat by the fire, rereading the note until the words began to blur.
“You look pale,” Marjorie said softly.
“Do I?” Evelyn buttered a piece of toast she had no intention of eating.
Marjorie watched her over the rim of her teacup. “You were downstairs in the dark. That’s unlike you.”
“I told you. The wind.”
Marjorie’s hand tightened slightly around the cup. “That’s not all, though. Is it?”
Evelyn looked up, her voice sharpening before she could stop it. “What are you implying?”
“I’m implying nothing,” the maid said, setting the cup down. “But I know the sound of someone lying to themselves. I’ve heard it enough.”
Evelyn leaned back, coolness returning like armor. “You’re tired, Marjorie. Maybe you imagined the door.”
“The door was open.” Her tone was firm. “And your hands were shaking.”
They sat in silence for a long moment.
Then Evelyn asked, more gently, “Did you move anything in my study?”
Marjorie blinked. “Your study?”
“My journal,” Evelyn said. “It wasn’t where I left it.”
“No,” Marjorie said slowly. “I haven’t gone into your study in weeks. Not unless you’ve asked me to clean.”
Evelyn nodded, not because she believed her, but because pressing further would reveal her own anxiety. Still, something flickered in Marjorie’s eyes was it confusion? Or guilt?
“I’ll see to the garden today,” Marjorie said, rising to gather the dishes. “It needs pruning after the storm.”
As the older woman left, Evelyn remained seated, staring at the empty plate.
Her journal. Her locked drawer. Her home.
Everything had begun to feel slightly… rearranged.
The roses had suffered the worst of it.
The storm’s fury had left petals scattered like bruised confessions along the garden path. Branches drooped, blackened at the tips, and puddles glimmered in the hollows of stone urns. Evelyn stood beneath the arbor, shawl pulled tight around her shoulders, watching as Marjorie clipped away what could not be saved.
“You’ll have to strip them back to the spine,” Evelyn murmured.
Marjorie paused, glancing up. “That harsh?”
“If you don’t,” Evelyn said, “they rot from the inside. The beauty lingers, but the stem is hollow.”
Marjorie looked at her carefully. “Roses, or something else?”
Evelyn gave no answer. She stepped off the path, her boots squelching in the soft earth as she moved toward the hedge that bordered the cliff. The ocean roared faintly below calmer today, but no less dangerous.
From here, she could see the jagged rocks where Gideon’s body had been found. The tide had dragged him in, they said. A tragic accident. A misstep. A drunken fall. But Evelyn knew her husband. Gideon had always been sure-footed. Especially near the edge.
She glanced back toward the house. The windows on the east side stared blankly, reflecting the gray sky. And yet something shifted behind one.
A flicker.
A movement.
Someone watching?
She blinked hard. When she looked again, the glass was empty.
She returned to Marjorie, who stood brushing damp soil from her gloves.
“There’s someone in the house,” Evelyn said quietly.
Marjorie frowned. “The detective?”
“No,” Evelyn replied. “Someone else. Someone who doesn’t want to be seen.”
Marjorie straightened, her voice wary. “Then we should call someone.”
Evelyn’s jaw tightened. “We already did. And he’s convinced I know more than I’m saying.”
Marjorie hesitated. “Do you?”
Evelyn turned to her. Her expression unreadable. “Would it matter if I did?”
The older woman looked away.
“No,” she said. “I suppose it wouldn’t.”
They walked back toward the house together, the silence between them colder than the wind. Evelyn didn’t look back at the cliff. But she felt it behind her wide, open, endless.
And somewhere, just beyond the hedge, the feeling of being watched returned.
Not like before.
Worse.
The letter was waiting for her again.
This time, not hidden. Not slid under a door like a secret. But bold, brazen placed squarely on her writing desk in the study.
- Writer
