Dark Intent

Chapter 1

Sara could hardly believe her luck, she was young and had barely worked at the agency for two months, and now she had been hand-picked for an assignment. They were a small but independent newspaper. One of the last, the owner supposedly too stubborn to give into the digital age. The truth was they did all the leg work themselves, everything was investigated, checked, and then double-checked.

She stared at the screen of her laptop; the words hung like a question.

Who is the man in the mansion?

No one knew anything about him, the house had stood on the hill for years, dated as far back as the seventeen hundreds, originally owned by Lord Wilton who had occupied it before the family had supposedly been forced out by the changing politics of the time. Stories were vague, some suggested gambling, some that there had been deals done with men higher up the royal chain. The truth was no one knew for sure. One thing that was for certain is it had fallen into the hands of the current owner’s family somewhere in the early part of the nineteen hundreds.

In her research, however, she had not found any female linage, they’d been seen to come and go, but none whom you would think lived on the property. Every few decades, the owner would pass on the house to his son, but the trouble was what little could be found, she believed showed the son was indeed the same man, that he simply shifted perspective somehow. The mansion itself was surrounded by a high stone wall. The mansion's only entry point was via massive wrought iron gates. The wall had vicious steel spikes atop it that would make it nearly impossible to climb over without seriously injuring oneself. The grounds within were huge, and according to a certain mapping company, it extended for quite some distance, it had its forest and a few smaller buildings that were likely for the various staff that had worked for Lord Wilton.

She mulled over the images in thought, then returned the seven words on her screen. She would have to go and see for herself, and thus her current assignment was to gain an exclusive interview with a wealthy man in the mansion. A firsthand account of his generous nature toward the town, it seemed whenever the town was in trouble it was granted a rather large donation, just recently to the local orphanage which had almost been forced to close with the council's lack of funds and poor management, now a shining beacon of hope for young children and their futures.

She twirled the pen in her fingers, an expression of frustration etched upon her face. With a flick of her wrist, she tapped it lightly on the desk, the sound echoing the rhythm of her racing thoughts. The blinking cursor on the screen seemed to mock her, its persistent blink was a reminder of the writer's block that had consumed her.

Sara, a fiery redhead of only twenty-two, found herself at the cusp of her career in journalism. This news agency was her second chance after a discouraging stint as a waitress in a terrible coffee house. Memories of her first job soured her mood, as she recalled the loathsome owner who had propositioned her, attempting to exploit his position of power. Brimming with defiance, she had fiercely stood her ground, telling him to go to f**k himself before promptly quitting.

Her frustration was evident, Sara ran her hands through her vibrant curls, a cascade of fiery red that matched her spirited personality. She tugged at an errant curl, her unconscious mannerism revealing her internal struggle. The weight of her aspirations and the pressure to deliver a captivating story weighed heavily on her.

With a sigh, she took a moment to regain her composure, determined to conquer the blank screen before her. The sparks of her fiery resolve ignited within her once again; she was ready to face the challenge head-on. Inwardly channelling her determination, she set the pen down, ready to breathe life into the words that would soon flow from her fingertips.

"Okay, Sara, think," she urged herself, leaning forward and pulling a stack of notes towards her. Flicking through the pages, she sifted through information on land deeds, records of deaths, and details of donations. Then, like a bolt of lightning, a realization struck her — as a donor, he must have left a contact number. Surely, he had advanced at least that far? Excitement surged through her as she frantically searched through the papers until, at last, she found the record of the donation to the orphanage. Sure enough, it was — a mobile number right before her eyes.

Her heart pounding with anticipation, she retrieved her phone and dialled the number. With meticulous care, she double and triple-checked the digits before finally summoning the courage to press the call button. Holding her breath, she braced herself as the connection seemed to take an eternity before the sound of ringing broke the silence.

Her heart raced with anticipation as the phone clicked, signalling that it had been answered. The voice on the other end, warm and yet subtly shrouded in mystery, resonated through the receiver.

“Hello?” the voice greeted.

“H... hello... my-” She stumbled over her words, mentally cursing herself for the sudden nervousness consuming her. "My name is Sara Reynolds; I am a journalist with the Wilton Post. I would be greatly honoured if we could arrange a meeting to speak with you."

A palpable silence seemed to hang in the air as she awaited his response. Would he be aware of her intentions?

"I see," his words carefully chosen, giving away nothing. "May I ask what this meeting would be regarding, Miss Reynolds?"

Her heart pounded in her chest, each beat echoing in her ears. Her name, spoken through his lips, intensified her excitement and trepidation simultaneously. Shaking off distracting thoughts, she focused her mind on the task at hand.

"You're somewhat of a hero, Mr...?" Her voice held steady, though her eagerness flowed beneath her words.

"Ravenhurst," he stated, his voice carrying an air of gravitas. "Alexander Ravenhurst."

"Mr. Ravenhurst, thank you," she replied, her voice relieved and grateful. "Yes, we would like to feature your outstanding philanthropic activities within Wilton-on-Sea in an upcoming piece."

Once again, the moment hung in the air, his steady breathing on the other end a testament to the careful consideration he was giving her words. In that brief pause, she questioned the extent of his awareness. Was he aware that her inquiry held more intent than mere curiosity? No one seemed to possess any substantial knowledge of Mr. Ravenhurst or his family, who had occupied the Mansion for at least the last century, give or take. This was a mystery begging to be unraveled, and fortuitously, she was the one who had been entrusted with the assignment to unearth the truth.

"Very well, Miss Reynolds," his words came, meticulously chosen yet imbued with an alluring invitation. "My home, six this evening. We can discuss your piece over dinner."

She knew it was not merely a question or an offer; it was an arrangement, and it would be foolish of her to decline. Her heart raced, inexplicably stirred by something in his voice. Mentally cursing herself for being so easily affected, she regained composure and replied, "Yes, that would be perfect. Thank you, Mr. Ravenhurst. I promise I won't be late."

"Please don't," his words held a firm tone, and with a precise click, the call ended, leaving her to revel in the sweet taste of victory. With three hours until her encounter with the town's mysterious benefactor, she swiftly gathered herself, determined to make a lasting impression during their meeting.

With a determined grin, Sara closed her laptop, leaving the blinking cursor behind. The question could wait. She had a task to focus on—a mystery to unravel. Gathering her laptop and securing it in her bag, she pulled on her leather jacket, bracing herself against the biting cold outside. Wilton-on-Sea's unforgiving winter awaited her, but she was undeterred.

Leaving the small, dimly lit office behind, Sara stepped out onto the deserted streets. The new generation LED streetlamps bathed the surroundings in a stark and unwavering glow. The quietness of the moment heightened her sense of purpose as she tightened her coat around herself. The path ahead was clear, leading her toward her small one-bedroom flat tucked away in the town.

Walking with purpose, Sara's thoughts were consumed by the enigma of Mr. Ravenhurst. Her eagerness to uncover the truth fueled her every step. She knew she had to get this right, to peel back the layers and expose the secrets hidden within. The weight of the task settled upon her shoulders, but she carried it willingly.

As the wind whispered through the empty streets, a newfound determination coursed through Sara's veins. She was ready to embark on this journey, to navigate the shadows of the coastal town and untangle the mysterious web surrounding Mr Ravenhurst. Her resolve solidified, knowing that her pursuit of the truth would not waver.

And so, with each determined stride, Sara ventured towards her home, her mind ablaze with anticipation.