An Unforeseen Inheritance
by Livia E. De Souza
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Table of Contents parts: 1, 2, 3 |
part 1
Far too many stories of hauntings and other such occurrences begin with the receipt of a letter detailing a previously unknown inheritance. I am now of the opinion that all such letters should be immediately disposed of, lest temptation override the prescient doubt of which all humans are naturally possessed. For it was to this exact temptation that I fell prey.
Perhaps I had grown tired of the cramped quarters of my Boston home, even those few moments of rest shaken by the sound of passing horses, and the rumble of carriage wheels. Perhaps I had grown tired of toiling endlessly for those who were my superiors in neither talent nor ethic. Perhaps I was simply tired.
Had I seen a physician at that time, they might have convinced me to remain in the city, ingesting small doses of whatever noxious substance would dispel this melancholy and make my life once again tolerable. A practice I should doubtless continue until the treatment-induced muscular pains outpaced those more ephemeral disturbances to my disposition.
Then again, they might have prescribed a restorative stay in the countryside: a retirement to revive my depleted spirits.
I shall never know, because I did not ask. I only read the description of the house and land with mounting fascination; each detail salve for wounds I had not noticed were long-festering.
So, I offered my notice. It was enveloped in a dull sentiment which was received with a similar lack of interest: the hallmark of exchanges between men who brand their names ‘esquire’.
In short, I was as certain that I would not regret leaving as they were of the fact that I would soon be forgotten.
Three weeks before my scheduled departure, I placed an advertisement for a housekeeper in what would soon be my local newspaper. After all, I had struggled to care for an apartment I could barely lie lengthwise within.
To my bewilderment, only a single person responded: Abigail Cooper. A woman a few years younger than I, she provided a single character reference, and had seemingly passed her entire life only a town away from my destination.
While I had hoped for my choice of staff — the inheritance provided for this well enough — the days passed and I had no other applicants. I finally wrote back to Abigail, and was gratified by her swift acceptance of the position.
She would arrive a week before I did, in order to ready the house. She suggested in her letter that I hire someone to bring food and supplies to the estate, as the walk into the village was long. I agreed to accommodate Abigail as I could. The estate had been abandoned for several years before the passing away of its previous owner, and I did not wish to arrive to a battleground.
When I departed Boston, it was with a single chest containing all my belongings. I had hoped to bring more, so as not to look ridiculous in my new landed gentry, but I dismissed the idea of packing empty crates as absurd.
Four days of coach travel brought me to the small town, and beyond to the estate, where Abigail greeted me by the gates. She was a short woman with a pleasantly round face and dark hair. She curtseyed to me as I approached, and I responded with a small bow.
“May I take the chest?” she asked.
I declined. It would embarrass me both to have her carry my luggage, and for her to feel how light the chest truly was.
“You moved in a week ago?” I asked, as though it were a genuine question. “Is the house to your liking?”
She smiled. “Of course, sir, it’s a beautiful place.”
I supposed my own ungainliness was entirely evident, so I decided to address it.
“I am accustomed to the city,” I said.
“I was sorry to hear about your uncle’s passing,” she interjected too quickly.
I shrugged. “I didn’t know him myself. In fact, I knew only little of my mother’s family.” I paused, shifting to a more pressing subject. “Yours was the only answer I received to my advertisement.”
Abigail’s cheeks flushed. “I thought that might be.”
“Why?” I asked.
Abigail turned to me, a flash of unease in her eyes. “I...”
I quickly brushed away my own question, though only seconds ago it had seemed so important. “Forgive me. I could hardly handle the house alone.”
If Abigail was relieved that I had not pressed the point, she did not show it. Instead, she smoothed back the few stray hairs that had escaped her braid, and kept her eyes fixed forward as we walked through the gate and down the path leading to the manor.
The property itself stretched much further than could be seen. The flora was overgrown and wild, encroaching on the vast greyness of the manor. Intricately crafted windows stared out from beneath stone arches, in places obscured by twisting vines. It was a far cry from the ordered, entirely human, streets of the city, and I took in the unexpected beauty with eager eyes.
The warmth of the sun disappeared the moment we entered the building. Everything, inside and out, was constructed of stone, and it felt to me as though we had unknowingly slipped into an oversized crypt. The arched ceiling stretched above, meeting the walls and surging forcefully downward through the floor to some hidden place beyond. Every aspect of the structure seemed more natural to a cathedral, and it was difficult for me to picture this place as my new home.
Abigail had dutifully lined the hallways with oil lamps, and they appeared to be freshly cleaned. There was no need for them yet, as the sunlight still streamed through the wide windows, their ornate glass panes sealed with lead.
For the first week, I did not venture outside the estate. Abigail went into town only occasionally, while I became preoccupied acquainting myself with the property. Yet, in time, I grew weary of my own company.
“Would you walk with me into the village?” I asked Abigail.
Her eyes darted to the floor, a slight flush crawling up her neck. “I’ll stay here, unless I’m needed.”
So, alone, I made my way toward the nearest evidence of humanity beyond myself and Abigail. The path leading to the estate was barely discernable within the forest’s understory. It appeared that a long time had passed since the road was in regular use. I could pick out only the shallowest steps, and followed these until they joined with a main road.
I passed a few townsfolk, and offered a tip of my hat. They responded silently, and I could feel their eyes on me long after our paths had crossed. Perhaps my own comfort with strangers was the more unusual comportment.
I walked directly to the tavern, where I asked for the owner’s son: a young man whom I had hired to bring supplies and food. He always left the basket by the entrance to the estate, where Abigail retrieved it early in the morning. As early as I rose, I could never seem to awaken before the delivery took place.
The heady scent of ale and boiled vegetables permeated the tavern, and I breathed it in deeply. It made for a pleasant change from the singular scent of the estate.
A middle-aged man with a rounded face and a groomed mustache entered from a room in the back. “Can I help you?” he asked.
“Yes, I hired Colin to bring food to the Hayes—”
“Colin,” the barkeep shouted.
Though taken aback, I dismissed the loud interruption as a bucolic mannerism. Within seconds, a youth of around fifteen years appeared from the same back room.
“Hello, my name is Isaac Platt,” I said.
Colin offered a stiff nod, before glancing at the barkeep.
“I came to drop off your wages for the next few weeks, and to thank you.”
“So, you’ve moved to the Hayes Estate,” the barkeep said, returning abruptly to my earlier announcement. “Is it just you, then?”
I turned at this second interruption. “I have a housekeeper.”
By these words, the barkeep seemed openly surprised. “You found someone to work there, did you?”
“Abigail Cooper.”
He nodded, his lips twitching downward. “I suppose she would.”
“Why do you say that?”
The barkeep shrugged. “Abigail’s wandered like Cain, unwelcome in her own home and unaccepting of charity. Her drifting figure’s as near as our town has to a patron saint. A few weeks ago, she consented to take clothing from one of the women in town, and I suppose now we know the reason for her change of heart. She’d risk her very soul for that home.”
“Why did no one else respond to my advertisement?” I asked.
“I’d assumed you knew about the place. I didn’t even want Colin walking through the woods by the Hayes Estate. In fact, I told him to turn the money down. He may be my son, but boys his age are always more headstrong than they are sharp.”
“Why were you afraid?” I pressed.
“That estate was built on an entrance to hell itself. People have seen things there for years: shadowy figures moving through the woods, flames filling the house, before dying down to nothing. Not so much as a singe on a single stone, I tell you.”
“And you believe this?” I asked.
“There’s none here who doubts it. We’ve all seen it with our own eyes, and stay as far away as we can. Hayes made a deal with the devil, that’s the only way he could have built the estate. There were no workers, only Hayes on the land, and the manor was built from nothing in a night.”
I had to stop myself from physically shaking my head. “I have been living there for over a week, and have seen nothing unusual.”
The barkeep shrugged and looked to his son, who looked away.
“And there was the woman,” Colin said quietly, more to the floorboards than to his father or myself.
The barkeep tried to silence him.
“What woman?” I asked.
“When they finally went there to string old Hayes up...” Colin began.
“Quiet,” his father said. “That’s nothing for this gentleman to busy his mind with.”
“Tell me,” I said, directing the plea emphatically to Colin. Their words had ignited an unease within my chest, something that had been dwelling there since my arrival, perhaps since my receipt of the letter.
“He’s said enough,” the barkeep quickly said. “There’s no good that will come from us saying any more. We’ll wish you a good day.”
“I have a right—”
“Sir, my boy shouldn’t have said that. He’s young, and his mind’s muddied by the stories of the men who drink here,” the barkeep said, shaking his head when Colin tried to speak on his own behalf. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll again wish you good day.”
When it was clear that nothing more would be said, I left Colin’s wages on the bar and bid the two farewell.
Yet, I could not go home. I waited outside, just beyond sight. I observed this corner of the village, as a child might study the movements of a mesmerist. I watched in silent apprehension until around two hours later, when Colin emerged from the tavern unaccompanied.
I followed him for a few paces, until I was sure there was no chance his father might overhear our exchange. When I announced my presence, he started.
“Sir, I can’t—”
“Please,” I said. I seized his wrist and pressed to his open palm what amounted to a full month’s wages, hoping he would need no further convincing.
The youth looked down at the money in his hand, and my only measure of the passing time was each tense beat of my own heart. Finally, Colin closed the bills into his fist before tucking them into his shirt pocket.
“We should go,” Colin said, aware that my accosting of him had attracted a few curious onlookers.
“Are strangers so rare?” I asked, meeting a few of the uneasy glances before looking away.
“Well-dressed strangers are,” he responded.
He began to walk, and I followed him.
“You said that they went to hang Hayes, but the only person they found there was a woman,” I said.
Colin nodded. “I’m not sure how the woman was related to Hayes, just that they weren’t man and wife.” He glanced to where the money was concealed. “They didn’t find Hayes, so they strung the woman up. Charlotte, I think her name was. A few of the mob left before she actually died, but those who stayed...” he trailed off momentarily, before picking the story up again. “They say charred bodies were all that remained, only there was no sign of a fire anywhere.”
“And Charlotte?” I asked.
“Dead. She’s buried somewhere on the estate, only Hayes never marked it. He left town sometime after.”
* * *
Copyright © 2023 by Livia E. De Souza
