It's amazing how quiet a house can be once you realise, you're alone in it. Not just empty, but alone. Like it's holding its breath, waiting to see what you'll do next.
I hadn't slept well, which was no surprise, but for once, it wasn't nightmares that kept me up. It was questions. About Sylvia. About this house, and the land it sat upon. About that bloody cellar hatch I couldn't get open.
About him.
And the more I thought about it, the more I realised I was done waiting for answers to show up on their own.
So, after two cups of coffee that would no doubt make me more than a little jittery, and a failed attempt at making toast in the toaster that looked to have been made in the 80s. I did what I should have been doing from the day I arrived.
I started looking.
Really looking. Not just poking at the piles and boxes that had been Sylvia's life, but a thorough search that would leave no stone unturned.
It wasn't neat. There were no hidden drawers, no dramatic false-bottom trunks. Just the slow, messy kind of search that makes you realise how many things someone can tuck away over a lifetime.
I started in the living room. Opened cupboards and pulled out old boxes. A lot of it was exactly what you'd expect from a house that had been someone's home for a lifetime. Crocheted blankets, family heirlooms, stacks of newspapers that spanned decades.
More Journals, and scribbled notes of pieces of paper that told me she'd been doing it her entire life.
Everything she was, she'd put down on paper.
It was her life. It was her.
Buried at the bottom of an old trunk was a cracked shoebox tied up with ribbon.
Inside: letters to family, to an old lover, a brass pocket watch that still worked after winding, and photographs. So very many photographs.
I sat on the couch, the box on my lap and sorted through them. Curled at the corners, dusty and yellowed, they were a snapshot into Great-Aunt Sylvia's life.
She smiled out of several, some younger, some older, always with the same sharp eyes and half-smirk that told me she probably took no one's crap.
Most of the photos were harmless enough. Sylvia in the garden. Sylvia at the pub. Sylvia standing beside people I didn't recognise at fairs and birthday parties. There was even one of Sylvia holding the hand of a sulky child that I realised was me!
There was one that caught my eye, blurry and faded, but looking at it made my stomach knot.
Brow furrowed, I stared at it, trying to discern why.
Sylvia stood outside the pub on a summer's night, a smile on her face and a glass in her hand raised in salute to the cameraman. A broad faced man with thick sideburns and moustache had an arm around her waist, his flared trousers setting the time as the seventies.
There was nothing untoward about the photo, just two people enjoying the warm night air. There were others behind them, and my frown deepened as I peered at them.
He wasn't facing the camera, caught as he was turning away, his back straight and face set like stone, a cold anger simmering there. Tall. Pale. Dark hair. A coat that belonged to another century.
A face I recognised.
Thorne.
I stared at it until my fingers ached.
It wasn't possible.
He looked exactly as he had last night when I'd stood facing him in the pub, as he'd flirted in that arrogant manner of his.
But there he was. Where he shouldn't be. When he shouldn't be. It wasn't possible. People aged. Unless…
I shook my head, dismissing that thought before it led to something I wasn't ready to believe. I had to be sure.
I took the photo with me to the pub.
Maggie was setting up when I walked in, placing menus and checking glasses, pretending it wasn't a dead weekday morning. She looked up with a smile that didn't reach her tired eyes.
"Morning, love. You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Not quite." I slid the photo across the bar. "Recognise him?"
She squinted. "That's Sylvia, isn't it?"
"Yeah. Look at the background."
She leaned closer. "Was taken here, at the pub." She chuckled. "Look at that. Piece of history, that is."
I stabbed the photo with my finger, tapping the man in black. "Him!"
"Bit blurry. That bloke?"
"Yeah."
She frowned. "Don't think so. Looks like he's wearing a costume."
"Or he just hasn't changed in sixty years or so."
That earned me a look. "Whatever do you mean?"
"Tell me that isn't Jonathan," I said. "He was in here last night. Over at that table."
She followed where I pointed, frown deepening. "No, I don't think so, love."
"Pretty sure it is, and I think Sylvia knew him. She wrote his name in her journals."
Maggie shook her head, chuckling. "Look, I loved your aunt, but she was odd. You know that right? Always off in her own world. Talking to trees, drawing stars in chalk under that garden shed of her. Doesn't mean much of anything, love."
"Why would she write his name? Why would she write about him at all if she died before he arrived her?"
"She kept bird bones in the kitchen drawer, Ellie."
I couldn't argue with that. I'd found them. Nearly had a heart attack when I grabbed hold of them.
Still, I said, "Do you think she was protecting something?"
Maggie tilted her head. "Like what?"
"I don't know. Something old. Dangerous. Maybe buried."
She sighed and set down her cloth. "You want my advice? Get some fresh air. That house is full of old memories and the ramblings of an old woman who believed in the old ways. Go outside. Walk. Remind yourself the world's still ordinary."
She meant well. I could see that. As much as I could see that she didn't believe or wasn't willing to.
But I was starting to.
I walked back to the house slowly, lost in thought.
Not because I wanted to take her advice. But because I remembered the old map I'd found rolled up in the kitchen drawer. Crinkled and ink-stained, with little red Xs and symbols drawn on places I didn't recognise.
So back at the house, I grabbed the map and went looking.
The first mark on the map led me up the steep hill behind the cottage and out onto the tops. The wind pulled at my coat, whipping my hair around my face and I got to stare at the mountains that surrounded the town.
I walked the roads, wishing I'd had a car, and eventually found myself at a field and there, in plain sight, was a stone circle. Composed of thirty-eight free standing stones, some up to three metres high.
As open to the world as it was, I was sure it was a known feature and sure enough, a quick internet search on my phone gave me the answers. Castlerigg Stone Circle, a prehistoric site on a natural plateau that commanded a superb 360-degree view over the surrounding fells.
Weathered with age, but still upright. I stepped inside.
The air felt different there. Still, somehow. Pressed down. Like I was underwater or holding my breath. A breeze stirred the trees outside, but nothing moved within the circle.
No birdsong.
No insects.
Just silence.
I backed out slowly, heart hammering, and didn't stop until I was well back down the path.
The second mark too me further east, to a break in the trees where I heard rushing water before I saw it. Moss covered rocks lined the trail like old sentries, and I followed it until the trees opened into a small clearing and there it was.
A waterfall-small, maybe ten feet high, cascading over slick black rocks into a pool that shimmered in the weak light. I climbed down to the edge, careful not to slip.
It was beautiful.
But it wasn't just water.
Etched into the stone beneath the spray were symbols.
Faint. Worn with time. But very deliberate.
I traced one with my finger. It pulsed under my skin, cold and sharp like static.
I jerked my hand back.
The third mark led me deepest into the woods. I hesitated, remembering Tom's warning and the dog that had attacked me. A glance to the slate grey sky revealed nothing, though the clock on my phone told me I had only an hour or so until dark.
Fear gnawed at me, but curiosity won out.
I found the boulder beneath a twisted yew tree. It rose taller than me, half-swallowed by ivy and moss.
The carvings on it weren't just symbols, they were runes. Old ones. A spiral pattern at the top. A crescent. Lines that converged like a doorway.
I didn't immediately recognise them, but they looked familiar, like something I'd seen recently. Perhaps in the scattered piles of pages and journals in my great aunt's study, or maybe in a dream.
God alone knew I'd had plenty of those these last few nights.
At the base of the stone, half-buried in the grass, something glittered.
A tiny pendant. Tarnished silver on a broken chain. I picked it up, turning it over in my hand.
It was shaped like an eye.
And it felt warm.
I pulled my coat closer around me and slipped the pendant into my pocket. I made sure to take a photo of the stone before I turned away, making my way back home through the woods.
Dark fell, faster than I'd imagined, like the sun had dropped straight off the edge of the world. One minute it was twilight, and the next I could barely see the path beneath my feet.
I stumbled over roots and thorns, muttering curses under my breath, and finally gave in. I pulled out my phone and switched on the torch.
The pale beam swung over tree trunks and brambles, catching glimmers of frost on dead leaves, making shadows dance at the edge of my vision.
That was when I heard it.
A howl. Far off, but close enough that it didn't feel like a dog. Or a fox.
Too long. Too low.
The kind of sound that echoes in your ribs and wakes something buried deep.
I froze, every hair on my arms standing to attention.
Nothing moved. Nothing called again.
But I wasn't alone.
I felt it before I heard anything else. That creeping itch across the back of my neck. The twist of gut, a deep knowing.
Something was watching me.
Following.
I turned slowly, the torch beam slicing through the dark.
Nothing.
But I could feel it.
The air was too still. Too heavy. Like the trees themselves wee holding their breath.
The hunger came next.
It wasn't mine, but I felt it just the same. Raw and sharp, like teeth scraping bone. It clawed through the dark, sank its cold fingers into my spine, and whispered I was prey.
My feet moved before I could think. Faster. Then faster still. Branches caught at my coat, slapped my face. I gasped and ducked, skidded down a slope thick with mud and moss, heart slamming so hard I thought it might break free from my chest.
Behind me… movement.
Too quick. Too quiet.
Panic howled in my skull. I ran blindly, crashing through the undergrowth, until something snagged my ankle. I went down hard, landing with a grunt and a crack as pain shot up my leg.
And the-
Arms.
Strong. Cold.
They caught me before I hit the ground fully. One hand at my back, the other curling around my arm, steadying, holding.
I knew the touch.
"Careful," said a voice low beside my ear. "You'll get yourself killed like that."
Jonathan.
I blinked up at him, still breathless, too stunned to speak. His face was ghost pale in the torchlight, eyes glowing faintly like coals just barely held in check.
He turned his head sharply, scanning the trees behind me.
I felt it the, his tension. The way his body coiled, protective and sharp edged. There was something out there, and he knew it too.
A low sound came from deep in his chest. Not quite a growl, but close. It vibrated against me where he held me. Not human.
"Come," he said, voice tight.
"I-I heard something…"
"I know."
He didn't let go of my arm. Just kept hold of me as we moved, quicker than before. Not quite running, but close. Every step he took was silent. Controlled. He moved like a shadow with weight.
But I was painfully human, stumbling now and then, glancing behind us every few seconds.
I couldn't see anything.
But I knew.
Something was there. Lurking in the dark. Watching.
Like he had been. That first night. And the one after that.
We crested the last hill, the cottage lights barely visible through the trees ahead.
Jonathan paused.
His head tilted, his nostrils flaring like an animal catching a scent. His grip on my arm tightened for a heartbeat, then relaxed.
"It's gone," he murmured.
We didn't speak again until we reached the porch.
He stopped just shy of the steps.
"You shouldn't be out in the woods alone," he said.
I wanted to snap at him, tell him I knew that, and he didn't get to tell me what to do. But my knees were shaking, and my lungs still hadn't caught up to my heart.
"What was it?" I asked instead.
"I don't know."
A lie, I was sure.
He turned the, before I could speak again, before I could confront him with the photo that sat in my pocket and disappeared into the dark as soundlessly as he'd come.
I stood there for a long time, staring at where he'd gone.
With a final shiver, I stepped into the cottage and closed the door behind me.