Chapter One
Evelyn Marrow sat at the small kitchen table in her apartment. Morning sunlight slanted through the dusty blinds, catching tiny bits of dust floating in the air. She had learned to enjoy quiet mornings like this, her coffee steaming beside her, the faint smell of paper and ink from her old books mixing with the sharp scent of city air coming in through the open window. But today, the calm was broken by the soft thud of the mail sliding through the slot in her door.
She pushed back her chair and picked up the envelopes, sorting through the usual bills and ads. Her eyes stopped on one: a cream-colored envelope with thick, textured paper and a wax seal stamped with a symbol she didn't know. No return address. Her pulse sped before she even broke the seal. The handwriting...slender, precise, looping in an old-fashioned way made it feel like the letter had chosen her.
"Evelyn Marrow," she whispered. The words felt strange on her tongue. She opened the envelope carefully. Inside was a single sheet of thick paper, folded once, with these words:
"You are requested to restore Windmere Manor. Your expertise is required. The house awaits your arrival. Come alone."
No signature. No clue who sent it. She read it twice, scanning for a trick or mistake. But the words were clear and personal.
Windmere Manor? She hadn't heard the name in years, if ever. She was proud of her skill restoring old buildings, everything from libraries to Victorian homes, but she had never taken a job from a stranger. The letter felt like a puzzle piece dropped into her life, and her curiosity woke up instantly.
Evelyn pushed her coffee aside and touched the seal. The wax was cool and smooth. Questions ran through her mind. Why her? Why now? She had never been to Windmere. Yet the letter stirred strange memories, an old estate, stories from her mother about family tragedies, names she barely remembered. The name Marrow had always carried weight in her family, spoken quietly, like a secret.
She set the letter down and exhaled. For a long moment, she just sat, letting the sunlight warm her hands. It was probably a scam. But a small, insistent part of her, the part that had spent her childhood exploring empty buildings and dusty attics whispered that she couldn't ignore it.
By noon, she had made up her mind. She would go. Not because she knew why or trusted the sender, but because she needed to see it for herself. Windmere Manor was calling, tugging at her curiosity in a thrilling and frightening way.
She spent the afternoon getting ready. Her bag was light but practical: notebooks, pencils, a camera, a tape recorder, and a small toolkit. She wore sturdy boots, dark jeans, and a worn jacket. She didn't pack more than she needed; this journey wasn't about comfort. It was about discovery.
The train station was busy, full of noise from travelers and wheels clattering on the rails. She tried to calm herself with coffee, but the city felt far away, irrelevant, as if the letter had pulled her out of it. The farther the train took her, the stronger the sense of something waiting at the end of the line. Something that had waited a long time.
The ride took most of the afternoon. Fields of green gave way to forests, and the sky darkened as evening approached. By the time she reached the station near Windmere Manor, twilight had fallen. The air was damp and chilly. She heard the faint crash of waves against cliffs beyond the trees, and the wind carried the scent of salt and moss. The place felt alive, ancient and watchful.
A taxi waited. The driver was quiet, his face serious, like he had been expecting her. He drove in silence along narrow, twisting roads that climbed toward the cliffs. Trees pressed in on both sides until they opened suddenly, revealing the manor. Windmere rose above the cliffs like a dark crown. Its stone walls were streaked with age, ivy clinging to the sides. The windows were many and uneven, some cracked, some dark, some catching the last light of the sun. It was beautiful and terrifying, and Evelyn's stomach tightened with fear and excitement.
The taxi stopped at the entrance. She climbed out, pulling her jacket tight. The manor's doors were enormous, carved with patterns worn smooth by years. She hesitated before touching the metal handle. Cold and heavy, it lingered under her fingers. Taking a deep breath, she pushed it open.
Inside, the house smelled of dust, wood, and something older, almost like memory. Her footsteps echoed on the marble floors. She took in the grand hall, the sweeping staircase, the faded murals on the walls, and the broken chandeliers hanging above. Sunlight filtered through tall windows, dust floating in the beams. It was silent except for the occasional creak of wood, as if the house was settling after a long sleep.
"Hello?" she called softly, but the hall swallowed her voice. Only the wind answered, sighing through broken panes. Evelyn swallowed her unease and opened her notebook, jotting down her first impressions: grand hall, musty smell, faded murals, cracked chandelier, silence… too much silence.
As she explored, Evelyn felt eyes on her, or at least the sense of being watched. It wasn't direct, just a weight pressing at the edge of her mind. She shook her head. "I'm imagining it. Old houses feel like that."
Still, she couldn't shake the feeling that Windmere Manor was alive in a way she had never seen before. In a corner of the hall, she noticed a small door, half-hidden by shadows. It was locked, the keyhole dark and uninviting. Something about it twisted her stomach, a mix of curiosity and dread. She traced her fingers over the wood, feeling the rough grain. Why did it feel familiar?
A sudden draft swept through the hall, rattling the windows and swinging the chandeliers. Evelyn pulled her jacket tighter. The wind seemed to whisper something faint, almost like a voice. She pressed her hand to the wall, half-expecting it to answer.
The sun dipped behind the cliffs, and shadows stretched across the hall. Evelyn realized she had been walking for hours, though it felt like minutes. She had seen no sign of life, no servants, no caretaker. The silence pressed in on her, but so did a strange sense of expectation. Windmere Manor had called her, and she had answered.
She set her bag down in what looked like a study, the shelves lined with dusty books. She opened her notebook and wrote: The house is alive. It watches. It waits. And I think… it knows me.
For the first time since reading the letter, a shiver ran down her spine. Not from the cold stone floors or the wind, but from the feeling that someone or something was waiting for her. Somewhere deep in the house, behind walls and under floorboards, she imagined a voice whispering: Welcome home, Evelyn.