The first morning at Blackwood Manor didn't start with the chirping of birds or the gentle streaming of sunlight. Instead, it began with the clinical, rhythmic hum of the house's central heating system, a sound so consistent it felt like the mansion itself was breathing. I lay in bed for a long time, staring at the ornate crown molding on the ceiling. My mind kept drifting back to that scrap of paper under my door.
"He isn't who you think he is."
The words felt like a physical weight in the room. I had hidden the note inside the lining of my suitcase, tucked away with the remnants of my old life. If Julian was as obsessed with security as the cameras suggested, I couldn't risk leaving it in a drawer. I stood up, my bare feet hitting the cold hardwood floor, and walked to the window. Outside, the fog was so thick it swallowed the oak trees whole. It was a beautiful, expensive prison.
By 8:00 AM, I was in the kitchen. It was a chef's dream—industrial-grade stainless steel, marble countertops that could seat a dozen people, and a row of knives so sharp they caught the dim morning light like surgical instruments. My first task as the Estate Manager was to prepare Eleanor's breakfast. Julian had left a detailed list on the iPad docked on the counter.
Eleanor's Breakfast: Two poached eggs (soft), one slice of gluten-free toast (lightly charred), and green tea. No sugar. No honey. Deliver at 8:30 AM sharp.
The precision was stifling. It wasn't just a request; it was a protocol. As I poached the eggs, watching the white wisps swirl in the boiling water, I felt a prickle of sweat on my neck. I felt watched. I looked up at the corner of the ceiling. A small, black dome—a camera—was pointed directly at the stove. Julian wasn't just a software genius; he was a voyeur of his own domestic life.
I arranged the tray with meticulous care. I even added a small sprig of parsley, a habit from my brief stint waiting tables in Soho. I wanted to look professional. I wanted to look like someone who belonged in a house this grand, not like a woman who had spent her last fifty dollars on the gas to get here.
I took the stairs to the North Wing. The air became cooler as I approached the locked door. My hand trembled as I reached for the digital keypad. Julian had given me the code during our brief tour: 10-31-92. A date, perhaps? An anniversary? I punched in the numbers, and the electronic lock gave a heavy, satisfying thunk.
The suite behind the door was larger than my entire apartment in New York. It was decorated in soft creams and golds, with floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the mist-covered valley. It was stunning, yet it smelled faintly of stale air and expensive perfume—the scent of someone who hadn't stepped outside in a very long time.
"Mrs. Blackwood?" I called out, my voice sounding thin in the vast room.
At first, there was no answer. Then, from the shadow of a high-backed velvet armchair by the window, a woman emerged. Eleanor Blackwood was younger than I expected. She couldn't have been more than thirty-five, but she moved with a fragility that made her look older. Her hair was a pale, washed-out blonde, and her skin was nearly translucent. She was wearing a silk robe that looked like it cost more than my car.
She didn't look at me. She looked at the tray. "You're new," she said. Her voice was a dry rasp, like sandpaper on wood.
"I'm Eva. The new Estate Manager. I've brought your breakfast."
She finally looked up, and for a second, I stopped breathing. Her eyes were wide, bloodshot, and filled with a frantic, flickering energy. There was no "memory loss" or "psychological instability" in that gaze; there was only pure, unadulterated terror.
"He told you I was crazy, didn't he?" she whispered, stepping closer. She leaned in so far I could smell the herbal tea on her breath. "He told you I forget things. That I imagine things."
"Mr. Blackwood is very concerned about your health, Eleanor," I said, trying to maintain the professional tone Julian expected. I placed the tray on the mahogany side table.
Eleanor let out a sharp, jagged laugh. "Concerned? Is that what they call it now? He doesn't want me healthy, Eva. He wants me compliant. Look at this room. Look at the windows."
I glanced at the massive glass panes. From the outside, they looked normal. But from here, I noticed something I hadn't seen before. There were no latches. No handles. The glass was thick, reinforced with a nearly invisible wire mesh. They weren't windows; they were observation ports.
"The code," Eleanor said suddenly, her fingers twitching at her sides. "The one you used to get in. What was it?"
"I... I'm not supposed to discuss security protocols," I replied.
"It's his first wife's birthday," she hissed, her eyes darting toward the door as if she expected Julian to burst in at any moment. "October 31st. She died, you know. They said it was an accident. A fall down the very stairs you just climbed."
A cold knot formed in my stomach. Julian hadn't mentioned a first wife. He had spoken as if Eleanor was the only woman who had ever occupied this throne of stone and glass.
"Eat your breakfast, Eleanor," I said, my voice shaking. "I'll be back in an hour to collect the tray."
As I turned to leave, she grabbed my wrist. Her grip was surprisingly strong, her fingernails digging into my skin. "Check the library," she whispered, her face inches from mine. "The third shelf from the bottom, behind the leather-bound copies of Dickens. There's a ledger. If you want to know what happened to the last girl who worked here, look at the ledger."
I pulled my arm away, my heart racing. "I have work to do."
I scrambled out of the room, punching the button to lock the door behind me. I leaned against the cold wood, gasping for air. Was she telling the truth? Or was this exactly what Julian had warned me about—the "manipulation of facts" that came with her condition?
I spent the next few hours trying to distract myself with the house's inventory. I counted linens, checked the wine cellar, and coordinated with the landscaping crew via phone. But Eleanor's words haunted me. Check the library.
By the afternoon, Julian had left for a "business meeting" in Hartford. The house was silent, save for the distant hum of the refrigerators and the occasional creak of the floorboards. It was the perfect opportunity.
I found myself standing in the library. The room was dark, the heavy velvet curtains drawn tight. I walked toward the third shelf from the bottom. My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. I reached behind the dusty, gold-lettered spines of Charles Dickens' novels.
My fingers brushed against something hard and cold. A small, black notebook.
I pulled it out. It wasn't a ledger. It was a diary. The name on the inside cover wasn't Eleanor's, and it wasn't Julian's. It belonged to a woman named Sarah.
I flipped through the pages. The handwriting started out neat and professional, much like my own notes. But as the pages progressed, the script became jagged, frantic, and barely legible.
March 12th: He's watching me through the vents. I can hear the click of the cameras at night.March 20th: I found the cameras in the bathroom. He smiled when I confronted him. He said it was for 'security'.April 5th: I tried to leave today. The car wouldn't start. The gates are locked. He's standing in the hallway, just watching me.
The last entry was dated April 14th. It was only one sentence, written so hard that the pen had torn through the paper: "I think he's going to kill me tonight."
I dropped the book as if it were made of hot coals. A floorboard creaked behind me.
I spun around, my breath hitching in my throat. Standing in the doorway, framed by the shadows of the hallway, was Julian. He was still wearing his overcoat, his shoulders damp from the rain. He didn't look angry. He looked... disappointed.
"Searching for something, Eva?" he asked, his voice smooth and terrifyingly calm.
I looked at the diary on the floor, then back at him. My mind raced for a lie, a cover story, anything to explain why the Estate Manager was digging behind the classics.
"I... I was just dusting," I stammered, my voice barely a whisper. "The shelves... they were quite dirty."
Julian walked into the room, his footsteps silent on the thick rug. He picked up the diary and looked at it with a strange, melancholic smile. "Ah, Sarah. She was a troubled soul. Much like Eleanor. She had a tendency to imagine monsters where there were only shadows."
He stepped closer, standing so near I could smell the damp wool of his coat and a hint of expensive cologne. He reached out and tucked a stray lock of hair behind my ear. His touch was light, but it felt like a brand.
"I hope you're not like Sarah, Eva," he said, his blue eyes locking onto mine. "I would hate for your stay here to be as... short-lived as hers."
He took the diary from my hand and tucked it into his pocket. "Now, why don't you go check on dinner? I believe we're having lamb tonight."
I nodded dumbly and hurried out of the room. As I walked down the long, dark corridor toward the kitchen, I realized something that made my blood run cold.
Julian hadn't been in Hartford. He had been here the whole time. And he had been watching me on those monitors from the moment I entered the library.
I wasn't just the manager of this estate. I was the next lead character in his twisted play. And according to Sarah's diary, the final act was usually fatal.