Tangled In Time

Hidden

"Drive slower, Flick!" William shouted, his nose pressed to the glass, smudging it as he leaned forward with wide-eyed excitement. He hadn't called me Felicity in years—not since he was too little to manage it. Now "Flick" was all I ever heard, and there was no going back.

The estate grounds stretched before us, vast and endless, like something out of a forgotten storybook. Gentle hills rolled towards the horizon, dotted with massive maple trees whose branches swayed lazily in the breeze. Their shadows rippled over winding footpaths that seemed to lead nowhere. Stone benches sat abandoned along the trails, their edges worn and moss-covered. Near the centre of the grounds, a shimmering pond caught the light, its surface sparkling like broken glass under the sun.

"Do you think the pond has ducks?!" William squealed, practically vibrating in his seat.

"Maybe," I said, a small smile breaking through despite myself. His energy was infectious, even after the five-hour drive. "We'll explore later, alright?"

The gravel crunched beneath the tyres as we rounded a bend, revealing a fountain at the centre of the drive. It must have been grand once, but time hadn't been kind to it. Moss crept across the cracked stone, while weeds curled defiantly around its base. The basin was dry, its surface fractured as though it had been forgotten long ago. The fountain looked like a relic, an echo of something that no longer belonged.

And then, the house came into view.

It was enormous. Towering. The kind of house that didn't just sit on the land—it loomed over it. Ivy had claimed the weathered stone façade, clinging in chaotic patterns that spread upwards towards the roof. At the top of the crumbling concrete steps stood a black door, solid and imposing. A lion-shaped knocker of gleaming gold sat at its centre, its fierce expression strangely watchful. The windows stared down at us, dark and hollow, like the empty eyes of something alive.

William shot out of the car before I'd even turned off the engine, bolting towards Mum and babbling incoherently about ponds and swings. The rest of us lingered, staring up at the house. It wasn't just big—it was commanding. It demanded attention, like it held the secrets of a dozen lifetimes.

"Well, if you thought the ducks were exciting, you're going to love this," Mum said as she scooped William into her arms and pointed towards a massive willow tree nearby. Its branches swept low, framing a tyre swing that dangled invitingly from one of its thicker limbs.

"Oh my god!" William wriggled free, dashing towards it with a speed that defied the exhaustion of a long car ride.

"Let Dad check it first!" Mum called after him, but William was already halfway there. Dad jogged after him, grinning like he was as excited about the swing as Will. Watching them together, it was hard to tell who the swing was really for.

"Alright, ready for the grand tour?" Dad asked when he returned, his enthusiasm bubbling over. At that moment, Mr Baker appeared, stepping out of the tree line like he'd been part of the shadows all along. He moved slowly, deliberately, his hunched frame casting a long, jagged shadow over the gravel. A heavy ring of keys dangled from his bony fingers, jingling softly with every step.

Without a word, he handed a gold key to Dad and gestured towards the house. "Front door," he said, his voice gravelly and low.

We followed Dad up the steps, the black door creaking loudly as it swung open. Inside, the air was cool and still, carrying the faint smell of damp and wood polish. Mahogany panels lined the walls, their polished surfaces dulled by decades of wear. A grand staircase curved upwards, its bannister gleaming faintly beneath a layer of dust. Overhead, thick beams criss-crossed the high ceiling, casting angular shadows that seemed almost deliberate. The burgundy carpet beneath our feet muffled our movements, but the silence of the house itself was louder than anything. It felt alive, like it was watching us, waiting.

On the far wall, a portrait brought me to a standstill.

The man in the painting wore an army uniform, his face sharp and severe. His grey-blue eyes bore into me, unblinking, as though daring me to look away. He couldn't have been older than his early twenties, but there was something timeless in his gaze, something both weary and defiant. His jaw was tight, his posture stiff with tension. Anger? Regret? It was hard to tell.

"That's Lord Blake Winslow," Mr Baker said, his voice breaking the silence. "The heir to the Kings Lodge fortune."

I wanted to ask more, but Mr Baker had already turned away, gesturing towards a door beneath the staircase. Reluctantly, I tore my eyes from the portrait and followed.

The lounge was like stepping into another time. Dust motes hung in the faint light streaming through the boarded-up windows. White sheets draped the furniture, their ghostly shapes waiting to be unveiled. The air was thick and faintly sour, a mix of damp and something older, something I couldn't place. The room wasn't just old—it felt untouched. Preserved.

As the tour continued, Mr Baker's voice faded into the background, his words blurring as the house unfolded around us. Room after room told its own story: the parlour with its faded fireplace, the vast kitchen with its outdated fittings, the towering bookshelves of the library. It was a museum of another life, frozen in time.

When we reached the cellar door, Mr Baker hesitated. His expression darkened as he glanced at us. "Best to leave this locked," he said flatly. "The stairs are steep. Dangerous."

Tom smirked, crossing his arms. "Haunted, you mean," he muttered.

Mr Baker's watery eyes fixed on him, unblinking. "No, lad. Just steep."

He handed Dad the keys and shuffled off into the trees without another word, his figure fading into the shadows until it was as though he'd never been there at all.

"That guy gives me the creeps," I whispered to Dad.

"You're not alone," Dad murmured, glancing back towards the woods. "Let's just try not to get murdered, alright?"

Later, as the sun dipped lower and shadows stretched long across the estate, William tugged on Dad's sleeve. "Hide and seek!" he declared.

"Fine," Tom said, crouching dramatically. "But no going outside." He pointed at William. "I'm counting by the stairs. One hundred."

As Tom began to count—"100... 99... 98..." —the house seemed to quiet, as though it were listening. I crept through the kitchen, my heart racing, and found the dumbwaiter. It was old and dusty, its hatch heavier than I'd expected, but I managed to squeeze inside and pull it shut.

"50... 49..." Tom's counting echoed faintly, muffled by the wood and plaster.

The air inside the dumbwaiter was stifling, thick with dust and shadows. Somewhere above me, I thought I heard a soft thud. A creak, almost imperceptible.

"3... 2... 1. Ready or not, here I come!"

I held my breath, straining to hear Tom's footsteps. But there was only silence. And then, faintly, from somewhere deep in the house, another creak.