Tangled In Time

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"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 trail, their edges eroded and moss-covered. Near the centre of the grounds, a shimmering pond caught my eye.

"Do you think the pond has ducks?!" William squealed, practically vibrating in his seat and squishing his face to the window.

"Maybe, sit back and stop slobbering on my window" I said, a small smile breaking through despite myself. "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 and sprouted out where there should have been water.

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.

William shot out of the car before I'd even turned off the engine, bolting towards Mum and babbling incoherently about ponds and ducks. The rest of us lingered, staring up at the house. It wasn't just big—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 and laughing. Watching them together, it was hard to tell who the swing was really for.

It was a good fifteen minutes before Dad and Will returned from the swing. As if on cue, Mr Baker appeared from the edge of the forest. It almost seemed like he'd been watching us the whole time – but I shook the thought off.

Too many horror films.

"We're all ready for the grand tour" Dad said enthusiastically smiling at Mr Baker only for him to grunt, hand over a thick gold key, and gesture towards the house.

"Front door," He said, his voice 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 banister 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 made me stop following the others.

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 in his gaze, something both weary and defiant. His jaw was tight, his posture stiff with tension.