The Haunting of Elsinore Manor

▪︎ Three ▪︎

I found the boy playing in the upstairs hallway last night.

I asked him why he's always in our house.

"This is my family's house," he told me.

I told him that couldn't be right, because this is my family's house. "We live here now," I said.

"We've always lived here," he replied.

~ * ~

20th of October, 1907

Dearest William ~

The rain is unceasing, and a bitter chill has enveloped the house. I'm always cold. Has Cornwall always suffered such a drowning in October? I cannot recall. The season of sunlight and warmth seems so far away. Another lifetime. It left along with you.

Our sons keep me constantly entertained. Little Gilbert has created a fictitious friend named Chester. (I've no idea where he got the name Chester! One of my books, perhaps.) Apparently, Chester enjoys hiding Rosen's toys - a pastime of which Rosen is not fond! He is so stern and unyielding. Were you such a serious boy at the age of eight? I can't remember if you told me. Well, according to Gilly, Chester "has a strange way of speaking and dressing," and "is Rosen's age, but thinks Rosen is too prickly to play with." Such detail! Can you imagine? The things his imagination conjures! I do love that darling little boy so. I could hold him on my lap for hours, if he and his endless energy would allow it. It saddens me to think of him growing older.

Ophelia has become more withdrawn. She observes your brother and I with silent, watchful eyes. I wish I knew what she was looking for. She spends most of her time writing.

Speaking of your brother, I feel I should tell you plainly that there have been certain...flirtations. On his part, only. Nothing overt. A subtle touch on the hand, or a lingering smile. Yesterday he clasped my necklace for me, just as you used to. The beautiful string of pearls you inherited from your mother has such a delicate clasp. I'm sure you remember how I used to struggle with it. Claude offered his assistance, and so I accepted. Once the clasp was secure, he gently squeezed my shoulders. I nearly protested, but he'd already withdrawn his hands. Perhaps I'm imagining things. I mean to cause you no alarm, but instead wish to reiterate how very, very much I miss you. Your scent. Your touch. And countless other things I dare not put down in a letter.

I love you dearly. Please write soon.

All my love,
Trudy

~ * ~

I woke up to music early this morning. It was very dark. Before sunrise. I tiptoed downstairs and found the boy standing in the hallway, peeking into the den. When he saw me, he shooed me away.

"Who's playing that music?" I asked him.

"My mother," he replied. "She plays piano when she's sad."

"So does mine," I said. I looked back at the partly closed door, nervous that I would start seeing the boy's mother, too. One sad mum in the house was enough. "She plays pretty."

"Want to see something else that's pretty?" he asked me.

"Yes," I said.

He led me to the kitchen.

*