Craven Manor(13)

By the time he’d circled the building and cleared the errant ivy, his hands were raw, and the sun had fallen below the treetops. The knife was hopelessly coated in sap, and Daniel cleaned it on one of the cloths as he stepped back.

Even though he hadn’t touched the bushes, the improvement was immense. Daniel grinned at his handiwork, delighted at the way the building had regained some of its dignity without plants weighing its roof down.

The tomb’s front was easier to see, too. Carved amongst the elaborate leaf work, scrolls, and miniature pillars was a name: Annalise Myricks. The emblem above it matched the brooch the girl in the painting had worn.

The date carved beside the name made Daniel’s heart suddenly heavy. 1791-1803. She’d lived to be only twelve years old.

Was she sick? Her portrait had incredibly pale skin, but I’d assumed that was the artist’s interpretation of what was fashionable at the time. She died young, but she must have been dearly loved to be immortalised in that painting and this crypt.

He remembered the very slight lift of her lips and the way her eyes had reflected fear. Did she know she was going to die? Was the painting a deliberate effort to memorialise her before she left earth?

The sunset was full of bloody reds and glaring golds. Daniel shook the towels off his hands, wrapped the knife in them, and clambered back towards his cottage. He’d intended to return to town before the day was over, but he’d become too consumed in his work and let the sun set.

Daniel stopped outside the groundskeeper’s cottage. Compared to the mansion and the gardens, the small tidy building felt comforting. Cosy, even. He rubbed an aching hand over the back of his neck. Having his own room and unlimited food would be nice. It would be even nicer to not have to struggle through the forest again. But even though he could handle Craven Manor during the day, he still felt uneasy about lingering after sunset.

There’s caution, and then there’s paranoia. You’ve spent a whole day here with nothing horrible happening. Take a chance. Stay the night.

He nudged his cottage’s door open. Without direct sunlight, it felt unnaturally bleak. Daniel hunted for a light switch without luck. He hadn’t seen lights anywhere on the property. The house had oil lamps on the wall and fireplaces in most rooms. Daniel suspected it had never been connected to electricity.

He didn’t have a fridge, either. That was fine, though. He’d gotten used to drinking his tea and coffee black since Kyle didn’t like him using the milk, but it meant any meat or perishables would have to be eaten on the day he bought them.

Desperate people can’t be picky.

He snorted a laugh as he knelt in front of the fireplace. Before coming to Craven Manor, he’d felt desperate, always clawing for just enough money to pay rent and eat, running the endless treadmill of job applications and rejections, and feeling that homelessness was always just a misstep away.

Craven Manor had a different atmosphere, however. As he stacked kindling in the fireplace, Daniel tried to put his finger on it. The manor wasn’t a cheerful place. It wasn’t bright or welcoming. But it felt secure. The last two hundred years hadn’t managed to crumble it. Storms could beat at its walls, plants could try to choke it, age could eat at the furniture, but it still stood just as tall and proud.

For all of the property’s secrets and intimidating atmosphere, he felt more secure in the cottage than he had at Kyle’s apartment. That was a startling revelation. At Kyle’s place, he’d always felt like a guest. He might have paid half of the rent and utilities, but his name wasn’t on the lease. Even his room hadn’t fully been his own. Kyle’s guitar, old clothing, and relics from abandoned hobbies cluttered one wall, making the small space even more claustrophobic. But at Craven Manor, Daniel had his own house.

“My own house.” He said it out loud, testing the words. He liked the way they sounded. He didn’t own the groundskeeper’s cottage, but it felt like his, as if he had the right to decorate it, to move in new furniture, and to sleep there without fear of being thrown out.

Don’t get too attached. He placed a log on top of the blazing kindling and left it to catch fire. The envelope waited on the desk beside the lamp, and Daniel opened it and tipped the contents out. The coins might still be worthless. The owner could be crazy. You may still wake up in the morning missing a kidney.

But somehow, the fears felt less real than they had the day before. He’d started to build a mental image of Craven’s owner as a recluse who avoided human contact as much as possible. That suited Daniel just fine.

He turned the coins over. The crest on them matched the one in the painting and on the tomb. No wonder it had looked familiar.

A family crest, maybe? I wonder if I could find anyone who recognises it. This property must have been well known when it was inhabited. The house is large enough that it probably needed a host of maids to maintain it.

Daniel stacked the coins and put them aside. He shook out the two notes, re-read them, then left them flat on the table. If the job was legitimate—and he was seriously starting to believe it was—he didn’t want to do anything to jeopardise it.



Rules:

No strangers are allowed onto the property.

Do not enter the tower.

Do not leave the groundskeeper’s cottage between midnight and dawn. Draw your curtains.

Keep the door locked. If you hear knocking, do not answer it.