Whispers in the Walls

The air in Blackwood Manor was thick with unspoken things, a kind of quiet that pressed in on you, making your own heartbeat sound unnervingly loud. Mrs. Gable, bless her stoic heart, moved through the grand, shadowed rooms like a phantom herself, her grey skirts a whisper against the polished floors. She was a fixture, as much a part of the house as the ancient oak paneling or the portraits of stern-faced ancestors whose eyes seemed to follow you. I’d tried, in my clumsy, sweet way, to draw her out. A gentle inquiry about the weather, a hushed compliment on the immaculate state of the library. Nothing. She’d offer a curt nod, a murmured “Miss,” and glide away, leaving me to the echoing silence and Julian’s ever-present gaze.

But there was one name that, when I’d dared to breathe it, had cracked through her formidable composure: Clara.

It had been a Tuesday, I think. Julian was out, attending to some unseen business that always took him away for hours at a time, leaving me to the vast emptiness of the manor. I’d found Mrs. Gable in the kitchens, her back to me as she meticulously arranged a bouquet of wilting roses. The scent of damp earth and fading blooms hung heavy in the air.