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captain--nox · 10 months

Text

Chapter Three

-*-

A few days had passed since the calamity of Hera's first day at work, and the list given by Mrs Heelshire that she was barely able to fulfil:

No Guests

Never Leave Brahms Alone

Save Meals in Freezer

Never Cover Brahms Face

Read a Bedtime Story

Play Music Loud

Clean the Traps

Only Malcolm Brings Deliveries

Brahms is Never to Leave

Kiss Goodnight

Waking far later in the day clashed with those tasks, but she made sure at least food was cooked and stored, music was played and the vermin traps were cleared once she was reminded by the smell wafting from the side of the house when Hera walked the path around the garden. The more intimate parts of the list she opted to reject; the bedtime reading and the kiss goodnight. Hera responded well to the structure, the anchoring it gave her meant she could sustain living in the house with every passing day. While she moved around dutifully, Hera often left the doll in a secluded area of each room; facing away on a chair, or propped looking out of a window. It wasn't exactly covering his face--as what was apparently instructed--but it was enough for Hera to kid herself into thinking he was just another inanimate object of the surroundings. She did remain on edge as the days fell away yet because of her routine created that distanced herself as much as possible from the doll--be it only touching him when necessary--Hera almost felt like she was in a trance to combat the awful scenario of watching and staring intently at the house around her. Often she'd crawl into bed at night and drown out the sounds of the mansion moving about her with her headphones and music she'd play, reading one of few books she had brought with her. Hera tried to find a middle ground with the absurdity of the manor and doing enough to earn the paycheque that was to be given through Malcolm's next arrival.

Malcolm

Hera wondered if Malcolm's presence in the manor would give her some sort of relief after being in the house alone for a time, or would aid in her apparent manic stay. At least with his arrival of food, she wouldn't entirely whither away just yet. There wasn't a lot that happened on the same level that occurred on the first day, nothing save the eerie silence and occasional groan as the house moved. There were many times while passing through the halls she wondered if other people would react the same way or if they would find the house as empty and old as it really was. Hera made sure that the doll was always in her line of sight, and when she did leave him it was in his bedroom only. That was, until she could not find him anywhere one morning.

Hera searched the doll's room from top to bottom, trying to work out whether she had left it in a different spot or forgotten him somewhere in the house. She was very certain she had left it in its bed the night before, and distinctly remembered hurrying out the room into her own much like she had done the previous few nights. Hera descended the levels of the house, reaching the landing of the second floor and just as she was about to turn further down the stairwell, her eyes caught the slivers of light spilling from a door left ajar ahead of her. Hera had vowed to leave doors shut within the house, fearful of discovering movements within the rooms as she passed; now this current set up was one that both worried and startled her. Under the pale lights of the lamps consistently left on at all hours, Hera cautiously walked towards the room with its door left ajar.

It creaked as it was slowly pushed, woods murmuring against metals as Hera entered. It was the small family library; Hera discovering it days earlier as she had explored as much as she'd dared when moving through the manor. Large cases stacked to the ceiling full of books ranging from classical mythology to Darwin, a few first editions bound in leather added to the oldened structure in both form and knowledge. She cast her eyes about the room warily, scanning until she found perched like she had placed it so many times before in previous rooms; Brahms the doll sitting idly at the window staring out to the rising sun. His dark suit and hair gleamed gold at the edges with his back turned to her, and next to him sitting in its own yellow glint was a book.

"And what are you doing in here?" Hera scoffed, determined to simmer the concern growling within her. She stalked over to the doll, picking it up by its arm to dangle before her and looking it over almost expecting an explanation. The back and forth of acknowledging the doll moving around on its own and choosing her own ignorance toiled with Hera as she stared down at it. Enlightening the idea of paying more attention to the doll and its apparent walkabouts, she looked down at the book occupying the small ledge before her.

"Hans Christian Andersen," Hera turned to look at the doll. "That's what you're doing? Reading a book?" There was an uncomfortable silence about the room, paused in a moment of realisation as Hera threaded together her previous actions of avoiding reading a bedtime story to the doll each night and finding the doll next to a fairy tale book. Again, apparently by himself. Hera snapped back to the present, suddenly attuned to her surroundings with a prickling silence growing and charging in the air. She picked up the book before quickly shuffling out of the room, slamming the door behind her to the unsettling scenario that had presented itself.

"Not this shit again," she muttered, thundering down the stairs towards the kitchen below. Hera banged the book onto the table as she entered the room, readying her breakfast and leaving the doll upstairs to wander around far from her. The grip she felt the doll had on her lessened the more she distanced herself from it, and she tried to force it deep into the back of her mind. She was determined to ignore the haunted doll--for that was what she concluded however bemusing it was--and carry on with her own worries and issues without it trailing after her like a limp thread.

Once she had finished eating, Hera packed the leftover food away and grabbed the book she had deliberately left at the other end of the table while she sat. Turning it over, she noticed it was worn and weathered; faded edges and creased spine indicating it was once well read and used. Hera had read a few of the stories when she was growing up, remarking at how dark they were compared to their film counterparts. And sad, for those had the true albeit sorrowful fairy tale ending despite how the term was used presently.

Deciding on checking the traps outside to see if the night was successful, Hera made her way to the front door to where her coat lay hanging and waiting. Pulling it on in the mirror, she noticed in the dim entranceway a pair of lenses sitting patiently on the table before her. Hera reached down to grab it, replacing them with the fairy tale book and realising they were the very same pair of glasses she had misplaced on her first day. Remarking at her find, she looked them over to see if there was any damage now that they had been placed in the very part of the house she had lost them in. Unable to see clearly, Hera held them up in front of her and moved to the bottom of the stairwell and to where the chandelier hung high above giving off its glow throughout the rising body of the house.

"Thanks for giving back my glasses," Hera lazily called out to the rooms above while holding them up in front of her and noticing there were no scratches, dust or dirt on them. She raised them higher to the light, noting on how clean they appeared and how the screws were tightened around the frame. Her eyes flicked from the glasses and to one of the landings far above, for caught in the hollows of one of the lamps was a tall figure silhouetted against the light yet far enough from the bannister to remain in the dark of one of the pillars standing next to them. Hera froze, arms still raised above her holding the frames as she watched the figure slowly back away from the balcony, unsure as to whether it had seen her or not. It moved silent and smoothly, and before it had fully vanished Hera rammed the glasses on her face and spun to leave through the front door as coolly as she hoped she appeared. Once she had closed the door behind her, Hera almost tumbled down the stone steps onto the gravel below.

"What the fuck," she whispered to herself, almost fearful the entity she spied could hear her from the walls while she marched away along the path cutting between the lawns. The air was silent, save the leaves slowly drifting down from branches high above them in small flutters, oblivious to the startled woman passing along below. Hera wasn't so easily convinced that some ghostly entity she spied watching her in the house was real; for although she had determined the doll haunted, it was more to give an answer cloaked in fantasies and leaning into an interest of something paranormal. In fact, Hera started to believe someone had broken into the house and was waiting for her to enter it again.

She had reached the edge of the small lake that sat towards the back of the property, walking alongside as the water lapped quietly against its edges. Unable to keep her hands from curling into fists, Hera picked up a stick from the edge of the forest beside her and began twirling it in her fingers, snapping off parts as she walked and thought about her next move now that she had been presented by another issue that the manor had so kindly bestowed upon her.

If there truly was someone breaking and entering the manor, Hera was sure they would have been more clinical in getting what they wanted; it was a large wealthy estate, with the owners gone save for one lone person holding the fort. They would have very easily been able to take whatever they wanted, without Hera knowing or being properly able to stop them. Which lead Hera to her next realisation; she was also a lone woman in the middle of nowhere.

Hera stopped in her tracks at the largest and farthest arc of the lake from the house, and slowly raised her head to look back on the building. A chill started to seep through her, like a breeze gripping its way at every limb, pulling at locks of hair and sending goosebumps into her scalp. The horror of what could have been--and what very well could become--hitting Hera like a wave, and she snapped the last piece of stick roughly in her hands.

Hera thought hard on her next move, for the next step she would take would determine her mood and overall safety at the manor. She began walking again, much slower and pensive. If there truly was someone in the manor, it puzzled Hera as to why they had remained hidden--had yet to actually leave-- or why it was they had yet to make themselves known whether violently or not. If it was an intention for the house to be burgled, in the dead of night was ideal for the many rooms and passageways winding throughout gave enough space to remain quiet far from the sleeping rooms higher above those that were embellished on the first floors. In addition, finding where Hera resided would have been easy, for the golden paths from lamps that remained sputtering light into the night led right up to her bedroom.

Hera trudged on, making her way closer to the manor yet still intending on clearing the vermin traps in order to appear oblivious to what she spotted earlier. She was still feeling unsettled at the idea of someone entering and Hera falling victim to their violence yet puzzlingly, she didn't detect a true sense of fear when she had spotted the figure; her fear stemmed from vulnerability, rather than the silent shadow that had watched her in the foyer below. Hera didn't want to resist nor entertain the notion of a stranger wielding absolute power over her, and neither could she ignore her instincts when she caught sight of the figure in the stairs. A fear, lying deep and hidden shook themselves awake in her limbs and chest, like a titan lying dormant under snow arising to wreck havoc on those nearby. It snarled within, spitting bile up her throat until Hera felt herself easing it down again, patting at its head as it shackled itself once more in the depths of her body. She stood breathing slowly for a few moments more before continuing on again and relaxing her muscles so as she could walk easily. Hera edged closer to the house, making her way from one trap to another and picking up the dead animals, chucking them into the basket she had grabbed from the tool shed nearby. While moving to the next trap, Hera shot a glance up at the pillars looming above her, their tainted windows peering down in response. Her face creased harder into a frown, for there just beyond the netting was the shadow again, tall and broad and flickering away into the depths of the room it spied from.

A loud thud sounded, breaking Hera away from her gaze upwards realizing she had dropped the bucket of dead rats at her feet. Scolding herself, she bent to hastily pick up the bodies while suddenly, all the pieces seemed to click together in her head. The moving of her glasses, the episode on the balcony during her first morning and Brahms the doll showing up in rooms and places he could not do unaided; Hera had not been alone this entire time, and something was in the house with her. If it were a marauder trespassing in the night hours, they were long overdue to make themselves known or take what they wanted, and that possibility began to grow less likely. The more Hera moved, cleaning the mess of the bucket she dropped, the more she realised all that she had seen and heard drew her to one conclusion; there was an entity in the house, and that entity revolved around Brahms.

Cautiously, Hera had entered the manor after finishing outside. She slowly shifted into the dark corridors, hesitant for any noise but found there were none nor were there any shadows drifting about. Now, she had placed branches of Rosemary and stems of Marigold in a vase within the dining room, and placed one also in the kitchen, picking them from the garden Mr Heelshire mentioned her tending to. She had neglected watering the plants as of late yet found they were healthy and in abundance despite her lack of care. Hera placed extra bunches of rosemary in a small pan with water and began simmering them on the stove; the scents drifted throughout the kitchen and into the neighbouring hallway, floating through the air and bringing a sense of homeliness to the lonely halls.

Hera had much interest in plants, though she failed to remember all their uses. The one she did remember parts of was rosemary, for as well as it being an ancient plant spanning many cultures, it was often used in remembrance either for someone taking a medicine created or remembering those who had gone before them. Fitting for Hera, for her memory was stagnant in places and she hoped that dipping her toe in older practices meant she was trying to honour Brahms' phantom and that it would spook her no more. Or, putting plants about the house allowed it to not feel as much of an empty shell of a home that surely once blossomed in delight. The marigolds she also knew were often used in honouring the dead; their vibrant colours dotted the iconography of Día de Los Muertos, the imagery and the people's belief of death similar to her own cultural perceptions though she was somewhat envious at their retaining of their culture if it wasn't synchronised with those holy in Spain. Hera also wasn't overly religious, not quite in the conventional sense and rather choosing an interest in her cultural "religion" over societal, though that poised a difficult process due to many of her people's and outlying branches of her family's conversion to Christianity as well as offering little information in their practices before. Gathering of knowledge was hard due to much of it not passed down in written form but rather through tongue, and the few books she had read were not authored by her own people with many giving an outside perspective instead. What she did learn was due to her being around her Father and the Uncle, and the tidbits that were sprinkled into conversations weren't saturated enough compared to a full emersion in her culture. Whether anything that she knew would transcend into interacting with the apparent spirit here, Hera was unsure. She was wisened enough not to anger those who stay behind; it was often a given to treat those who came before with respect particularly if they were from one's own family. Horror stories of the paranormal would confuse Hera as she had been presented with altering perspectives growing up, and as it wasn't an overly specific subject she felt she had a mixture of understanding about interacting with spirits. One thing that was clear in the plethora of spiritual possibilities was this; respecting something that leads to a gateway of unknown was recommended, and showing the Heelshire ghost a sense of curtesy felt the natural course for Hera--despite not knowing a fair amount of such things.

"Maybe I should try asking," Hera uttered quietly, standing idly by the stove and staring at the sizzling bubbles in the pan with their plant stalks rotating lazily about. She couldn't understand in such stories of the paranormal, why people wouldn't ask the locals the tales of the land they were on. Particularly communities like her own, for they surely knew more than those who had recently settled there. It was almost comical to Hera, films that depicted people naively messing about with Lovecraftian-esque entities almost choosing not to ask those who had lived the land nor follow their advice if they did give it.

Hera groaned at her thoughts, uncrossing her arms to massage at her temples as her eyes closed to the surrounding kitchen. The information swirling started to pound at her head, clambering up her skull and begging to be released from her brain. This was entirely not what she wanted to deal with, still toiling at the realisation that the idyllic getaway she dreamed of had faded long ago. Hera pushed herself off the bench she was leaning on and flicked the stove switch before trudging off in the direction of her room; this time, walking relatively uninterested in the house and whatever was in it watching her move. She barely glanced at the door leading to the library, and with it where she had left Brahms for what she was learning with each step was that the doll had most likely been moved somewhere else. Hera wasn't interested in playing hide and seek with the doll just yet, and rather wanted to focus on herself instead of keeping up with the house as she had done so each day.

Hera pushed her bedroom door open and slammed it shut behind, beginning to eye the bedside drawer and what lay within. She hadn't used the small electronic pen during her stay thus far but coupled with the eerie events of before--and the overwhelm for if she was right--she decided now that she was alone it was acceptable; even if it did disgust her. Moving across the room and tugging the drawer open, she found the small slim black cylindrical hit before it dawned on her her next hurdle; venturing outside. Hera was not ready to enter back into the hallway, and the house that awaited her; this was her sanctuary, her own space to let her guard down and away from the twisted nooks and cracks of the house that felt like portals to unknown rooms of observation and what lay beyond peering. Hera paced over to the windows, her steps moaning in response along the floorboards as she eyed up the panes that lay permanently shut.

"Classic," Hera chided, turning to eye up the window sill as she remembered her desperate attempts nights earlier. She tried each handle to the panes, turning and attempting to push them open to no avail. Growing more frustrated, she pulled a small stool over to properly reach the highest window, barely a foot in width though with determination would be large enough for Hera to fit through. The window groaned as she pushed at the frame, hearing a small crack coming from the outside.

"Ha! Gotte em," she barely choked out, using all her strength to push as the window cracked more and more. "I hope I don't break it," Hera muttered, pausing in her attempts to eye the woodwork. A slight draft drifted over her face as she looked on, indicating that she did make some leeway with her pushing. Shrugging her shoulders, Hera figured that she had ample time enough to fix whatever damage was done if she did manage to get outside. Giving one last push, Hera managed to break free the window from its sealed fate and tumbled half out into the open air. "Woah, easy easy." she bleated, groaning at the frame digging into her stomach as she scrambled to balance herself upright.

Hera looked down at the ledge below her, and to the small balcony landing not too far off before deciding in that moment head first was the only cause of action to get outside. Leaning forward again, she slowly crawled down the outside of the window to the ledge, straightening her body out parallel to the glass. "I have not thought this through," she gasped, realising her predicament. As if the window had heard, irritatingly it shunted the rest of her body out and Hera fell out onto the balcony flipping her legs down as the momentum of her land caused her to fall further. She sat panting, looking up at the small window that had enforced her gymnastical feat.

"I knew there was an athlete still somewhere," Hera remarked, chuffed at the success of her cumbersome plight. Hera got up to brush off the dirt gathered about her clothes, pulling out the pen that surprisingly was unharmed in the tumble. "Yay for addiction," she sarcastically chanted, sitting on the thick ledge of the balustrade and leaning against the house as one leg dangled over its side and another was tucked up under her chin.

Hera eyed the side of the manor, trailing up to the soft curves of the cornice that floated high above. The house, full of chaos and riddles that as soon as Hera was free from its stifling mucus, she was able to breath easy again and a calmness started to befall her. She sighed at her surroundings, taking in the sounds of the late morning all around. She was alone at last, yet as soon as she walked through the doors to the manor the peculiar feeling of a weight dark and heavy would start to lie on her. Nothing seemed to free her from the possibilities of any type of emotional labour, either through the people around her or more recently--the mysteries of the manor and what she had just tumbled into.

"I'm going mental again," Hera reflected, sending pillows of vapours from her lips. It was oxymoronic: that which over time worsened her breathing presently gave her an easing rhythm to abide by, soothing her body and sending light clouds of cool against her brow. After a while, Hera would get sick of the vapours pouring out of her lips as her mind cleared to what she was ingesting. The distaste in her actions would override her wants of beforehand, and she was reminded of why she picked up the habit and reluctantly participated in it though with time they became few and far inbetween. Indeed she had been worse off previously, struggling to cope with what had happened back home and finding herself in the midst of a nicotine addiction. Every day was filled with clouds of smoke as she struggled to distract herself from the pressures around her. She had lost many friends--if not all-- and the struggle to be seen and heard was very real. That struggle gave way to erratic behavious and habits she hadn't picked up previously; sometimes alcohol--sometimes drugs--but most of all it was the buzz of nicotine that allowed a moment of peace before she was plunged back into a world of absolute pain. Pain so internal, so deep that it destroyed her emotionally and mentally. Her spirit had been broken, and the one thing she could control was the buying of nicotine. Everything forbidden in how she lived was hers to take, though considering those she knew who looked like her it was expected to eventually fall down that route.

Hera rubbed at her old injury, the knee tucked under her chin reminding her of another pain that sometimes perked up. The tumble out the window didn't help, Hera completely forgetting how foolish the act was considering her physical state. Her head shot up at that, spinning to look at the panes she had exited out of. "Shit," she whispered, pushing off the ledge and tucking the pen into her pocket. Walking over to the windows, she measured the height of the opening to the ground; it rising near two feet from her head. Figuring her extraordinary luck had run out what with her climbing out of the window; Hera had no way inside.

"Idiot," she grumbled to herself, spinning around to look over the ledge at the distance to the ground below. "You're actually fucked right now," Hera was at least three stories up, with no proper way of getting down. Deciding she'd rather not try scale down the building, she looked up and across to where the next balcony she had walked on days earlier sat sticking out from the side of the building. That was near three metres in distance away, and she had one of the most bravest yet stupidest thoughts to cross her mind in recent times.

Hera patted the side of the building, taking a few steps back to measure out her run up. "If I die, I just want you to know that you've been the weirdest house I've experienced in my shortest stay." Hera scoffed, turning to prepare her run. "Those years winning medals better work." She adjusted the clothes around her, hugging the cardigan tight against her body and using the tie to cinch it in. Hoisting up her jeans in a jig and resecuring the belt, Hera took one last deep breath eyeing up her target.

"Fuck it."

Hera ran, ran and launched herself off the edge of the balcony and across the gap, her foot just landing on the opposite ledge and half slipping off in the process. She toppled forward, skidding and rolling along the ground yelling in pain as her knee banged the side of the stones. Once still, little by little she rotated onto her back panting and lying for a few moments as the pain in her leg dulled down. Spread eagled on the ground, Hera refused to move in fear she had done something seriously wrong to her body.

"Ow," she murmured after a long time, finally beginning to move upright and sluggishly standing. "Ow, ow, ow you idiot ow." Her knee was throbbing, and looking down she noticed her palms were grazed raw. She released the cardigan from around her waist and it billowed out behind her, shuffling forward in a limp Hera hoped was only temporary. Rounding the side of the house to the door that lead back into the hallway, she suddenly remembered the small item in her pocket she knew would be as banged up as what she was feeling.

Resigned to the fact it was destroyed, Hera withdrew the perfectly intact pen glinting in the sunlight.

"Oh what the fuck!?"

A large bang vibrated through the house, startling Hera as she sat on the edge of the bathtub eyeing her palms now she had washed them clean in the bathroom sink. The skin though with its top layers peeled off was free from the dirt and grime of outside, and she stood up awkwardly moving towards the door. Hera had underestimated the amount of damage she had done to her knee, for the pain had simmered down in magnitude but reminded her it was well and truly there whenever she walked, and would stick around for a long while after. She limped down the stairs towards the noise of the bang, vigilant in her original assumptions that someone was snooping through the house. Turning down a small corridor, Hera limped her way slowly towards the kitchen before she heard another noise; the sound of a thump on the kitchen counter followed by a series of curses.

"HERA!" Malcolm's voice ripped through the rooms and shook Hera, beating her before her knee did.

"WHAT!?" Hera shouted back, rounding the kitchen entrance and facing the delivery man who was rushing to put something into the sink.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Malcolm cried over his shoulder, turning the tap on and spurting water into the sink as he was enveloped in a cloud of steam.

"What's your problem?"

"You put this on the stove! And left! You could have burnt the whole damn house down!" Hera hobbled over to the sink next to Malcolm, peering down at the burnt carcasses of the rosemary branches she had simmered earlier.

"No I didn't," Hera replied slowly, looking at the furious face of Malcom as he turned away from the sink.

"Yes you bloody did, this thing was inches away from starting a fire."

"No I didn't, I switched the stove off before I left," Hera said slowly, looking at the stove and back at the burnt pan. Hera believed she did switch it off after she left, and the time it took for Hera to move upstairs and down she surely knew the pan would have burned long before Malcolm arrived.

"Why are you banging doors?"

"What?"

"I heard a door slam."

"I literally just got here."

"No you didn't."

"Yeah right oh. I've got your food anyway."

Malcolm moved past Hera and back towards the side entrance he had entered, and began bringing in the crates of food he routinely delivered to the household. Hera shuffled around the room, beginning to put the groceries away in their appropriate places.

"What happened to you?" Malcolm asked, placing another crate on the counter.

"What does it look like?"

"I just saved your life, be polite."

Hera turned and gave him a glaring look, half due to her not realising Malcolm would arrive so soon at the house and the other half remembering how nosy he could be. "Jeez, if looks could kill." Malcolm responded while turning to start moving the groceries around. "You should really get a portrait done, what a frown you've got."

"Only for those that annoy me," Hera replied while moving awkwardly again around the kitchen.

"I'm literally asking about your wellbeing, how can that be annoying?"

Hera sighed, relinquishing her right to be irritated by the man. "I fell over and knocked my knee. I've had it operated on not too long ago and had it injured even before that."

"Damn," Malcolm muttered softly, "How did you do that?"

"Been here five minutes and he's back firing away questions." Hera said, raising her eyes to the thin line of lips as Malcolm pursed, before quickly adding "I did it at an event. Triple jump."

"You did triple jump?" Malcolm replied in thinly veiled disbelief.

"Is that so hard to believe?"

"Well, no I er--" Malcolm spluttered, before Hera cut him off.

"Anyway, it isn't that hard doing sports at Uni."

"You went to Uni?"

"Fuck, what else surprises you," Hera responded sharply which seemed to have an effect on Malcolm, as he looked on in disdain. While she was irritated at Malcolm, Hera thought his interest in her might have extended beyond being easily surprised at small bits of information such as that she was once a university athlete.

"So snarky," Malcolm muttered, turning his back to Hera and making his way towards the door for the rest of the crates. Hera huffed and sat on one of the kitchen chairs, the pain in her knee growing substantially. She wondered if there was any pain medication lying in the cabnets nearby as her initial thought of the knock on her knee being small enough to heal without it disappeared with each throb of pain cursing through her leg.

"Look, sorry I'm just irritated because of my knee hence why I'm a bit short with you," Hera started at Malcolm as he arrived back, sighing and leaning on the table before her in hopes the change of position created a more comfortable stature. "Besides, we weren't overly friendly when we met."

"Ah yeah I can see what you mean; sorry. I can act like a dick sometimes and I have had my fair share of punches thrown in my direction. I'm not really used to meeting folk from out of town, especially ones around my age. We've a slight aging population here, sleepy town and all." Malcolm addressed her before shrugging. "At least I'm self aware."

"I think you might need a bit more practice before you meet anyone else."

"Ouch."

"Keeping it real. Though on second thought I guess I should meet you halfway and filter some of my directness. Sorry."

"Hm, truce then."

"So," Malcolm started again, finished with putting away the food and leaning on the kitchen bench. "You studied?"

"Yeah I did," Hera replied, her head against her hand as she leaned further into the table before him. "Studied English and Classics. Got there on a scholarship--sports that is."

"When did you graduate?"

"I didn't."

"Oh,"

"Some shit went down, I got injured and couldn't attend classes for a while. I tried to withdraw and if you don't attend lectures or pass assignments, it affects your scholarship and you have to pay back part of the sum that was given. To make matters worse, the system lost my application to withdraw and so all my lecturers thought I was intentionally skipping so I guess I'm officially marked as a failure?" Hera concluded, looking up at Malcolm after her small speech.

"Damn, right bit of luck you got there."

"You're telling me mate. Did you study?"

"I literally just told you how shocking my social skills are, I didn't achieve them going off to Uni. Where do you think I've been most my adult life?"

"Are you content where you are?"

"Oof, right down to the nitty gritty aren't ya."

"Sorry," Hera muttered, annoyed at her prying. For someone who had grown irritated at Malcolm's behaviour, she had hypocritically overstepped the social mark.

"Nah it's alright. It's actually something my parents asked me funnily enough, whether I was happy where I was. I think they worried I wasn't off exploring the world and surprisingly I do like it here."

Hera nodded, taking in Malcolm's words. She could relate to a certain degree, the bubble created in surroundings that were a safe space to relax and explore in. Along with the beauty of the countryside and the quaint town she had driven through, no wonder Malcolm felt content with where he was.

"Nice little arrangement you've got going here." Malcolm pointed at the vase sitting further along the table, leaning forward to touch the petals. "Remembering the dead are we?"

"Oi, don't touch them. How is it that you know what Día de los Muertos is?" Hera questioned, absentmindedly beginning to rearrange the flowers.

"Okay, just because I didn't study doesn't mean I live under a rock and don't know what a marigold is." Malcolm scolded at her, continuing on "Are you even allowed to participate? Wait are you-?"

"Before you finish that question, no I'm not participating and no I'm not from Mexico. Besides, all indigenous are my cousins so yes I'm allowed and more so than you." Interjected Hera, shooing away at Malcolm. "Probably not to that last part but I think I may have a closer connection to them than..others."

"Wooow, right oh then. Our truce is going off to a flying start."

"I'm kidding, but I do appreciate what it is they do. And marigolds are pretty."

"True, true. How's the house treating you?" Malcolm changed topics, and swayed back on the counter before her.

"Don't even get me started on this place." Hera said dismissively, motioning her hand in front of her. "And you go along with it!"

"What, the doll?"

"Of course the doll. How old is this house anyway?"

"Probably a hundred at least. Probably more."

The walls began to creak again as if drawing in an offended gasp, causing Hera to glance around the kitchen. Its silver gleam blowing through the side of the house, so much so she was barely able to make out anything in the dimness of the hallway beyond as she looked out. The longer she stared into the darkness, the more she started to feel shapes forming in the shadows of the woods and grains that dragged the manor up in its impressive stature. The prickling feeling of eyes watching her movements started to grow again and she fell out of her daze and back towards replying to Malcolm, who she saw was already looking in expectation.

"Yeah well feels like I've got all the old tenants watching me here, critiquing what I'm doing."

"You sure that ain't your own standards?"

"This guy," Hera drew out the sentence, earning a smirk from Malcolm. "I thought we had a truce on."

"There's always a more dick comment hidden somewhere. Anyway, where were you just then?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you were looking all lost right in the middle of us talking."

"Looking at how old the house is isn't something of note. I actually thought someone had broken in earlier." Hera started while cautiously looking for Malcolm's reaction.

"Yeah?" he replied, turning to face her more intently.

"Yeah this morning, I thought someone was scouting the house because for one, I am alone here and also this family is rich."

"That's not nice."

"Not really."

"Did you find anyone then?"

"No, though I could have sworn I saw a shadow in the window when I was outside." Hera tucked her arms around her, leaning further forward in her position and Malcolm echoed the same.

"You sure it wasn't the doll? Say, where is he now?" he whispered though his faux attempts at being secretive seeped through.

"Fuck, I tossed him in a room upstairs somewhere. Hanging around him too long creeps me out." Hera grimaced while remembering the library that morning and the accompanying memories of the days before including the music room.

"Fair enough," Malcolm leant back and raised one hand gesturing at Hera before continuing. "If it makes you feel better, we can have a look around to see if anyone actually did break in or have a go at the windows. I also didn't see any tracks on the path." Malcolm offered, earning a nod from the woman. Strangely, Hera felt she was slowly warming up to Malcolm for behind his first notion of judgment, he seemed like an honest enough person to trust with at least the security of the house. He had served the family for a time and it was certain he'd know of places Hera had overlooked that hid any other entrances to the home.

The pair exited through the back door and made their way around the building, with Malcolm checking the windows for any attempt at a forced entry. They found one door to a basement though the cobwebs and thick padlock reassured them that there was no real way in or out and nor had there been any in recent times. "Fire hazard," Hera muttered as they finished their scan of the house. "Do you think anyone was here?"

"Not likely, judging by the looks of it. Unless they came through the front door but you lock it yeah?"

"Yeah I do."

"Then you've got a ghost on your hands mate." Malcolm chuckled at Hera, earning an even deeper of a frown than what he usually witnessed. Hera contemplated what to say next, hesitant at finding out information she didn't want to discover though would help her understand more of the odd events arising from the manor.

"What happened to the boy? The real Brahms?"

Malcolm looked up at her sullenly, his forehead creasing slightly under his tartan flatcap. He sighed, before motioning her to follow him along the path out towards the garden. Hera padded behind him, both in silence save for the soft footfalls and arduous limps on the gravel below. Malcolm led Hera to the large willow tree that sat tucked in a corner of the lawn, rounding to the side overlooking the forest beyond and leaving space for her to join him. "There was an accident," Malcolm began, looking down at the jutting of a grey figurehead as Hera realised she was gazing upon a small tombstone. "Well two I guess technically. Brahms had some distant cousin from out of town who would visit every now and then. She died in the forest some ways out there," he motioned over his shoulder, still looking down at the grave. "And Brahms died on the same day, up there." Malcolm's arm extended out towards the house before he turned to her. "Brahms died from a fire, poor sod."

"Jesus," Hera's response was small, reading the tombstone writing and looking across at Malcolm. "Bit of death around here--The kid was barely eight! Damn, that makes sense."

"They both were, from what I remember. What do you mean, what makes sense? I thought nothing makes sense when it comes to dark histories of old English families." Malcolm quizzed her, the willow fronds slicing the sunlight over his face.

"Well, for one the doll and Heelshire couple make sense." replied Hera, standing closer to the tombstone to peer down at it as she spoke. "I saw Brahms--the boy-- in the family portrait when I first arrived, then I was presented with a doll. Those parents lost their child, and are using that doll to keep him alive. Though I don't suppose it's very healthy." Hera's voice trailed off before continuing. "I mean how long have they been doing this? A couple decades?"

"Yeah roundabout."

"Wait, he would have been your age?"

"Yep."

"So you knew him?"

"Yep. Well, kind of."

"This family man. This town," Hera's voice quietened before picking up again "No I don't mean that in a bad way aside from the obvious." she added quickly though Malcolm's eyes were still cast down at the grave as if he didn't hear a word of what she said, instead portraying a man that was reliving distant memories. "What I mean is, you guys are all so connected."

"Well yeah, it's a small town and everyone knows what goes on here. The Heelshires are the leading family, have been for years. When those two kids died, everyone knew and everyone had some sort of connection." Malcolm looked at her suddenly, stony faced and eyes willing her to adhere to his words. "Towns close ranks quite quickly, depending on what side of the fence you're on."

They stood in silence, listening to the winds drift through the trees and watched the willow fronds dance lazily about. "Anyway," Malcolm said suddenly and in a vastly cheerier tone than what he spoke with moments earlier. "I've got to finish with a couple more deliveries."

"Thanks for the history lesson," Hera said, falling into step alongside Malcolm as he turned to make his way back up towards the house.

"No worries. See, you didn't need to finish Uni after all."

"I don't think that quite covers it but yeah I'll be sure to ask you about anything else that pops up."

The details that Malcolm had shared with Hera pooled in her head, slowly circling around in a synchronised dance while she imagined the Heelshire's faces in the wake of the death of their son. They had been adamant in their actions that he was very real, and Brahms was alive in them and their memories yet he had died long ago as was confirmed when Hera saw the tombstone. Hera was still pondering over the family complexities when the loud clunk of a door shutting ushered her into the present, and she'd hardly paid attention to Malcolm climbing into his truck readying to set off.

"I'm off now, I'll see you next week. Or; I can come round in a couple of days to check on the house and how you're doing now that you've told me you thought someone was wandering the halls." Malcolm offered, flipping the front seat visor to grab some sunglasses and adjusting them to his brow.

"I think that'll be good. Being alone isn't good for the brain it seems. Not me hoping there's someone there to make so I'm not imagining things." Hera responded leaning against the car with her arms folded.

"Yeah that's all good. I'll be off then." Malcolm started his truck and put it into gear before Hera interrupted his leaving.

"Malcolm?"

"Yeah?"

"You mentioned a fire. Where was it?"

Malcolm turned to point high above Hera to the topmost part of the manor, drawing the sides of a triangle in the air. "Was up in the attic I think. They painted over the scorchmarks the same as when they had the windows done. Dunno how it started but by the time the fire was out half the attic was destroyed, including the boy."

"Fuck,"

"Mm. Wasn't a lot left up there either, save for the structure. Oak burns slowly y'see." Malcolm stated as Hera turned back to him creasing her forehead at the details. "Pity Brahms wasn't made of oak."

"Malcolm that's dark."

"You're one for the macabre, aren't you?"

"I'm the one staying in this apparent crypt."

"Yeah I know, judging by your outfit and them flowers." he said as Hera glared back at Malcolm then, piercing her eyes down at his half smirked face. "Should really get that scowl painted. I'm off, see ya."

Hera watched Malcolm turn down the path and off towards the gates that awaited him before scoffing in his direction and turning back towards the house. She trekked slowly along the path once more, taking the same steps she had done so with Mr Heelshire only a week before though it seemed so far away from where she was now. The thoughts floating lazily about started to gather at speed and whip into a whirlpool, sucking themselves down into the awaiting eyes of the little boy that Hera had first seen in the glorious painting in the landing. She took a step then, deviating from the house and making her way towards the garden feeling strangely content at what she had learned and had confirmed that day. She picked at the plants she wanted, grabbing another long frond to tie them together in a bunch. Slowly but surely, and with much more purpose in her steps compared to those she had taken in hesitance, Hera visited the young boy's tombstone once more and placed the bunch of rosemary and marigold at its base. The gleaming orange of the petals contrasted with the grey of stone, bringing light to the cold damp lawn where the boy rested. She crouched down and placed her hand on the earth, feeling at the soft dirt before brushing her fingertips on the tombstone as she rose back up. As Hera turned to walk away, she gave a soothing pat to the trunk of the old willow tree, the ridges in the bark bouncing along her hand in a solemn agreement. She thanked the willow and its stoic protection, for its long fronds stood guard over the boy falling in a shroud of peace that covered Brahms' view from the dark horrors of the house and the memories of his final moments.

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#the boy 2016 #brahms heelshire #brahms au #heelshire manor #devoid

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