The Weight of Inheritance
It is cold and empty here, in the old house. The people are gone. For good? Who knows. Yet the place still waits, lonely and forgotten. The sagging roof has nearly collapsed in places, several windows are smashed, and the front door hangs by a single hinge. The wind rattles the rusty drainpipe so it moans with every gust. Shutters clatter in the middle of the night, and sometimes an owl calls from the attic.
In Ashwick, the village up the lane, people still remember the last family who lived here. The wildest tales were spun about themvampires, murderers, werewolves, ghostsany manner of midnight terror the imagination conjures. They kept to themselves, hardly letting a soul near. On drizzly, dismal days, a pale, delicate girl was sometimes seen picking her way from the house to the villagea thin thing, always in an old-fashioned travel dress. The young shepherd often tried to speak to her, but shed only stare in silent, wary alarm before fleeing.
The few villagers who had ever gone up to introduce themselves returned with nothing to tell aside from tales of seeing a grave-faced man peering from a window, and a solitary boy of seven playing beneath the old yew. Folk soon frightened themselves into steering clear. After a while, even the girl ceased to arrive.
Bolder lads with a thirst for dare couldnt leave the mystery alone, sneaking up to the house on dares. They never found anyone at homethe old manor was empty.
Twenty years passed. In all that time, little changed in these parts. The villagers went on with their quiet lives, comforting and unnerving stray travellers with the local legend of the Ashwick ghouls. Some laughed, some were uneasy, some crossed themselves and hurried about their business. But travellers memories erased the story soon enough.
But for me, Henry Norris, my reasons for coming to Ashwick were not mere curiosity.
I entered the grimy Red Lion inn and felt eyes fix on me at once. What business would a sharply dressed young man have out here? A fitted navy travel coat, bright buttons, spotless boots up to the knee, and a tall hat pulled low. I could feel their silent questions before I even unbuttoned my coat.
Is this Ashwick village? I asked, standing just inside the door.
The innkeeper regarded me, cheeky but cautious. And whom have we the pleasure of welcoming?
Why should that matter? If it isnt Ashwick, Ill be off at once.
No need to bristle, young sir, he replied, his smile sickly-sweet with the scent of profit. Indeed, youre in Ashwick. Will you be taking a room?
I removed my hat with a jerkdamned nervousnessand strode to the counter. Now the few patrons and landlord could better scrutinise the stranger: angular features, thin mouth pressed tight, a crooked nose, and grey eyes flickering with something halfway between fear and despair. My pallor and the dark smudges about my eyes betrayed months of poor sleep.
Forgive me,” I mumbled, twisting my hats brim. “My names Henry Norris. Ive come from London, because…”
I glanced back at the silent audience. My eyes met a rough fellows; his heavy stare made me falter.
Well? pressed the landlord. Out with it, sir. What brings you to our sleepy hollow?
The house, I managed. Theres an old manor, somewhere near, isnt there?
The door crashed open and startled me. Conversation resumed in low tones, yet the inns scrutiny remained keen and sly.
Heavens! Not the cursed house? gasped the landlord.
That one, yes, I muttered.
There is. On the edge of the woods, but its been empty for years and couldnt be fit for living.
Im not afraid, I replied, steadying myself. Can you direct me? And Ill truly need a roomif you wouldnt mind…
Lets see you sorted then.
*
Half an hour later, I was standing before Ashwick Manor, a boythe innkeepers son, as it happenedloitering a few steps away.
Will you be long, sir? he piped up, impatient. Dads got jobs for me…
Of course. Youre free to go, and thank you.
He was gone before I finished, racing across the autumn field, and I was alone.
The yard had fallen into ruin. The old wooden bench had sunk deep into the wet earth, while the once-mighty yew twisted with rot. Bitter, damp air stung to the bone. Each step through brittle grass echoed unnaturally in the silence, the only sound besides a shutter banging round the back and a crow shattering the stillness with a coarse croak. Dread bit at my nerves. I dragged myself to the doorstep, unable to summon the will to enter.
Behind the crooked gate stood that same rough-faced man from the Red Lion.
Best not go in there, sir. Roofs a hazard. And thats not all you need fear.
Who are you? I asked, uneasy.
Im Tom. I watch over Ashwicks flock. If youll share a mug of ale with me, I might tell you a thing or two.
I joined him in his humble cottage soon after, uncertain at first but intrigued despite myself. Tom was about forty, with stooped shoulders, muddy hair streaked with grey, and old clothes hanging limp on his frame. The meagre home was tidy but poora blackened old stove, battered table, two warped chairs, and a ramshackle bed.
What business do you have at that house, sir? Tom gruffly asked.
Because its mine now.
Really. Surely theres better lodging to be had for a London gentleman like yourself?
I made a face at that. You didnt invite me here just to ask questions. Was there some tale you meant to share?
He hesitated, measuring me up. Yes. I have but one request first.
And whats that?
Promise me youll not think me mad.
I hesitated. I cant say until Ive heard you.
Promise!
The look in his eyes was wilddangerous, almost. Fool that I was, what could I do but oblige?
I promise! I blurted.
Right then. Tom folded his arms and began. Twenty years ago, strange folk lived in that manor. Grim and silentthey mustve been down on their luck to choose such seclusion. The village rarely saw them, barring the odd trip by the girl, no older than seventeen, always pale, always quiet. I tried now and then to speak with her. She hardly answeredseemed soft in the head. Only once did she speak, and she told me, I wonder if theres anyone worse off than I am. Then she turned away. I took her for mad, truth be told.
He grew silent. I listened, straining not to miss a word, feeling the tension grow.
What then? I managed at last.
She vanished soon after, as did the rest. The only thing anyone ever saw from the house after was an old mans grim face or that lonely child. Thennothing. I say youre better off forgetting Ashwick Manor existsbuying it will only bring you grief.
But how did you know they perished? I received a letter only weeks ago…
He shook his head. No graves, nothing. Your family vanishedgone like smoke, just like that.
I fell silent, struggling with a surge of frustration. But how could they vanish without a trace?
Tom eyed me curiously. If theyre your people, why do you know so little?
I bit my lip. I never saw my mother or father. My aunt raised me, always said my mother died giving birth, and my father perished on the road. But recently I got a letter, supposedly from my sister, inviting me heremy aunt, poor soul, fainted at the sight. She always claimed my whole family had died. Yet
Tom dropped a pottery jar, which shattered on the stone floor, jolting us both.
I stood up abruptly. Why did I tell you all this? Its late. Thank you for your time.
Wait! The shepherd stood as quick as a shot. Theres more…
From a battered chest, he fished a dented tin box and snapped it open. A small silver locket glimmered inside, engraved with a haunting scenebony hands closing around a peacefully sleeping child.
Found this by the yew, roots washed bare after a storm, Tom said. “Are you kin to that girl, your supposed sister?
Yes. Her name was Edith.
Tom scratched his beard thoughtfully.
Salvus Saved, I think, in Latin, I puzzled aloud. How much for it?
He looked at me strangely. I should give it to you. Its yours by right
I regarded him warily: such generosity was rare enough, and where did kindness begin if not with the poor?
I offered payment anyway, but he waved me off, suddenly adamant. Take it. If theres a curse, let it stay with its owner.
Rain lashed the cottage and wind shook the humble roof as dusk fell.
Thank you, Tom. For everything.
*
That night, I barely slept. Each time I closed my eyes, the faces of my supposed siblings and parents floated into viewghostly children, severe adults, cold grey eyes, and twisted hands, just as Id seen in the portrait my aunt hid in her cupboard. Shed lied, saying they were distant relations. Now I knew the truth, and the past haunted me.
My sisters letter returned to mehow Father left me the manor, inviting me home, how my aunt wept and trembled. Whether through fear or ignorance, she had only told me my mother died soon after my birth, my father was cruel and distant. I watched the peeling moonlight and felt oddly calm: the sky had cleared, starlight peeked through, and I remembered old storybook tales my aunt used to read when I was small, where night held less terror.
But the thought of Ashwick Manor troubled me still. My need for answers gnawed at meId no love for those ghosts, but even less love for being lied to. If my aunt could not be honest, Id seek the truth myself.
Perhaps something deeper pulled me back to that placea sense of unfinished business, or a strange, irresistible call.
I felt no warmth for my mother, no hatred for my father, no soft affection for the siblings Id never met. They seemed like shades from a nightmare. I was oddly ashamed, though I couldnt say why.
Sometime before dawn, after staring at the stars a long while, I dreamt at last.
*
In the morning I rose, shook off my nightmares, choked down a meagre breakfast, and set out for the house. The day was suddenly bright, sunlight pouring over the mouldering ruin.
Standing once more before the door, I hesitated.
Sir! Knew youd be back first thing. Toms broad steps crunched the gravel. “Why go alone? Who knows whatll collapse on you in there. Two pairs of hands are better if youre searching for something.
Ashwick Manor had never sat easy with Tom, either. Hed spent years tormented by dreams of the pale girl. Hed gone along that day to make amends for his cowardice all those years ago, when, as a boy, hed feigned illness to avoid a dare. Now, though, he was determined to be brave.
His attempt at a friendly smile resembled more a bared snarl. From his belt hung a small axe, glinting in the morning sun.
I shrank back instinctively. What do you want?
He chuckled. Just a precaution, this. But look, lets not dawdle.
Inside, the rotten door creaked so much I could feel it quake in my bones.
The house was a ruinsunken floorboards, peeling walls, musty, slimy with damp, and a bent chandelier swinging ominously overhead.
Theres nothing here, I say. Leave it to the worms.
But I ventured through the dim rooms, drawing back dusty curtains to let in the daylight. A torn picture above the fireplace caught my eyea womans portrait, slashed across so her face could not be seen. I took it down, gently tracing the ruined canvas. A sadness I couldnt name settled on my shoulders.
What are we looking for, Norris? Tom asked, confused.
I wish I knew, I confessed. Perhaps Im searching for a ghost.
He clapped me on the shoulder, laughingthough it sounded forced. Then lets see what we dredge up, eh?
The silence inside was oppressive. We only heard the creak of warped boards underfoot. Halfway up the main staircasehalf-rotted, with a gaping hole in the centreTom and I struggled upward, helping one another where we dared trust the timber.
The upper floor was even more desolate: doorframes empty, rooms looted and ruined. Even at my lowest, Id never encountered despair like this. No warmth, no sense of lifeor at least an existence shaped by people. Only this sticky fear, this unwholesome emptiness.
Worse yet, the house seemed to be warping around us. We kept coming back to the same landing, as if the rooms shifted when we werent looking.
Thisll do, I say. Lets bash open a window and be gone. Tom swung his little axe at the frame, but heavy iron bars blocked every one, as if the place was determined to keep us.
Desperately, he hacked at frames and glass, tiring himself into submission. After a while, all we could do was sit in grim defeat on the stairs, watching as daylight faded through the great hole in the roof, the moon rising to silver the ruin.
I cant have been here all dayI hardly recall eating, Tom muttered. Its as though times vanished.
Suddenly, a bells chimemidnight.
Both of us jumped, nerves frayed. In the distance, faint piano notes wavereduncertain, haunted.
Its the old drawing room, where the fireplace stands, I whispered. Lets look.
Tom seized my arm in fright, but I shook him off and stumbled through the dark towards the music.
The warmth of a fire beckoned us, and then we saw it: the hearth roaring with unnatural heat, the burnt, ruined portrait on the floor, only a charred frame remaining. On a battered table, a slim, time-stained book lay open, its pages fluttering as if in a draught. I drew closerbright red ink inscribed a family tree: Andrew Ashwick. Stella Wotton. Their three childrenEdith Ashwick, Edmund Ashwick, and a splotch of black ink for the last name.
A door creaked opensomeone, or something, entered. A pale silhouette, a young woman, moonlight on her face.
Its her! Tom whispered. He shrank back, axe raised.
I called outEdith!but she dissolved into the night mist.
Beyond the lawn, the woods loomed dark and ancient.
Come, Henry,” Tom urged. “Lets get gone. Theres nought for you here, let this place rot into legend.
He placed a hand on my trembling shoulder. I felt strangely vulnerable, exposed and raw. Tom, in these last days, had grown oddly deara fatherly comfort, perhaps the only such warmth I’d known. But my heart was storm-tossed, my mind alight with terror and confusion.
He called my name, gentle as a lullaby, but I was lost in feverish visionsmy fathers snarling face, bloodied hands. I hated him. I wanted to hurt him. Blind rage overwhelmed meand before I understood why, my hands were at Toms throat, squeezing as if possessed.
It was only when he clawed at the chain beneath my shirt, snapping the locket loose, that the darkness in me ebbed away suddenly. The world swam back into focusI saw Tom, gasping for breath, tears running down his battered cheeks.
Its that little talismanit clouds your mind… he rasped, pushing the silver locket away. Best to hurl it in the fire.
No, I whispered, clutching the locket close. But the back door slammed, and our escape was lost. The darkness gathered, and I felt helpless.
What followed was worsea childs footsteps echoed, laughter drifting on the air. Candles flickered unexpectedly to life all over the room, bathing everything in cold, pale light. And then, gathered around us, stood the spectral family of Ashwick.
Near the fire, the figure of a tall man stood, his face turned away. At the piano, the pale girl, Edith, her eyes as dull as glass. The boy at the window, half-hidden behind a tattered curtain. I stood transfixed by the spectacle, while Tom cowered in a corner, finding a hidden door he desperately tried to prise open.
Why are you here? the fathers voice cameunexpectedly cold and calm.
I… I began, but he cut me off.
I summoned you. Took years to do so, you know. I called for you.” His cynicism bit deep. All my childhood fantasies of family were swept away by that pitiless air.
The ghost spun me into a waking nightmare. With a snap of his fingers, illusions cascaded past: the manor as it once was, elegant and bright; my mother Stella surrounded by roses, a wedding day; fortune eroding, bitterness and desperation; experiments with the occultall things my father had tried to restore our name, drawing ever nearer to damnation. The story unfoldeda pact with some ancient evil, sealed with an innocents soulmine.
When my mother fled, discovering the truth, he grew cold. She barely escaped, while my siblings stayed locked under his will. Death came. The Ashwicks bodies rotted, but their spirits lingered in torment, enslaved to the old evil.
Yet, as the shadow thickened, as my father seized a blade and called for my blood, the locket in my hand ignited with a red light and pain roared through me. Clutching it, I broke his hold. Edith attacked but recoiled from my talisman.
When my father at last tried to finish his dark work, I cast his battered ledger into the heart of the firememory and malice, burning together. The spectres writhed, weakened and fading, ashes scattering upwards as the house itself began to burn.
Tom, finally breaking free, dragged me from the flames and tossed me onto the dew-damp grass, soot streaking our clothes while the blaze devoured the last of Ashwick Manor. High above, three sparks burst and vanished in the night, the familys curse finally spent.
I sat and wept, exhausted, my heart hollowed by pain and knowledge, tears for the lost siblings and mother I was too late to help, and evenimpossible as it seemedfor the bitter, broken figure of my father. I found no hatred in myself, only a dull ache and weary revulsion.
Was all that anger and cruelty in me too, somehow? What have I inherited, and how might I ever be rid of it? No, I vowed. I will not let it take root.
*
The house was destroyedrazed as if it had never been. In his humble cottage, Tom dressed our wounds, fed me, and chattered so much I wondered if he too was trying to drown out the darkness.
I left Ashwick at dawn, grateful for Toms rough kindness, pressing as many pounds onto him as decency allowed before I went. The road away was long, and every doze was haunted by images of flame and sorrow. Whatever I carried from Ashwick, it would take years to cast aside. Oh, how different life might have been…
I fingered my mothers locket endlessly, turning it over in my hands, wondering why such rage had ignited in me beneath its touchwas this my souls shadow, or the weight of my fathers sins? And why had she left it behind, hidden in the roots? Had it been Ediths, or meant to protect young Edmund and Edith from the darkness? I peered insidesuddenly, the lid sprang open. Within lay a tiny ruby, and folded beneath, a square of yellowed paper. I carefully unfolded it. Written in a neat, feminine hand: “May it protect those I could not save.”
