19 August, 1983

The manor had never been so silent. Not since the family left for South Africa some two-hundred years earlier. It stood empty, then, collecting dust and mildew for eighty years. A stone castle, a sign of wealth instead of family. Then the oldest boy came back and knocked the whole thing over, built it back up again. Then some hundred more years passed, full of noise.

And now even the birds seemed to be hiding. On a hot August day, there were once children running through the fountain and charging wildly through the gardens and pastures and forests. But on this hot August day, the manor was cold and austere and empty. The help had been dismissed but they didn’t go home. They were waiting quietly in the lower levels, leaning on the tables, hutches, counters. Every so often, someone would shift and let out a breath of stale air in the stifling kitchen. Someone would cross their chest and someone would quietly pray.

Sam, Margaret’s son—and poor Margaret, who had passed just years earlier—shook his head. He was getting on in years, too, and his white hair was tangled with sweat, but he wouldn’t go home today. He’d been with this family for his entire life. And now, he knew, the end was coming, creeping silently in through the front doors, between cracked windowpanes and under the wainscoting, slowly choking the life out of the house. Its time had come again. It would collect dust and mildew once more.

( 'You phoned Charlie...' )