THE BLACKWOOD ESTATE

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To the inhabitants of Taunton, there was nothing more foreboding than the Blakewood Estate—just not for the reasons a person might think. Now admittedly, the manor was an off-putting sort of place; its fog-shrouded silhouette like a ghost in its own right, forlorn and derelict as it mouldered into the moors. That said, it wouldn’t be quite true to suggest that its appearance was the sole reason for its reputation or even the initial cause: in fact, to the credit of the townspeople, their basis for believing the estate to be haunted was not superficial in the slightest. After all, not all tales are necessarily tall.

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While a number of compounding factors led to the creation of the rumours, their early foundations were undoubtedly a result of the fire. It occurred amidst one frigid winter’s night some eight months past, when the snow was far too thick and the locals all too bundled into their blankets for any to take notice of the distant lights and wafting smoke. Hence, by the time a single insomnia-addled soul caught sight of the old manor from down the road, there was little to be done. The building was utterly engulfed, its exits barred by enormous, irrepressible flames. To anyone inside, there would have been little chance of escaping the inferno alive.

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Fortunately, it had been nearly a decade since the Blakewood Estate was last occupied.

 

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“What do you suppose happened?

To think it caught fire all by itself—”

 

“Aye, odd thing that is. You never know with these 

old places though, most like some gas piping

broke.”

 

“But with none to light it—?” 

 

 

“Eh, so it goes. I’m goin’ back to bed, lass, n’ you 

ought to do the same. Frightful cold out;

frightful cold.”

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For some townsfolk, the incident created an immediate and guttural sense of unease, and reasonably so: there was something inherently peculiar about an abandoned building catching fire by itself, especially during one of the coldest years England had seen in a good long while. Unfortunately, regardless of this obvious oddity, the local authorities took no interest in investigating the situation. Call it negligence, but from their perspective, the amount of time allocated to such an endeavour simply wasn’t justified when no one had died or been left without a roof over their heads. (Besides which, the paperwork involved would have been simply nightmarish. Who even owned the damn thing?) In any case, with that bout of strangeness swept aside, the incident quickly faded to the backs of everyone’s collective consciousness. Once again, the abode was nothing more than an empty eyesore on the edge of an otherwise well-kept town.

 

That is, the manor was presumed to be empty. That assumption, however justifiable, changed come the spring, after the Taunton Press ran the following advertisement:

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“GOVERNESS DESIRED FOR FEMALE PUPIL, AGE THIRTEEN—Must be a learned woman of adequate scholarly achievement and respectability, no more than thirty years of age. Offering up to £150 per annum. If interested, direct all inquiries to the Blakewood Estate. No letters; apply in person at the establishment previously identified. Beware the cat.”

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The advertisement was so discreet, so innocuously tucked between all the other help wanted ads, that it could have easily been overlooked or dismissed as a misprint—but it wasn’t. For whatever reason, whether it be coincidence or fate, the entire population of Taunton became collectively transfixed by this particular posting, or rather its questionable implications. None of it made any sense; what sort of person would choose to purchase such a noticeably dilapidated manor, let alone live there without anyone noticing their presence sooner? Why, even the newspaper’s editor hadn’t the faintest idea who had sent in the ad—assuming, of course, that somebody had. By all accounts, these new residents shouldn’t exist.

 

At least, not in any corporeal sense.

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“I knew it, I always thought there was somethin’ odd about that fire; 

I dare say the ol’ place’s brimmin’ with ghosts—” 

 

“Don’t be daft. This is the fair folk’s doing,  

that’s what this is. You mark my words

—”

 

“No, no, it was them ‘Spiritualists’ who came to town. I said they was  

bad news—I said so, didn’t I? Witches, the lot of ‘em, I tell ya!” 

 

“Ghosts, fairies, witchcraft—What are ya, some godless heathens? 

This ain’t nothin’ but a test of providence. Pay it no mind.”

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Needless to say, as an endless stream of whispers began to pervade the town, an air of apprehension settled over the estate. No one wanted to go near the place, not even curious youths: applying for the job was unanimously out of the question, despite how well the position paid. For these reasons, most people assumed the advertisement would never be answered. Not until the estate’s elusive residents revealed themselves to be actual, living human beings, at least.

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However, Margaret Churchill was not a local. She knew the rumours were nothing more than superstitious nonsense, no better than children’s fables—albeit useful children’s fables, since their circulation had kept competitors away. In her eyes, there was no logical reason not to pursue such a remarkably generous proposition, especially considering the dire financial state of her family. Really, in an odd way, it was all rather convenient.

 

Perhaps a little too convenient, in hindsight.