BEATRICE: November 2nd, 1978

I have arrived at the depressing, dilapidated remains of Knockbury Manor. The path up to the house had been treacherous - once departing the cab the wind had blown me left to right, rain pelting at my shoulders and the sound of waves roaring in harmony with the storm.

The manor sits at the edge of town, its back facing a cliff overlooking Lake Superior. Once, apparently, a grand family home, the manor now resembled more of a haunted house than a stately home.

Which was fitting because the home is, in fact, very much a haunted house.

Some context: Knockbury Manor had come into my possession rather unexpectedly when the last member of a family I had nothing to do with died. A lawyer by the name of Fowl (why is it that all lawyers must have the most Dickinsonian names?) hunt me down while I was on an assignment in Virginia, and rather reluctantly told me that I was the final, very last descendant of a strange family by the name of Knock.

I was accompanying Sister Adelita to Virginia to assist with a rather nasty poltergeist case and fulfill some of more field experience hours. Mr. Fowl found me at the hotel somehow, just as I was checking out. A dour, lumpy man with an overwhelming mustache approached me, coughing wetly to get my attention.

“Beatrice St. Anne?” I nodded and he held out a damp hand, “Hubert Fowl of Pennworth. Duke, Smyth, and Fowl. Do you have a moment?”

I told him I didn’t but asked if it was an emergency, as it was odd that he asked for me specifically. He opened his briefcase and took out a stack of documents, frail and crumbling at the edges.

“It was rather difficult to get in touch with you. The last public record we have of you is of the orphanage in Chicago -” I refrained from telling him about my current enrollment at the Sibyl Society, of which of course, he would have no notion of existing. He took out a document from the stack that read MORTGAGE DEED, “the Knock family has left you their family home and any possessions that remain on the property.”

I stood in bewilderment as he handed me the deed. At the top was a seal that read KNOCK in red wax, “I’ve never heard of such a family.”

“In cases like these, with families like the Knocks, there is not always a paper trail for such things,” the lawyer said vaguely, eyeing me carefully.

“Cases like these?”

“I have been the lawyer to the family for the last twenty years or so. I was made aware there was a child that was given up. Based on Master Knock’s correspondence, I believe it is safe to assume you were that child.”

I didn’t know quite how to respond, so instead, I briefly glanced over a few lines of the deed before returning my attention to the lawyer:

“The Knocks were once a very powerful and prestigious family.” Fowl eyed my plain school-sanctioned black dress, “Ever heard of B&B Knock & Co., the clothing line?” I said I hadn’t, and he nodded, unperturbed by my apparent lack of knowledge of family history, “Used to be very high-end.”

“Used to be?”

“Out of business now. The family fell from,” he cleared his throat “social graces in the early sixties. Can’t say the estate had been kept up like it should have been, so I’m not of the sort of state it will be in if you decide to view it but,” he shrugged, placing a set of keys atop the stack and holding it out to me, “Yours now.” Finding his duty done, Fowl soon left, leaving the damp pile of paperwork behind for me to sort through.

I have been left a house. A house with a reputation, nonetheless.

I dove headfirst into investigating any stories or rumors that surrounded Knockbury Manor. Though my time at the Sibyl Society has taught me many things there is one aspect of coursework that I have always found I excel at best, and that is research.

To say I was delighted to discover that there was quite a plethora of ghost stories about my newly discovered ancestral home is putting it lightly. I consider the ownership of a haunted house to be an excellent opportunity to perfect my skills in ghost hunting. It will provide ample situations to try out a few of the techniques I have been working on and will better prepare me for graduation next year.

Once I have dispelled any and all of the ghosts that remain at Knockbury, I will of course sell the house and continue with my work wherever I am needed.

Though how much this house would sell for I have very little confidence. I will not say I am disappointed – though the previous inhabitant, a man named Alater Knock, whom I am somehow related to, only died six years ago, any care for the house seemed to have been abandoned long before that. Upon entering, I discovered that much of it has not been touched in several years. The decor is molded, the furnishings outdated, and everything is covered in such a thick layer of soot that walking from room to room is like kicking up a dust storm.

I will admit here and only here that I have other intentions for being here. Growing up as I did, it is no wonder that I am curious about that family that left me in the care and charity of the women at St. Anne’s Children’s Home. Perfectly natural, I should say. Did I ever suspect to have inherited an estate, dilapidated or not? Of course not. I’d always assumed my birth mother to be a young woman who perhaps got into trouble and couldn’t afford to keep the baby she ended up with. Looking around at the dusty grandeur of this old house, I understand that now to not be the case. Frankly, I don’t know which scenario is worse.

I have not yet explored much during my first night, but I shall at least describe here the initial layout of the ground floor for my own record keeping: Upon entry, you are let into a cold and leaking vestibule, the tile cracked and molded beneath. From there into the foyer, all dark wood panels and the smell of damp rot. Straight ahead is a grand staircase, the safety I questioned almost immediately. To the immediate right is a small parlor. The wallpaper in this room is peeling down in great curls, but the floor is sturdy and there is a small fireplace gilded in dusty black marble. A violently purple Victorian fainting couch is the most eye-catching item in the room, a small wooden side table sat next to it.

Alongside the staircase is a long dark corridor that has entryways to a formal dining room, another sitting room, kitchen, and servant’s quarters. From the kitchen there is a narrow glass door, the bottom caked in moss, that leads to the conservatory.

The smell of dust and wet wood is overwhelming. There is, of course, also the distinct smell of ectoplasm and, oddly enough, a hint of rosemary.

The dining room is a long narrow room encased in oak paneling and oil portraits of northern scenery that have suffered the elements of time and poor insulation. Dead flowers trapped in molded and rotted vases line the middle of a long black table. The high back chairs match the table and remind me of thrones - it made me suddenly wonder, for the first time during all of this, as to the relations I might have had. What kind of people they were.

Formal dishware was set out on the table. Why, I have no guess. The once-gilded plates are blackened with dust, and I noticed that at various seats the silverware was missing from its place beside the accompanying dishware.

To my delight, the stove in the kitchen works. The honorable Mr. Fowl had told me that the gas company would be turning on the gas for me but, given the lackluster tone of our first meeting, I had not believed him.

I retrieved my tea kettle, white mug, and instant coffee from my bag. I am a creature of habit, especially when I travel. A strong cup of coffee in the morning always does me good.

I set all three items atop the counter and, before leaving the kitchen, measured the distance between the three objects and the end of the counter, noting down each number. We shall see what the morning brings.

I have set myself up in the parlor room atop the violently purple Victorian fainting couch. I had initially approached the monstrosity with trepidation and narrowed eyes before ultimately determining that I have slept in much worse places.

I have determined that my nighttime routine will remain as it had been while on assignment in school: from my carpet bag, I retrieved a crisp white sheet which I draped over the violently purple couch. This was followed by my neatly rolled-out sleeping back, smooth of any wrinkles.

Removing a retractable hanger and my sleeping clothes from my bag next, I undressed out of my all-black ensemble, hung my dress, and finally dressed in a fresh, pearl-white nightgown.

My hair has been braided and my feet face east. I sit now, writing this, both for my own record keeping and for my future investigation here. I have always enjoyed diary keeping (part of my old fashion sensibilities, my classmates would say) and I admit I am not upset by the lack of phone installation in the house. I am looking forward to sitting down every night and organizing my thoughts here with ink on paper.

Just outside the parlor room in the main foyer, there is a strange, creaking noise that has been nonstop since I laid down. Perhaps it was there when I first arrived, but the sound of the storm drowned it out. It is a slow sound, almost like something heavy swinging back and forth. Perhaps it is a long-dead relative trying to get my attention.

More tomorrow!