BEATRICE: November 4th, 1971

During my water-logged walk up the drive on my first night at Knockbury Manor, I had caught sight of a depressingly small cemetery to the west of the property just before the house had come into view. I had fanciful thoughts of exploring there today, but those were shattered by the continuous awful weather that has plagued the island these past couple of days.

I watched the rain pour down the kitchen windows as I made a small lunch of cold cuts and cheese. I had to remove another moldy bag of tea from my mug, this time a green tea blend. Will the atrocities never cease?

Since the weather prevented me from safely venturing outside, I was determined to start exploring the first floor of the manor that afternoon. I thought back to my early days at the Sybil Society, and wondered if perhaps a little bit of protection wouldn’t do me some good. In school, we learned that certain herbs, if ingested or worn on the body, can become like a shield to malevolent entities or spirits that mean you harm. Knowing that there is a conservatory on the grounds, I thought I would try there. As soon as I finished my lunch I headed towards the grimy, glass-plated door that would lead me out.

The room was circular in shape and not very large, but in its day I think it would have been very ornate. The glass conservatory, much like the rest of the home, has seen better days. A set of wicker chairs sat stacked against the wall shared with the kitchen, the rattan threads once white now near black with mold. Most of the panes in peaked rooftop windows have been shattered during some Atlantic storm. Rain was coming through, and the wind howled like a rising scream that never quite crested.

After a cursory look around, I was easily able to determine that most of the foliage was indeed dead. There was a massive, gnarled tree at the center of the room, its roots bare and growing above the ground, its arms curved, disjointedly downwards. It reminded me of a giant, crouching spider, eyeless but watching me all the same.

Further down the cracked tiled path, I had to step side to side to avoid the puddles of rain forming beneath the gaping holes in the roof. Surprisingly, I caught sight of a small herbal garden that oddly looked to be flourishing. Tall stalks of rosemary and thin, spindly lavender rose to meet me as I approached. There were other plants I recognized as well - mugwort, vervain, blue lupine, and chamomile, all green and flourishing despite the dour conditions.

At the foot of the garden bed was a small stone that looked to be childishly embossed, carved with uneven bulky letters: HESTER’S GARDEN.

I bent and ran my fingertips over the etching. Hester Knock, Celeste Knock’s twin sister. My aunt. Or, possibly, my mother.

Taking the small sewing scissors I keep on hand from my pinafore, I snipped a few stems of the rosemary, their scent wafting up through my nose as I handled them.

When I turned to leave, there was a gaping space behind me. I stood, blinking for long moments at an empty array of broken tiles on the ground. It took my brain an embarrassing amount of time to figure out what was missing. The strange tree was gone, its massive, otherworldly presence now ever more obvious in its absolute absence.

I had noticed no shift in the air and smelled no sulfur or ectoplasm. Like the kitchen chairs and refrigerator, the tree had simply vanished, as if it had never been planted at all. I would have believed my mind to be playing tricks on me if it wasn’t for the vast, empty space of something obviously missing.

I have never experienced an esoteric plane shift - an object moving between planes - if that is indeed what this was. Is this perhaps an example of what Ebony Copeland was talking about in her work with CW Francis? I will have to put in a request for their work and review their findings before I am able to confidently give my report. Whether or not Sheila O’Shaunnasy will aid me in this is…unlikely.

Back in the kitchen, I arranged the stems of rosemary in a neat row, patting them down with a mildewy cloth to dry off the moisture from the rain. I let the stems sit as I went to get twine from the kit in my carpet bag. Then, I bent and twisted the drying stems until I had made a full circle, large enough to fit over my head. Just like they taught us in school.

It stopped just above the neckline of my pinafore and the herbal smell hit me in full force, bringing back memories of practicums and a haunting I investigated with Sister Adelita in Fell, Wyoming. I don’t think I will ever be able to smell rosemary again without thinking of that.

Full as my head was with memories, it was a shock to turn and see a face in the window.

At first, I thought it was my own reflection, for the shape of her face was like my own. But once my eyes registered a roundness in the chin that mine does not possess, I realized the skin was milky white, almost sickly pale. The hair, I assume, was long, for it disappeared past the neck and out of the frame of the window and was plastered to her face as if wet from the rain.

It was a woman’s face. A young woman, though older than I. And her eyes were wide with shock and looking directly at me.

When I made to approach the window, to bid the spirit welcome, those eyes widened further and the ghostly figure stepped back and away from the window, disappearing in a mist that was quickly dispelled by the rain outside.

I remained frozen in the kitchen after she left. My heart beat uncomfortably in my chest. She looked like me. I have never met anyone, never seen a photograph or painting of anyone that looks like me.

I’m embarrassed by how long I stood there, before finally shaking myself of the strange mood and carrying on out of the room.

Later ---

Nothing of note to be found on the first floor. I did find several cold spots in the dining room, and the feeling of being watched persists in each room. I did try to reach out again to Ruthie, as well as the spirit I met briefly in the kitchen. I began at the front of the manor in the foyer, just before the vestibule that leads to the front door, and rang my bell, waiting for any spirits to appear but received no answer.

Something seems to have a tight hold on the spirits of Knockbury Manor. Nevertheless, I dutifully took my (antique, some of my classmates call it) camera from room to room and shot pictures of every nook and corner.

Most of my practicing partners wish I would modernize my camera equipment, but I stand steadfastly by Sister Sanjana’s research. Modern cameras are too advanced to pick up the willowy auras of a ghost, especially one that has been haunting the mortal plane for an extended amount of time. I’ll fairly admit that the development is often timely and difficult, the pictures are excellent for record-keeping and reference.

I made my way through the ground floor of the house. First the parlor. It is the only room not encased in dust, as I have cleaned it to the degree that I can in order for me to sleep without suffocating on cobwebs. The room is smaller than the sitting room, and the styles seem more mismatched. There are a few winged back arm chairs, slightly moth eaten, and of course the violently purple fainting couch I have made as my bed. The main feature of the room is a white marbled fireplace. The wood trim that frames it is gorgeously detailed, and quite the contrast to the simplicity of the marble. Carved expertly into the wood are a series of nautical scenes – sailboats battling tremendous waves, a mermaid perched atop a rock, a man on a hill facing the roaring sea.

The storm outside had darkened the manor, and while it would be wonderfully cozy, I do not trust the fireplace to be safe enough for use. I must check with the honorable Mr. Fowl.

As the afternoon grew darker, I sufficed with groups of carefully lit candles in each room, lighting my way as I progressed. The shadows in the dining room grew long and warped as I entered, but when I rang my bell and called out a greeting, I still received no answer.

The feeling of being watched was practically overbearing, and many times I had to stop myself from turning around to see if anyone was there. Instead, I tried to focus my camera on the fully set table, the empty, peeling walls, the dark shadowy corners, and the chandelier encased completely in webs. Something about the dining table irks me. It seems to have been set up for a large dinner party, one that never occurred. But why was it never taken down?

The sitting room next. Upholstery stuffing peeked through holes made by mice, peeling wallpaper revealing molded plaster underneath. Cobwebs decorated nearly every surface. The air was thick with dust and mildew, made worse by the damp weather conditions of the afternoon. There sat a small table to one side of the room opposite of the fireplace, perhaps set up for card playing. Adjacent to that was an oddly tall wooden cabinet. The door stuck when I tried to open it, but I dutifully took a picture of it regardless.

I made my way further down the dark corridor, back towards the kitchen, to the servant’s quarters. There were only two rooms in this wing of the house. One small and completely empty, and the other larger with a solid wooden bed frame and an empty bedside table. There was a rocking chair in the corner and a narrow armoire, empty save for a few stained smocks.

From what I could find, after Annie died in the fire that broke out in the home, a cook was hired out from the village, and they commuted to and from the manor every day. The only servant that seemed to stay on was Ruthie. Odd, that such a large home had so few employees.

With the greatest of hesitation did I make my way to the pantry and larder. I have been afraid of finding masses of wasted and molded food but was pleasantly surprised to find the larder completely empty save some dust and mice droppings. The butler’s pantry turned out to be full of canned goods. Checking the expiration date of each has been put on my to-do list.

I returned to the kitchen and rang the bell twice in hopes of enticing whatever spirit I had glimpsed earlier into making another appearance. No such luck.

By the time I packed my camera away, it was closing on evening and quickly entering night. By candlelight I made myself a light dinner and then retired to my makeshift bed on the violently purple couch, where I sit now. The creaking noise from the foyer continues. It is ceaseless and does not get louder or softer no matter where I am on the ground floor. Just an ever-going creak, like something swinging.

I will sleep with the garland of rosemary still on, for there is this feeling I cannot shake, nor describe properly. I am being watched, and for what purpose, I truly do not yet know.

Tomorrow, upstairs.