BEATRICE: November 5th, 1978

The day started poorly.

I woke late, which I never do. The parlor room where I have been sleeping since I arrived was damp and cold when I woke, and my eyes felt glued together, my head groggy. I’d been plagued all night with the feeling of fingertips on my forehead, a gentle pressure, barely there. Whenever I would open my eyes, it was to dying candlelight or empty darkness, but always I appeared to be alone.

My necklace of rosemary lay in tatters on the floor beside me. The outside of my sleeping bag was slick with the moisture from the room. It was difficult to get up, to leave the warm cocoon that I had created while I slept. I was in desperate need of coffee, and for once I arrived in the kitchen to find not a moldy tea bag in sight.

The weather today is foul again, and after I was thoroughly caffeinated, I lit candles throughout the lower level of the house. Dressing quickly and warmly, I packed my day bag just in case the weather turned in my favor and I could head into town, or explore the family graveyard. Leaving it near by coat by the door, I then stood at the bottom of the staircase with some trepidation, flashlight in one hand and my notebook in the other. I felt like a character in an Agatha Christie novel.

My intentions at the start of today were to explore upstairs. According to the blueprints, there are seven bedrooms in the house, not counting those for the servants on the ground floor.

The stairs are broken into two parts, separated by a landing in between. As I climbed, I was surprised to find the first set of stairs sturdier than anticipated. Have I been braving the violently purple fainting couch for nothing? That will depend entirely on the state of the bedrooms. Sleeping in a dead person’s bed may give some of my peers pause, however, I am not picky.

At the top of the landing, there is a stained-glass window, its picture depicting that of a small cottage set upon a craggy rock. According to the short history book I read at the library, the ship Bellamy and Bellona Knock arrived on had crashed into what the locals now call Twins Rock. I wish I knew from where they hailed from, but very little seems publicly known about the twins to begin with. Bellona was accordingly a talented seamstress and her brother a successful businessman. Together they created a highly successful clothing line that would fund all the Knocks that came after them. That is, until the family met ruin, partially due to Delphina Knock’s adventuring debts.

Delphina, whose study I stood outside of for only a moment before my curiosity bested me.

Upon opening the door, I was unexpectedly met by a sarcophagus that seemed to be keeping guard. It was immaculately painted, though covered in a fine layer of dust. Blue hair and dark solemn eyes staring back at me, hands folded at its broad chest.

I was surprised, to say the least, to find it there. In the Midwest, of all places.

Cobwebs covered its mantle, and once I stepped around it, I could see that it was propped up against one of the many bookshelves that lined the entirety of the room. The room is fantastic. Dark emerald wallpaper decorated the few walls not encumbered by bookshelves. A brass chandelier hung above a large, cluttered, oak desk that sat in the middle of the room. The desk was flanked by two burgundy leather armchairs, both with piles of books in their seats. In the corner, a daybed left unmade and messy with red velvet blankets.

Behind the desk sat…well, there is no other way to describe it other than calling it what it is – a throne. The wood is painted gold, the top reminiscent of that of a crown. A velvet cushion seemed to have been added to the wide seat as an afterthought for comfort. Engraved in the golden wood were scenes of battles and royal processions. I do not presume myself to be a historian by any means, but to me, the chair looked old. Very old.

Over its arm was a long dark robe, and from its pockets, I discovered a plain wooden pipe. I set it down on the desk and attempted not to feel overwhelmed. There was so much to look at. Taking inventory of Delphina’s study will take me days, if not weeks.

Delphina Knock. She was an early explorer, one of the first women to fund her own expeditions, from which she seemed to have brought back many so called “souvenirs”.

Where there weren’t books, the shelves were littered with pottery, stones, wooden trinkets, and dishes made of clay. Art was suspended from every spare wall, a giant tapestry hung above the fireplace, which, upon writing this I realize is a terrible fire hazard. A map held pinned by darts to a wall behind the throne chair. Oddly, no photographs, save one. Small, about the size of my hand, of a beautiful young woman with sad, watery eyes. The name signed across the bottom right-hand corner read Marguerite.

Overall, the room felt stuffed and on the brink of explosion. But besides the stench of dust and mildew, I could neither smell nor sense any evidence of supernatural activity. This perplexed me until I noticed the head of an iron nail peeking out from above the door frame. I retrieved it and observed it long enough to confirm it was in fact iron before returning it.

There is an old cunning folk rule that iron placed above the doorway prevents any spirit from wandering in. It is one of my favorite folk traditions and yet I have never seen it in practice. How exciting to find it here!

Ruthie had not mentioned Delphina, so perhaps she is not one of the spirits still haunting Knockbury. I hope she is not, because, by the look of this room, her study is where she kept her treasures. It saddens me to think she could have accidentally locked herself out of it in her afterlife.

Excitedly, I began to search her desk. It was littered with papers and small delicate tools I know no use for. The desk is large with many drawers, and I began to systematically go through them. Delphina Knock was not an organized person. The papers seemed mostly to be travel documents and some official permits for archaeological digging. The most notable looked to be from the Chinese government in 1918, another from 1921. Each drawer revealed another surprise – one was entirely filled with rocks – but I did come across a few interesting letters.

The first of which is from a man named Avery Cauville, who accuses Delphina of forgery and thievery. The idea of my aunt being a cat burglar or, and here I looked back to the sarcophagus acting as a sentinel by the door, some sort of international black market bootlegger, had me looking around the room with renewed interest.

The second letter seems to confirm Mr. Cauville’s accusations. I rolled my eyes. What is the fascination wealthy people have with taking what does not belong to them? I have never understood this. I wonder if Sister Adelita still has that notoriously secret contact in D.C. Perhaps she can offer me some advice on a few items that should be returned or at least – and here my eyes landed again on the ancient sarcophagus – installed safely in a museum and not a drafty old house in the middle of nowhere.

I spent the rest of the afternoon going through Delphina’s desk, pausing only for a quick lunch. Delphina seemed to keep every piece of paperwork she ever received. These mostly consisted of loan statements and overdue debt notices that she shoved into the farthest corners of the desk, as if to try and hide it. I put aside anything I thought could be helpful.

I emerged from the study late morning, my black dress now gray with dust, feeling satisfied with my productivity. The inside of the manor had lightened as the morning went on, and once the storm had passed I was able to have my flashlight off in the study.

However, when I exited the study, I found that the hall across was buried in shadows. There are no windows down this hall, so I turned on my light once again, and it landed squarely on a door.

My plan for today was to explore two rooms on the first floor, so I let my feet follow the light beam to the doorway. A slight smell of smoke was all the warning I had before the wispy incorporeal spirit of Ruthie appeared before me.

“No reason to go in there, Miss,” she said.

I paused mid-step, “What room is this?”

“It was Miss Celeste’s.”

Was. Because Celeste Knock had died under mysterious circumstances. I have still yet to learn what had happened to her.

I observed Ruthie. She looked, if possible, paler today, than she had when we’d first met. “Why did you not come when I called yesterday?” I asked, trying not to sound accusatory. I didn’t want her to view me as someone whose orders she must follow; I sensed that was not a way to get any answers out of Ruthie Daniels.

Ruthie didn’t respond, instead looked at me with wide, near translucent eyes behind cracked spectacles. I hesitated, suddenly thinking about how confusing this must be for her, for all the spirits at Knockbury Manor. I was still a stranger to them, and yet, had seemingly invited myself into spaces that have been unoccupied by the living for years. But, I needed to get on with my work. I sighed and explained patiently, “Ruthie. I am now the mistress of this house, and I shall go into any room I like.”

To her credit, Ruthie did not argue with me, “As you say, Miss.” I waited for her to move aside – it is uncouth etiquette to simply walk through a spirit you are conversing with, plus it feels awful – before finishing my movement towards the door.

It stuck slightly, probably from age and little use. I had to push my shoulder into the door to get it open, but open it did.

The room beyond was so different to Delphina’s that for a moment I paused. The room was practically empty. Only an iron bed frame sat up against the far wall. It was devoid of anything that would hint at whose room it once was.

In general, this is a sad house, empty of even a flicker of happiness. I think most people would find it very hard to be here. But in this room, there was a cold and near unbearable sensation of sadness that differed somehow from the rest of the manor.

What had happened to Celeste Knock? Where were all of her things?

“Ruthie?” I called out, almost before I realized I was doing so. The little ghost materialized outside the door, still in the hall.. Tiny wisps of smoke rose from her shoulders, disappearing almost immediately in the air.

“Yes?”

“Where are all of Miss Knock’s belongings?”

“Gone, Miss.”

Well, obviously, I refrained from saying. I tried again, “What was Miss Celeste’s life like before her death?”

For a moment, Ruthie looked puzzled at the question, as if the matter of her employer’s life perhaps never occurred to her, “Well, she was fond of Miss Hester. They were quite close, as twins are, I suppose.”

“Does Miss Celeste remain here, as you do?”

“No, Miss.”

As of right now I know very little about the Knock sisters, so perhaps there was somewhere else Celeste’s spirit would have wandered to in death. But it strikes me as odd that Hester, whose death details remain unknown to me as of yet, would remain at Knockbury, and not Celeste.

I glanced through the room’s only window which overlooked the top of the conservatory and the water beyond it. I could not help but wonder if they had been lonely, Hester and Celeste, stuck in this big house with only each other as company. I wonder if they’d had any friends.

I walked to the center of the room, “Thank you, Ruthie. That will be all for now.” I nodded at her, “I am going to do a summoning, much as I did that first day we met. Please ignore its call, as my goal is to contact the other spirits bound here.”

“Other spirits?” she asked, her eyes squinting around the room. At my nod, her shoulders shrugged slightly, and she responded, almost sounding exasperated, “Yes, Miss.” In a cloud of white, ashy smoke she disappeared from the doorway.

I took out the bell from the pocket of my pinafore and rolled my neck, clearing away my thoughts before ringing the bell three times. It took me longer than usual to organize my thoughts and perhaps I rushed into using the bell faster than usual. Perhaps that is why it took me a moment to realize something was amiss.

It was the noise I noticed first, a shuffling sound, reminiscent of a body moving under a bed sheet. Like rough fabric against stone. When I opened my eyes, I jerked back and away in shock.

The walls around me were moving.

Bodies and fingers pressed against the inside of the walls, wailing. Teeth outlined open mouths, agape in a grotesque horror. They clawed and moaned into the thin layer that trapped them from me. The walls undulated with their agony, stretching out towards me like a baby in a womb. Their fingers never quite touched me, never quite tore at the vellum-like wall that kept them from me.

Their screams were a humming wail that rose and fell around me. Nausea that crept up my throat. It was overwhelming, those distorted, nightmarish forms writhing in the walls. I could feel my breath quicken, and I realized I was quickly losing myself to the situation. Panic rang in my fingertips, down my torso.

I ran from the room. I don’t remember coming down the stairs. At the bottom, I realized I had clutched the bell so tightly in my hand that it had broken skin. A thin trickle of blood ran down the edge of it, dripping slowly into the hardwood beneath my feet.

I needed air. I needed clarity. I needed to leave. I could still hear the screaming from the room upstairs.

I tried to steady my breathing but failed. There is great harm in succumbing to fear during a spiritual call, our teachers provided us with ample examples in class. The spirits could dominate the caller, possess them. I did not wish for this to happen, so I shut my eyes and began to count each breath I took.

When I opened them once more, the manor was quiet, save for that creaking noise that I have been hearing night after night.

It was louder this time, and I found myself following its origin with my eyes without consciously deciding to do so.

I saw only her feet before I shut my eyes again.

Two slim feet, pale white. Belonging to a form that swung gently, left to right, from the upper balcony. The creaking persisted, but I did not raise my eyes any further. I grabbed my bag, my notebook, and my coat in a flurry and was out the door before I could second guess my cowardice.

Later –

It was several minutes before I regained my typical composure. I evened out my breathing as I walked towards town, counting my steps. Initially, I had no plan of action other than just wanting distance between myself and the house.

I know not even how to put into words the haunting that occurred in Celeste’s bedroom, nor the form on the stairs, and as such I know not how to report it. Physical manifestations like that are rare. Perhaps it could be labeled a poltergeist, but key components such as a foul stench are missing. Maybe a residual haunting? A physical manifestation of despair?

Or perhaps…and I do not enjoy this line of thinking…but it is possible that the “she” Ruthie has hinted at, the domineering spirit that resides within the manor, could have created that vision to frighten me? That it was nothing more than a scare tactic.

If that was the case, then I fell for the trap. Yet…and many of my peers would believe this to be wishful thinking…it didn’t feel fabricated. The fear was palpable. But I have had little to no experience with anything outside a Class-A ghost, so perhaps these feelings are par for the course.

I decided I would inquire with Mr. Kitsch, the owner of the general store in town, if anyone remained in Knockbury who had once been familiar with the Knock family. For such a prominent family, there was a suspicious lack of information on them at the library, specifically about Celeste and Hester Knock. Perhaps it was time to step into the rumor mill and see what I could dig up.

I entered town and made my way to Kitsch General Store. Mr. Kitsch is a friendly old man, and when I queried my question to him, he clicked his teeth and paused in thought.

“Henry Keats may be your best bet. He doesn’t live in town anymore, not after his wife passed, but up through Chambers Pasture with his daughter.”

I asked what his daughter’s name was, and if they took visitors. He relayed to me that the daughter of Henry Keats was the dragoness librarian, Helena Keats because of course she was.

It was late in the day and with the library now closed, I asked Mr. Kitsch to use his telephone When Helena answered I greeted her courteously and reminded her who I was, and that I would like to come and speak with her father if he was in good health and permitted it.

A gusty sigh answered me, and the dragoness spoke, sounding reluctant, “I figured it was only a matter of time before you made the connection. My father doesn’t take visitors. It’s not him that knew the Knocks best, anyway. Come to the library tomorrow, and I’ll have something for you.”

I wasn’t sure what she meant, but I agreed nonetheless, and we hung up. To thank Mr. Kitsch, I bought a few grocery items - some canned goods and candlesticks, batteries for my flashlight – before reluctantly heading back to the manor.

The sky was beginning to darken with the onset of evening, and a large part of me dreaded returning. But I am resilient in the face of my own fears and pushed on down the country road. The manor was quiet when I returned. No one hung from the balcony banister, and I heard no wailing from upstairs. The candles I had lit that morning had long since burned down, so I quickly replaced them with those I bought.

It is funny what a little candlelight can do for a room. With the evening sky and the candles lit, I almost felt very cozy in the parlor room. Safe, perhaps. I suppose I should draft something up for the Society. How do I report what happened today? Perhaps after some food, my thoughts will become clearer...

Till tomorrow.