The Mystery Of The Benson Manor

I had received an urgent letter from a gentleman by the name of Carlton Baxter in the year 1890, who described himself as a solicitor. In the letter, there was mention of a nobleman named Lord Mortimer Benson, which concerned me due to the mention of his deteriorating health.

This ambiguous patrician claimed to be a distant relative of the family, held in very high esteem, and had included me in his will. I sent a correspondence in reply, indicating my response, and I was summoned by this individual to present myself in person, by way of a formal invitation. Although I did not truly know Lord Benson, I decided to accept his cordial summons.

Upon the morrow, I departed for Yorkshire from London, with an eager intrigue that pressed upon me regarding the undisclosed enigma. Upon arriving at the estate before eventide, I beheld the haunting visage of Benson Manor. It exuded such a ghastly impression, as though the manor were watchful of my every step. The Gothic house stood by the banks of a river, which passed over the verge of a verdant moss.

A stone bridge over the river separated the grounds of the house from the village. Beyond the heather moorland to the north and east, there was a ridge. The main walled iris garden to the south of the building held rose beds, lawns, orchards and lily pads.

The windows were shadowy and vague, and the manor was partially cloaked in the antiquity of the surrounding vines, beneath the vigilant willow trees. A slight breeze could be felt from the vast moors as I descended from the carriage. A fond nostalgia immediately prevailed over me, as I thought of days of yore, when I had once rambled within the heath.

The manor had belonged to the Benson lineage ever since it was built by the late Viscount Reginald Benson the Third, over two centuries prior. When I stood before the front gate, I was formally greeted by Mr Baxter, whose countenance was grim and solemn.

‘Welcome to Benson Manor, sir! I would have hoped your visit were of a more convivial nature, and under different circumstances. However, as you are already aware, the revered Lord Mortimer Benson is dying—of an acute illness which the doctors dread will soon claim him.’

‘Indeed. I am eager to see him,’ I replied.

I was escorted up the stairway to his private chamber, entering alone with the utmost discretion. Inside, the room was gloomy and eerie, with heavy draperies obscuring the opaque window. A faint gleam of light filtered in at brief intervals throughout the day.

He lay in bed with a listless expression upon his pallid face. His hypersensitivity to light had worsened, and the faint gleam seemed to aggravate his condition. Wrapped in blankets for warmth, I couldn’t help but notice how wan his body appeared. He looked almost like a stiff, haggard corpse. His eyes were dilated, and his health seemed to be in a state of horrifying deterioration.

Mr Baxter had conveyed to me that it was a matter of days before he would succumb to the mysterious family illness, one that the doctors could not cure. As I drew closer, I touched his pulse, only to feel the cold, absent rhythm of his heart, beating slowly. His breathing was shallow. Then, he began to cough, and the effort to speak drained him, his voice barely audible, as a hypochondriac episode overtook him.

I was aghast, witnessing the horrendous discolouration of his condition. 'Lord Benson, it’s me, William. I’m here! Can you hear me clearly?' I asked.

Despite his weakness, he found enough strength to speak coherently, his voice soft yet deliberate.

'William, my boy, you are finally here. Good, now I can die in peace, as I had planned. But not before the will is read and effectuated,' he murmured.

His words startled and unnerved me to the core. 'Lord Benson, you claim to be a distant relative, but I have never been told of your existence. How are we related, my lord?' I asked.

Even in his frail state, my presence seemed to spark a momentary excitement in him. 'William, I am your lost and forgotten relative. Your father and I are cousins,' he replied.

Despite his ailment and suffering, my presence seemed to rouse him with a momentary excitement. 'William, I am your lost and forgotten relative. You see, your father and I are cousins,' he answered.

He paused, then continued, 'I am afeard I am dying, William, and I shall not live to fulfil the only promise I made to my devoted Elizabeth, my beloved wife. For I shall be shortly stone dead, my boy, and buried in the grounds of the estate afterwards, where all the Bensons of this manor have been interred.'

'Promise? What promise do you speak of, my lord?' I asked, bewildered.

He stared into my eyes, and I could see the depth of his languishing gaze as it peered into mine. 'That one of the male Bensons will take care of the manor! This is the reason, my boy, I have summoned you. You must be cautious and assume this responsibility to be included in the will, William.'

Again, he paused before continuing, 'Let me show you a small portrait of my beloved wife, in a trinket I hold dear. You did not know of her before your arrival, nor were you aware of the calculated stipulation that was established, and the ramifications that will occur afterwards, if implemented.'

'Indeed, my lord, I am very flattered that you have taken consideration of me in your salient will and have bequeathed me whatever you deem accordingly. But surely you must know that I need time to ponder this important decision. I was not prepared for this!'

He stared into my eyes once again, with sheer intensity, as his breathing grew shallow, stifled by his exertion and a moment of despair. 'Time, I am weak and I do not have time to waste, my boy. You must accept, you must, for the curse must be lifted, and you must not vex the Benson name. I put my trust in you to accomplish this worthy deed, my boy! If not, the manor will be irredeemable and will exact revenge upon the living members of the Bensons, including you. Eliza, Eliza, she must not leave this house! Heed my words!'

His ominous words seemed to be on the edge of hysteria, and though he was without reason, I sensed something more than mere frantic trepidation—something that hinted at an unfamiliar mystery. I called upon the doctor at once, thinking it was my responsibility to alert him to Lord Benson's agitation.

When the doctor arrived, he proceeded to calm Lord Benson and gave him some tea to soothe his nerves. It was effective, and gradually, Lord Benson fell asleep. We left him to rest, and I assured him that I would remain for a couple of days, returning to the chamber the following day to continue our conversation afresh.

Upon leaving Lord Benson’s chamber, I was escorted down the stairway by a servant and into the hall. The hall was adorned with trophies, a collection of arms, brown-wood furniture, and a fireplace. The pediments above the doorframes were intricately carved, some split with exquisite detail. Above the large fireplace, another finely crafted, triangular pediment surmounted a cartouche bearing the Viscount Benson family’s coat of arms—a dragon.

The stone floor was composed of intersecting squares and hexagons, with three arches on the north side of the chamber. There was also a unique portrait of the first Benson, whose premature death I had been told of by the solicitor, hung alongside the portraits of his direct descendants.

The ancient cornerstone, where the two walls met, seemed to echo the winds of the moorland beyond. The longcase clock in the oak hall struck at the beginning of every hour. Its monogram read "Mortimer Benson." A single walnut chest sat nearby, and the stairway was draped with tapestry, an arabesque allegory. The drawing room on the first storey was visible, and above the dreary fireplace, an imposing mirror dominated the overmantel, its reflection staring back at us as we passed.

In the loft above, there was a chamber that had once served as a scullery, now closed and abandoned for many years. The dining room, too, displayed mezzotints adorning the walls. But one thing struck me as both odd and coincidental—the portrait of a scion who bore a striking resemblance to myself.

‘Remarkably stunning, is it not? You look exactly the same as Lord Oliver Benson. Indeed, refinement runs strongly in the family,’ said a woman’s voice from behind me.

‘I did not see you standing there, my lady,’ I responded.

The young lady then introduced herself as Lady Elmira Benson, the daughter of Lord Benson. She was extraordinarily radiant and pulchritudinous, bearing a vestal guise that shone with a lucent and proud sparkle. Her long, flowing blonde hair framed her face, and her large, green eyes were nothing short of enchanting. The lively contours of her figure were narrow and appealing, accentuated by an elegant dress that seemed to reflect her noble presence.

My first impression of her was a pleasant one, though I was somewhat taken aback by her slight hauteur. Everything I had witnessed during my stay and my view of the manor had been dark and dismal. She, however, was a refreshing and gratifying presence amidst the otherwise crestfallen and troubling circumstances plaguing the estate.

‘I would give you a proper welcome to the manor, Lord Benson, but I see that you have already been welcomed,’ she said.

She then bowed her head. ‘I must ask your pardon, sir, for I was away on an errand. Ever since my father fell ill, I have had many responsibilities to attend to. Of course, I am grateful for Mr. Baxter’s loyal service to my father.’

‘No need to worry, Lady Benson. Mr. Baxter has shown me around the house, and I have spoken with and seen your father, Lord Benson,’ I replied.

The coat of arms caught my attention for some reason, and I felt an urge to enquire, ‘The coat of arms is a dragon. Is there a particular reason for this, my lady?’

She smiled and responded, ‘It is a symbol of the venerable origins of the Benson lineage. Legend has it that the inspiration was drawn from the Tudor family. But, of course, that is merely a speculative tale.’

‘Perhaps so, my lady, but it is most admirable.’

‘Please, let me escort you to your chamber at once, sir. I imagine you must be tired and hungry after your long journey,’ she suggested with a gentle conviction.

She noticed me yawning. ‘Yes, the trip was exhausting, and I would enjoy seeing more of the estate, but I shall rest and have dinner instead.’

Once inside the chamber, I rested and had dinner, though an eerie silence seemed to envelop the manor. I was told that the estate was only inhabited by Lady Elmira Benson and Lord Benson; the servants resided in a cottage adjoining the estate.

A Mrs. Linford tended to Lord Benson’s care day and night, while Lady Benson slept in a nearby chamber. As for my own chamber, it was located on the other side of the corridor, on the same upper storey. The unusual stillness was occasionally broken by the groaning of Lord Benson, when he was in discomfort.

That night, I pondered the haunting words of Lord Benson and the appalling condition to which he had deteriorated. I heard these sounds and more as the night wore on, with the moorland winds howling through the window. I eventually fell asleep, only to be roused by an inexplicable noise coming from the loft above.

At first, I had dismissed the noise as a mere occurrence of the manor, but then the sound gradually began to intensify. It was the unmistakable sound of a wretch in torment, and just as abruptly, it ceased. In its place, I heard the sound of heavy breathing just outside the guest chamber where I was staying. Soon after, the door handle turned, and the hasp creaked slightly.

For a brief moment, I suspected an intruder, or perhaps one of the servants wandering through the manor at such a late hour. I rose to my feet to investigate, but as I did, the strange sound disappeared. When I opened the door to the corridor, there was no one there. The place was dim, a darkness that seemed to envelope the entire hall. It felt like a vague nightmare I might have dreamt. After seeing that the corridor was empty, I returned to my chamber and managed to sleep for the remainder of the night.

The next morning, I awoke to a cold draught entering through the window, and I felt the chill in the corridor as I stepped out of my chamber. I noticed then that there was commotion coming from Lord Benson’s room. His door was wide open, and I could hear the voices of several people speaking.

'Good God, what has happened?' I asked as I entered.

'I hope we did not disturb your rest,' Lord Benson’s doctor said.

'I did not expect Lord Benson’s health to deteriorate so swiftly, just a day after my arrival. What has transpired, doctor, if I may ask?'

He looked into my eyes and replied, 'It appears he has suffered an epileptic attack, sir. Fortunately, Mrs. Linford arrived promptly and managed to save him from choking on his saliva. By the time I arrived, he was already resting, though the attack had left him incapacitated. He is no longer able to walk or move much in his legs.'

It was then that I was soon informed by Dr. Whitworth of the potential perils that had existed. He was very pensive but grateful that nothing more tragic had occurred. Lord Benson had almost succumbed to the grasp of death during the night, and that was alarming to imagine. He was remarkably fortunate enough to have survived the brutal episode.

Immediately, I thought of the bizarre noise I had perceived late last night in the narrow corridor. Could this be intertwined in some unique manner with the incident of yesterday? Mrs. Linford and the poor Lady Benson were present and both were understandably worried by the troubling incident. When I had discovered the terrible ordeal of Lord Benson, I was taken aback, and I sought to console Elmira, who was visibly shaken.

'I heard the news of what has betided Lord Benson, and know that you can confide in me, in whatever endeavour necessary, my lady,' I had told her.

She was gracious in her reply, 'Of course, sir!'

I thought it appropriate of me to leave, as the good doctor was present and Lord Benson was then well taken care of. Therefore, I had left his crowded chamber and returned to my own pensive thoughts. I went outside for a respite to breathe some fresh air from the countryside, as the fresh morning appeared to be active with the nascent elements of nature.

Once outside, I stood before the front gate on the rear side of the manor, staring off into the broad moorland. As I began to take in the interesting purlieu of the estate, I saw, when I turned around, the draperies from the loft above move, and a mysterious figure seemed to be peering down at me. The figure definitely arrested my curiosity, and I remained in a deep fixation at the draperies.

'It seems summa' 'as attracted thy attention, sir?' The lackey, Mr. Crowther, with his thick Yorkshire accent, enquired as he saw me standing outside.

'For a moment, I thought I saw someone up in the loft,' I answered.

'Int' loft theur seh, sir, it 'as bin abandoned for decades. Neya 'un 'as bin theear for years, except fert Lady Benson, whoa 'as t' keys, 'n occasionally 'as t' loft cleaned,' he acknowledged.

I then noticed the view of the endless rows of headstones that lay behind the manor. I headed towards them and saw three headstones, with three names in a row. The names were the following: Elizabeth Benson Hainsworth, Eliza Benson Hainsworth, and the third name was Mortimer Benson Glover.

The last headstone obviously surprised me, since the good Lord Benson had not yet died, but the lackey explained to me that, however morbid the headstone may appear with the epitaph bearing the name of Lord Benson, it was merely a token procedure for the preparation of his death. It was more of an adumbration of a foregone conclusion that was common in these parts of England.

What intrigued me the most was the strange headstone bearing the name of Eliza Benson Hainsworth. I was not truly aware of who this individual was in the end. I had presumed that the female was dead and buried here, but who was she?

'Pardon me, Mr. Crowther, but if I may ask, who was this woman with the name of Eliza Benson Hainsworth? Lord Benson mentioned her to me upon my arrival,' I spoke.

He replied, 'Elizeur wor t' beloved daughta o' Lut Benson, whoa did not survi' menny years. Unfortunately, sin shi wor born premature, shi wor not destined ta li' bur eur brief tahhm upon dis earth. Shi wor born fra t' womb o' 'a mutheur, bur nivva saw 'a mutheur ali'. Dis is orl ah kna, accordin ta wha' Lut Benson revealed ta me.'

His visage personified a look of uncertainty, and the hidden mystery of Eliza Benson was, for the first time, revealed to me. He informed me that, due to the difficult nature of Eliza's birth, Mrs. Benson had not survived the delivery.

Tragically, she had perished in the throes of labour and was thereafter interred within the estate’s grounds. It was a harrowing account Mr. Crowther had disclosed—another intimate secret of the manor of which I had been wholly unaware.

What else lay veiled within the shadowed halls of Benson Manor, tethered to its intrinsic and bizarre origins? The stranger I had seen behind the loft draperies remained a pending enigma that stirred my curiosity. Anon, Elmira approached and informed me that Lord Benson was requesting my presence, having found us both standing before the row of headstones conversing.

'Please come at once with me, for Father is demanding to see you this morning!'

'Why, of course. I am eager to see your father forthwith. Has the doctor left the manor?' I replied.

'Yes, for the nonce!' she answered.

Mr. Crowther excused himself, citing he had to attend to pressing duties of the estate.

When I entered Lord Benson’s chamber, he lay in his bed, whilst Mrs. Linford and the doctor were still present. An achromatic gloom pervaded the space that hung in the air. His appearance was now even more pallid and decrepit than before—a stark contrast to the hearty and vibrant man I had once known. There was something latent in his vapid countenance that I perceived as deeply disconcerting.

Soon after, everyone departed the chamber, granting me a moment of private conversation with Lord Benson. At first, his manner was apprehensive. His words were measured, even rational, yet they soon began to fray at the edges—becoming overwrought, teetering on the verge of unhinged rambling and petulant incoherency.

‘William, my boy, come hither. I am afeard I have not much time. I shall not survive the day—for reason has fled me and madness will consume this manor. I feel it burning the marrow of mine own conscience. Fie on the Devil that awaits my soul! Eliza—she lives. She lies within the manor!’ He gasped.

‘Lord Benson, please calm yourself, else I shall not be able to understand you,’ I replied.

I strove to soothe his hysteria, yet his defiance remained plain; even in death’s shadow, his urgency was patent. He clamoured for his powder of laudanum—his usual remedy for rheumatism—but as I was no physician, I promised to fetch Dr Whitworth. He would not suffer me to leave. I could only construe his frantic desperation as the faltering of his faculties.

Not wishing to distress him further, I acceded to his request. My manner was deferential until he uttered the name of Eliza—whom I believed was dead these twenty years. He refused to accept her passing and raved on in unsettling delirium.

‘No, no! What I must tell you cannot wait. I need to know your decision before I die, my boy!’

‘My lord, I have decided to honour your request. I shall ensure the manor remains in a Benson’s hands, and I shall assist Lady Elmira in whatever endeavour serves the estate’s welfare,’ I said, bowing my head.

A heavy sigh of relief escaped him. ‘Good. But you must promise never to leave this manor unattended. Never—never let Eliza leave these walls. Promise me this always, my boy!’

‘Lord Benson, Eliza—your daughter—is dead. She died twenty years ago,’ I replied gently.

‘No, no—she is alive! Eliza is not dead!’ He exclaimed.

‘Doctor, come at once. Lord Benson has gone mad, I fear, for he keeps repeating the name of Eliza, his dead daughter.’

The doctor entered at a run and immediately set about calming him, restoring some measure of emotional and physical stability. He administered Lord Benson’s powder of laudanum for relief, and I withdrew from the chamber to afford him privacy for a thorough examination. Mrs Linford assisted the good doctor, whilst I waited in the corridor, pondering the insoluble mystery of Eliza and the manor.

Once the doctor had sedated him sufficiently, Elmira slipped into the room. The doctor and I had been conferring on Lord Benson’s rapidly deteriorating state—it was plain he was far from well.

‘Elmira,’ I began, ‘if I may ask, why does your father keep repeating the name of Eliza, when she is indisputably dead?’

She looked momentarily taken aback, then answered with hesitant reluctance, ‘Oh, you must understand, sir…’

‘Please,’ I interjected, ‘call me William.’

She nodded. ‘William, you must understand that Father is seldom coherent. His words are too often coloured by delirium and illness. Eliza, my dearest sister, died many years ago. Poor Father—her memory, and Mother’s passing, still haunt him like a wretched spectre.’

‘So very sad,’ I murmured. ‘Doctor, if I may truly enquire, how long do you believe Lord Benson has to live?’

The doctor’s reply was terse: ‘Not long, sir.’

Before taking his leave, he handed me a leather-bound diary belonging to Lord Benson. I carried it back to my chamber and began to read its pages with meticulous attention.

The following entries were Lord Benson’s words and his alone. I pored over them, only to find myself confounded by his writing. Some pages were missing or torn out, but those that remained each began with a date and concluded with his signature—as though he intended the diary for a confidant.

What I found most compelling—and portentous—was one entry in which Lord Benson confessed that his daughter Eliza had, against all expectation, survived the harrowing delivery. Her premature birth, he wrote, had left her with an atrocious deformity covering much of her body, most appallingly upon her face. Heavy, scar-tissued networks marred her countenance and limbs, he described in chilling detail.

My immediate thought was: if Eliza were not dead, where could she possibly be concealed? I scoured in my mind every nook and cranny of the estate, yet no logical hiding-place presented itself.

Determined to untangle the mystery that bound the ancient manor and the Benson line, I turned to two further entries, each equally alarming and fascinating. I have condensed the relevant passages below.

18th November, 1878

It has been nearly ten years since the death of my beloved Elizabeth, and yet the abominable child that is my daughter Eliza still lives. The doctors have informed us that her hideous and grotesque deformity is irremediable, and that her erratic behaviour has altered her person and appearance beyond recognition.

She is said to suffer from conversion disorder—or, as one feared, phrenesis. Her symptoms are convulsions, intervals of incoherence, trauma, psychological distress, epilepsy and incontinence. Her blank stare, apathetic emotions and sudden, unsettling laughter have become daily spectacles, I must confess.

There was no prognosis, and I feared she would never know a normal human life, but remain a wretched orling. God forgive me, yet at times I entertained thoughts of abandoning her or consigning her to the care of benevolent monks. I could not bear this taint I had unwittingly begotten, and yet I was a God-fearing Christian, bound by the promise I made to Elizabeth—that I would care for her child until my own last breath.

24th October 1882

It has now been four years since Elizabeth’s death, and the doctor assures me that Eliza’s deformity grows ever more pronounced. For this reason, I have resolved to adopt a young girl from Wales, whom I have named Elmira.

The revelation staggered me: Elmira was not Lord Benson’s true daughter. The repellent, malformed Eliza alone bore his blood. Elmira—once a poor waif—had blossomed into a sylph; Eliza, by contrast, was condemned to a life of ostracism. A shiver of dread coursed through me as I pondered this dreadful secret, concealed from the world for decades.

That same day, as I sat in my chamber reading these entries, a faint sound from the loft above arrested my attention. Elmira would be busy with our ailing host in his chamber below, and the corridor lay silent. Summoning my resolve, I rose and made my way gently towards the narrow passage, compelled to uncover the source of that unsettling noise.

Once I had passed Lord Benson’s chamber, I continued upwards, ascending the spiral staircase that led to the loft above. Each step creaked beneath my weight, and a discreet caution guided my every movement. At last, I reached the surreptitious loft. A thin veil of dust blanketed the door, and an undeniable sense of unease had settled within me, seeping into my very thoughts.

My hand hovered over the brass knob. Just as I was about to turn it, a deep, heavy breathing emerged from behind the door. I froze.

At once, I was unnerved by the queer, guttural sound. I held my breath and stood still. Moments passed, and then the breathing ceased altogether. A chilling silence followed. I slowly stepped backwards, overcome with the realisation that something—or someone—lurked beyond the door. Could it truly be Eliza, Lord Benson’s deformed and hidden daughter?

If so, she had been confined like a feral creature, imprisoned as the shameful legacy of the Benson name.

Suddenly, voices echoed from the corridor below. I recognised them as Mrs Linford and Elmira. It was close to dinner hour, and I surmised Elmira would soon come to summon me. I needed to act swiftly.

I hastily descended the staircase, careful not to draw attention. Fortune favoured me, for a loud knocking resounded from the front door just then—it was Mr Baxter, returning late in the day after attending to the estate’s affairs, as Elmira had earlier instructed him.

Seizing the moment, I slipped unnoticed into my chamber. There I waited, still as stone, listening to the muffled conversations below. Presently, Mr Baxter joined Elmira in the hall, their voices drifting faintly upwards.

Soon after, a knock came at my door—Mrs Linford stood outside, informing me that Elmira wished to speak with me in the hall.

Composed and unhurried, I left the chamber and made my way down the stairs to meet them both, my mind still echoing with the breath from behind the loft door.

'William, it is well that you came so promptly. You see, it is imperative we speak on the matter of the will—Father has insisted the proceedings be expedited this very day', Elmira said, her voice tight with urgency.

'I must confess, I am not entirely prepared—but what matters more now is the reading of the will', I replied solemnly.

'Mr Baxter, you may proceed', Elmira gestured.

No sooner had Mr Baxter begun to read the document than a dreadful clamour erupted from above. A shriek tore through the manor—Mrs Linford’s voice, frantic and filled with terror.

'Help! Help!' She cried from upstairs.

We dashed up the staircase without hesitation, driven by alarm. Upon reaching Lord Benson’s chamber, we were met with a harrowing sight: the old man lay lifeless on the floor, his neck grotesquely twisted. Mrs Linford stood by in sheer horror, her hands trembling as she screamed, 'She—she killed him! That horrible woman!'

'Who? Who killed him?' I demanded, bewildered.

She turned to me, her eyes wild with shock, and as I grasped her arms to steady her, she uttered, 'Eliza. That monster... Eliza killed Lord Benson!'

'Elmira, what in God’s name is happening here? You knew all along—Lord Benson’s wretched daughter is alive!' I cried out. 'And now—dear God—she has murdered him and is roaming free in the manor!'

Elmira’s face turned pale. 'No, no—that cannot be. I had her sedated the entire time you were here. If she has escaped, then she may already be beyond the estate’s grounds'.

'Then it’s true—she never died', I exclaimed. 'We must act quickly. We must alert the authorities!'

But Elmira resisted. 'No! We cannot. The shame—the secret of the Bensons would be exposed to the world'.

'What are you saying, Elmira? Forget the damned will! We must find her—before it’s too late!' I shouted.

'Yes, yes—he is right, Lady Benson!' Mr Baxter cried out. 'We cannot allow her to escape the estate!'

We began the search across the manor, both upstairs and down. I ascended once more to the loft above; it lay forsaken in shadow, pervaded by a foul and fetid stench, as though time itself had rotted within. Mr Baxter and Mr Crowther scoured the grounds of the estate, whilst Elmira combed the corridors and lower chambers with an anxious heart.

Then—another clamour pierced the stillness—it came from the chamber of Lord Benson once again. Mrs Linford’s voice rose in another scream for help. As I was nearest, I rushed forth with haste.

Upon entering, I beheld a harrowing sight: Mrs Linford lay dead upon the floor, her neck grotesquely twisted like a broken marionette. Standing above her corpse, clutching her lifeless throat still, was the very figure I had dreaded—the grotesque Eliza.

The daughter thought long dead now stood before me in pitiful and ghastly form. Her gown hung from her like tattered funeral drapery, her bare feet blackened with filth. Long strands of matted hair veiled her disfigured face, but not enough to obscure the sickening ruin of her features—scars carved deep into her flesh, a crooked mouth slick with drool, and most terrible of all, those wide, spectral eyes that glowed with a deranged malevolence. She was no longer merely a woman—she was the walking revenant of grief and vengeance, a succubus cloaked in flesh.

I fell back in horror as she loomed over me, a shadow of fury incarnate. Without warning, she lunged, her claws—nails long as needles—raked across my cheek like tempered blades. Blood spilled, warm and immediate. She seized me by the throat, tightening her grip with monstrous resolve.

'Eliza!' I gasped through the constriction, 'Eliza—you are not a monster... You are a woman!'

At that utterance, she paused. Her grip slackened. Silence descended like a velvet shroud. She stared at me—truly stared—and in those terrible eyes I glimpsed a soul fractured, not void. A single tear welled and fell from her eye, tracking a clean path down her ruined cheek.

Then came the shrill cry of Eliza echoing through the manor. My name on her lips was a clarion of dread.

The moment of softness fled from her frame, and rage surged anew in her breath. Rising to her feet with a ghastly howl, she awaited her sister with vengeance on her mind.

Elmira burst into the room—and Eliza was upon her.

The clash of sisters—one abandoned, one ashamed—was dreadful to behold. Elmira struggled beneath the wrath of her long-neglected kin, gasping as Eliza's hands coiled round her neck. Vengeance poured from the disfigured woman, her strength horrifyingly pure, born of years in shadows and silence.

And I—bloodied, broken—could only watch in helpless terror as sister warred against sister in that cursed chamber of the Benson legacy.

'No! You cannot kill me, sister!' Elmira cried desperately. 'I have kept you alive all these years—as Father instructed me to! Think of him—our beloved father! Think of your mother! You are not a monster, Eliza!'

For a fleeting moment, the invocation of their mother pierced the veil of fury. Eliza's grip faltered, her breath caught in a staggered sob. But the storm had not passed. Her face twisted with a deeper sorrow, and from her lips came a damning whisper:
'No... I am not the monster. You—and he—are the monsters'.

And then, with the cold precision of long-harbored wrath, she snapped Elmira’s neck.

I could scarce breathe. My limbs frozen, I could only watch as Eliza rose and turned her burning eyes upon me, her final target.

With desperate instinct, I kicked a nearby lamplight. The flame burst forth, catching on the heavy draperies and dry wood of the chamber. In moments, the fire covered the walls and spread with an insatiable hunger, drawing towards her with a merciless disquietude.

Eliza shrieked as the blaze consumed her. Her form writhed in flame, a silhouette of agony wreathed in fire and smoke. I scrambled to my feet and fled the inferno, lungs choked with the thick black of burning legacy.

Down the stairway I fled—past the silent corpses of Lord Benson, Mrs Linford, and Elmira—leaving behind the chamber and its cursed embers. Outside, the chill night air struck my face with the sharpness of reality.

There, amidst the hedgerows, I saw Mr Baxter and Mr Crowther. They had seen the fire rising from the east wing and come running.

'Mih God, wha’s occurred, sir?' Cried Mr Crowther, his eyes wide with horror.

I took a trembling breath, trying to steady the chaos in my chest. 'There—in the chamber', I said hoarsely, 'that terrible being… she killed them. All of them.”

'Who? Who, sir?' Asked Mr Baxter, his face gone pale.

'Eliza Benson,' I answered. 'She has killed Lord Benson, Mrs Linford… and poor Elmira'.

'May God ’ave mercy on their souls', Mr Crowther whispered, removing his hat with reverence.

'Yes!' I replied, voice hollow, 'may God have mercy on their souls'.

'Yes, Mr Crowther, may God have mercy on their souls', I had uttered.

We stood from afar, watching as the once-glorious manor crumbled into ruin. In the waning light, the smoke rose like a funeral shroud, and within hours, all that remained of the Benson Manor was smoldering rubble. The mystery that had long clung to those walls, like ivy in shadow, had finally been laid bare—though at a terrible cost.

In time, the tale of the deformed daughter, of murder, fire, and madness, faded into idle village gossip. The manor itself was lost to memory, reclaimed by the moor and mist. Only ghost stories remained—tales whispered at hearths and in taverns, where children dared each other to visit the hollow where the manor once stood.

Yet not all was lost to legend. The plentiful headstones within the old estate still stood, gray and unmoved. And amongst them now lay new ones—those of Elmira, of Lord Benson, and of the unfortunate Mrs Linford. I, the reluctant heir, came to possess the vast properties named in Lord Benson’s will, as no other kin remained. Mr Baxter remained as my solicitor, and Mr Crowther continued in my employ.

So it is, and so it was. The gravestones endure, but the darkness of the Benson family lingers still—silent, secret, unseen. They say the spirit of Eliza Benson roams the moorland yet, her wailing voice drifting through the night air like a dirge for the forgotten. All is what it seems, and more, within an unusual mystery.

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