The Secret

The echoic sound of the wuthering winds stirred the murklins of the moorland, and the whistling shrieks of the ghosts roaming could be heard along with the distant howls of the mastiffs. Yonder, perched on the crags of a hillside overlooking the broad dale, stood a secluded home in Yorkshire, known as Strudwick Manor. The tempestuous weather was foreboding—an omen of the events to come. The disturbing nature of those events would unleash a horror merciless in its persecution.

The English countryside is a place where time is forgotten and where the phantoms of the past encounter the mortals of the present. Amongst them lingered an indelible vestige, whose haunting imagery evoked sudden terror—a terror that had long concealed the horrendous secret of a manor. Located on the outskirts of Halifax and constructed in the late 18th century, the manor had belonged to a nobleman known as Lord Alfred Strudwick.

It was the year 1938. Richard Berwick had arrived from London with several of his closest acquaintances in a motorcar. He was an architect, assigned the task of remodelling the abandoned manor. Aside from Mr Berwick, the key figures involved in this tale were Mr Thomas Cardew, Mr Robert Bracknell, and Miss Barbara Hutchins, all of whom had some role in the renovation project.

The manor boasted a front gateway, and within its grounds were imposing griffin statues perched atop stone masonry. There were high stone walls, classical pillars, a peculiar coat of arms, the remnants of crenellations, and a crumbling gatehouse with baluster mullions. Carved stonework bore inscriptions in Latin. The ornate windows and the unusual front façade were cloaked in verdant vines and moss, encompassing the vast, castellated edifice.

Once inside, the visitors were struck by its desolate and forlorn appearance. A pall of gloom hung over the once illustrious manor. Neglect was everywhere. The chairs and tables in the main hall were dusty and dilapidated, just as in the dining room. They were in dire need of refurbishment. Rust had left specks of verdigris on the fittings. The stairway lacked a proper banister and its varnish was worn away. The wooden floor planks creaked ominously with each step.

The manor consisted of two storeys, though most of the rooms were unkempt and untouched for decades. Persian rugs were torn; Oriental tapestries faded and threadbare. The dining hall, too, was cold and forgotten. The hearth bore no igneous spark. The parlour stood silent and empty. Chandeliers hung precariously from the ceiling, and the gallery was bereft of paintings or any semblance of art. Beneath lay an unused cellar, and the windows had long since lost their decorative tracery and fenestration.

A miasma of despair pervaded the corridors, as if the history of those who once dwelled there had been purposefully effaced. Why this had occurred remained a mystery to be unravelled.

Mr Berwick concentrated his time on remodelling the most essential parts of the manor first, leaving the lesser areas for later. He spoke often with the others about his vision and his expectations for the project. He had a budget and could not afford to exceed its limits significantly.

Working within these constraints, he closely observed the interior structure of the house. He made a calculated assumption that the former elegance of the manor could be resurrected from the ruins of its present decadence. It was difficult to imagine such refinement amidst so much disrepair, yet Mr Berwick was confident in his knowledge and skill.

What Mr Berwick did not fully appreciate was the extent of the manor's history, nor its vital connection to its original owner, Lord Strudwick. He was more focused on architectural restoration than any deeper exploration of its past.

As the party gathered in the main hall, admiring a portrait of Lord Strudwick and conversing quietly, Miss Hutchins noticed the solitary figure of a young girl standing in one of the adjacent corridors. She was stunned at first—then intrigued. Was the girl truly there?

The child she saw was of short stature, with locks of blond hair and eyes of sable hue. What marked her as peculiar was her blanched pallor. There had been no indication that anyone still dwelled in the manor. It had long been assumed to be abandoned.

Miss Hutchins alerted the others, but when they turned to look, the girl had vanished. It was a strange event—just the first of several to follow, all of which bore the signs of a preternatural origin. Miss Hutchins remained deeply unsettled. She was certain of what she had seen.

Who was the mysterious girl? Was the manor haunted? These questions lingered in her mind, and the unsettling atmosphere of the house offered no comfort. The visitors were soon to face a series of seemingly inconsequential incidents—each inexplicable, yet undeniably linked to a gruesome chapter of familial disgrace.

A distant storm gathered after the brume lifted from the moors, as Mr Bracknell stood gazing from a main hall window. Mr Berwick had earlier discovered a cache of letters in Lord Strudwick’s bedchamber—oddly composed, full of elaborate language yet revealing little. They spoke of lavish soirees and sartorial indulgences, as Lord Strudwick was an aesthete with a flair for decadence.

There were mentions of his children—three in total, one son and two daughters—but oddly, their names were never disclosed. His wife, too, was referenced only in passing, with her name conspicuously absent. Even in personal correspondence, Lord Strudwick was curiously secretive.

As more letters surfaced and hidden passages were discovered—concealed exits and entrances leading from room to room—the visitors’ curiosity intensified. Each detail uncovered deepened the enigma of the manor. The nobleman’s anonymity was but a prelude to the horror yet to come.

What the visitors did not know was that a long-ago tragedy had marred the Strudwick family name. Lord Strudwick had amassed a vast fortune, but with it came enemies and indiscretions—scandals, debts, and insatiable whims that led him towards an inevitable descent into madness. His final acts were shrouded in secrecy, and the truth had been buried with him.

Mr Berwick found himself brooding over these revelations. There was so much still to discover within the manor’s walls—intricate secrets waiting to be unearthed. One such treasure was the private library, still largely intact, containing a vast and eclectic collection of books, their pages coated in the filaments of ancient cobwebs.

For practical reasons, Mr Berwick had enlisted a local caretaker, Mr Paul Manthorne, to oversee the property in their absence. During their stay in the area, the group took rooms at a comfortable inn in Halifax. Yet as they departed the estate one afternoon, Miss Hutchins once again saw the young girl.

This time, she stood watching them from one of the upper windows near the front entrance. Silent. Still. A shadow from the past refusing to be forgotten.

This had discomposed Miss Hutchins for a moment, until the car had reached the dirt road leading out of the estate. Apparently, the others had not seen the young girl at the window. This would make Miss Hutchins ponder the nature of her appearance along the way to Halifax. There was a luminous ring around the moon that night, which was portentous in its representation.

The following morning, when the visitors returned to the manor, they discovered that someone had entered the house—and it was not the caretaker they had contracted, Mr Manthorne. When asked about who had entered the manor, the caretaker replied that he was not aware of any forced intrusion.

There was an eeriness that had been hovering over the moorland that day, due to intervals of inclement weather, which was typical for the season. The observant griffins at the front door were imposing in their stone forms. Fresh footfalls were spotted, and some of the chairs in the main hall had been moved, as well as several paintings. A number of oil lamps had been lit. Most troubling of all, however, was a chilling admonition written across one of the scribable surfaces of the wall: the emphatic words 'Get out!'

This was disconcerting to the visitors, for they had not expected such a dire welcome. Mr Berwick concluded that it must have been some sort of mischievous prank. The question remained—who had written those words? Was it a random act or a deliberate ploy devised to scare them away?

‘Who could have written these words?’ Enquired Mr Bracknell.

‘Someone must have entered the manor whilst we were gone’, answered Mr Berwick.

‘Who could it be?’ Mr Cardew insisted.

‘I haven’t the faintest idea who that individual could be’.

‘What if it was written by a ghost?’ Miss Hutchins suggested.

‘What do you mean?’ Mr Berwick asked with bemusement.

‘I’d like to know that too!’ Mr Bracknell interjected.

‘I don’t mean to befuddle either of you gentlemen, but yesterday, as we were departing the manor, I saw the image of the young girl I had seen in the corridor. She was at the window by the front door, staring at us’.

‘Are you certain about that?’ Mr Berwick asked, intrigued.

‘Yes. I think so’.

Whoever had written those words on the wall had left a vivid impression on the minds of the visitors. The longer they stayed inside the hollow manor, the more unsettling the atmosphere became. The grand façade of the architecture from the outside belied the ruin within.

It was difficult to determine whether or not a person other than Mr Manthorne could have written those words and been so blatant in doing so. Mr Bracknell was convinced that it was the caretaker; Mr Cardew suspected an intruder or thief. Miss Hutchins tried to convince the others that it was the ghost of the young girl.

This notion was considered unlikely, yet they could not definitively prove whether it was a person or not. Nor could they accuse Mr Manthorne. For the time being, they dismissed the incident and proceeded with their plans for the renovations of the manor.

As the days passed, another unexpected incident would occur. This time, as they were gathered in the dining hall surveying a small hole that had opened in the roof and caused a leak, Miss Hutchins saw a dark shadow swiftly pass along the corridor.

The men were too preoccupied with the leak to notice the shadow. Miss Hutchins followed it into the corridor, until it vanished into the wall. There hung a solitary mirror on one side of the corridor. Slowly, Miss Hutchins stopped and looked directly into the mirror. Suddenly, the wax candles underneath it were lit, and the sound of deep breathing became audible. The shadow then manifested into three shadows of young children, with ebony eyes full of dread.

Miss Hutchins screamed in fright. The men, hearing her terrified cry, rushed to her side. She was visibly shaken. When the men arrived, the images of the children had vanished.

‘What happened, Miss Hutchins?’ Asked Mr Berwick.

‘The children. I saw the faces of the children!’ She replied.

‘What children are you referring to?’ Mr Cardew asked with interest.

‘The Strudwick children, I believe!’

‘Where did you see them?’ Mr Bracknell enquired.

‘In the mirror!’ Miss Hutchins exclaimed.

‘I’m afraid I don’t see anything,’ Mr Berwick confessed.

‘Am I the only one who sees the children? Am I going mad then?’

‘No. I wouldn’t suggest that. The manor has a rather disturbing feeling to it, which could well unnerve the mind’.

‘Then you think I’m conjuring these images in the back of my mind?’

‘Those are your words, not mine, Miss Hutchins. Perhaps it would be best if we left the manor and returned tomorrow. There’s not much else we can do today’.

‘I agree’, the others concurred.

Within the week, they had sufficient funds to contract the necessary people for the remodelling to be carried out, and the new furniture to be installed. It was decided that within two weeks they would begin. Miss Hutchins, who was an interior designer, would be responsible for the decorations within the manor. Mr Berwick and the other gentlemen were in charge of restoring the former elegance of the exterior. It was of great importance that they could help Strudwick Manor regain its stately appeal and grandeur.

It was a tall task to achieve, but the architects and designer were highly proficient in their abilities. They had been selected due to their sterling credentials and came highly recommended. Still, Miss Hutchins remained affected by her encounters with what she believed to be the ghosts of the Strudwick children. Yorkshire was a vast and mysterious region, filled with untold tales and haunted histories.

The previous night had seen rainfall, and there was a damp dew that had seeped through the casement windows, causing the leak in the dining hall to spread by morning. There was no electricity in the house as they walked along the dim corridors, observing the decaying wood of the panelling, with only the occasional lightning flash from the moors and their handheld torches to guide them.

The wind still made its peculiar sound, a constant reminder of their isolated surroundings. Despite these abnormalities, they were able to traverse all of the rooms and complete their observations. Mr Manthorne was relieved of his duties until Mr Berwick summoned him upon their departure.

Before he left, Mr Berwick was keen to learn more about the Strudwick family’s history. Mr Manthorne’s answers, however, were ambiguous and reserved.

‘Mr Manthorne, you’re from this area. What can you tell me about the history of the Strudwick family?’

‘What exactly do you wish to know, sir?’

‘Who was Lord Strudwick?’

‘I’ve never met any direct relatives. I’ve heard they live elsewhere in England. As for Lord Strudwick, I’m afraid I can’t tell you much—except that he had his fair share of enemies, sir’.

‘And his children? What can you tell me about them?’

‘You mean Sara, Michael, and Eve?’ He paused, as though their memory gave him momentary pause.

‘Those poor children were doomed from the start. They never had a chance with their demented father’.

‘What do you mean—demented?’

‘Pay no mind to me, sir. I’ve a bad habit of prying into the affairs of others. That’s all I know of them. It’s been centuries. If you’ll excuse me, I must return to the gatehouse’.

‘We’ll continue our discussion another time. You may go, Mr Manthorne’.

Mr Berwick suspected that Mr Manthorne was withholding information about the Strudwick family. Why so silent on the topic? And why had he paused when discussing the children? These questions troubled Mr Berwick.

Lord Strudwick appeared to have been a contentious figure, and from the letters Mr Berwick had read, he seemed a man full of rodomontade. For the time being, Mr Berwick set aside these oddities and focused on the renovations. But as time passed, the unexplained phenomena in the manor escalated. Suspicion turned into a creeping apprehension that slowly took hold of them all.

Their presence was being perceived by unseen eyes—perhaps the former residents of the manor, who had long since passed into the shroud of time and death. The possibility of wandering spirits began to manifest more plainly with each unnatural occurrence. Though the times had changed, stories of the undead have always lingered in the minds of those willing to believe.

Mr Berwick, Mr Bracknell, and Mr Cardew stood outside, observing the imposing structure and the stone griffins when they heard a blood-curdling scream from inside.

It was Miss Hutchins, utterly terrified. When they reached her, her wide blue eyes were full of terror. She was shivering uncontrollably and repeated only one thing: she had seen—not one—but three apparitions again.

‘Are you certain what you saw were truly ghosts, Miss Hutchins?’ Mr Berwick asked.

Once she regained her composure, she said, ‘If what you call ghosts are the spirits that wander this manor, then yes—they were ghosts!’

‘What did they look like?’ Mr Cardew asked.

‘They were small children—but I cannot forget their piercing eyes’.

‘What was so peculiar about their eyes?’ Mr Bracknell asked insistently.

‘They were white—and bleeding’.

‘I can only imagine the dread you must have experienced, Miss Hutchins’, said Mr Berwick.

The notion of phantoms roaming the manor should have deterred them—but Miss Hutchins insisted on continuing. She needed the money and felt it was her duty. The men promised not to leave her alone in the manor; she would always be accompanied.

Notably, she was the only one so far to have seen the ghosts with her own eyes—but she would not be the last. A gripping silence held them for a moment, as they reflected on the incident.

Then, the moment was broken by the screeching sound of pestiferous rats gnawing at the wooden planks beneath them. The shrill cries of bats came from the cellar. Foolishly, Mr Bracknell opened the cellar door—and a flurry of black bats came rushing out into the corridor, flapping wildly. Poor Miss Hutchins, utterly discomposed, fainted.

When she recovered, the sight of the bats had left her visibly shaken and petrified. The cellar door was closed at once, and the bats were cleared from the manor. Mr Cardew drove Miss Hutchins back to the inn at Halifax.

It was doubtful she would return, given her state of mind. Mr Berwick and Mr Bracknell, who remained behind, were deeply puzzled by the events. First the griffins, then the apparitions, then the rats—and now the bats. Yet it was the apparitions that disturbed Mr Berwick the most.

Quickly, his project to renovate the house was becoming increasingly preoccupied with the disturbing and haunting nature of the manor. Mr Berwick was eager to resolve the enigma of the ghosts. He could rationalise the terror he had witnessed in the form of rats, bats, the wind, and the moorland. Yet neither he nor Mr Bracknell could fully comprehend the apparent personification of the phantoms within the manor.

Such eerie coincidences were implausible to fathom. What was certain to them was the distressing reality of their predicament. What they could not know was the irrepressible evil that clung to Lord Strudwick. He alone inspired instant fear and demanded retribution. The manor stood as a horrid representation of the perversion of his abominable deeds. Its isolation and ruination were both the consequence and reflection of one man's uncontrollable avarice and boundless dominion.

When they returned to the inn at Halifax that evening, their concern was focused on the well-being of Miss Hutchins. They found her still visibly affected by the incident at Strudwick Manor, though she was willing to return, determined to confront her fears with characteristic long-suffering patience.

Mr Cardew was not wholly convinced it was wise. Ultimately, it was Miss Hutchins’ decision. The manor had been left in the care of Mr Manthorpe. Mr Bracknell was adamant in laying blame at the caretaker’s feet. He simply did not trust the man. Yet he had no concrete evidence linking him to the strange occurrences at the manor.

It was more a matter of instinct and the unease he felt in the man’s presence. Still, this was not sufficient reason to warrant outright distrust. Nor could they find a replacement willing to endure the manor’s peculiarities. The incidents became increasingly unpredictable. Though there had been precedents, it was impossible to anticipate what would come next. Mr Berwick could not, under these circumstances, in good conscience hire workmen to continue the renovations, fully aware that the manor was haunted. This was his unforeseen dilemma.

Nevertheless, he felt compelled to continue the project and honour his commitment. He would not be deterred by unexplained phenomena. The others had shown willingness and resolve to see the work through. Mr Berwick had made no great effort to persuade them—they already believed in the task and had been promised generous compensation for their service. The financial rewards tied to the project were fair. The matter of the ghosts was something they would have to endure if they were to succeed in their endeavour.

Morning brought the typical, unstable weather of the moorland, where heather and bracken covered the land and the wuthering wind blew with a restless roar. Mr Berwick, being from London, was unaccustomed to such sudden and extreme shifts in weather.

The rain itself did not bother him. It was the incessant wind that seldom ceased and often unsettled them. Once at the manor, they focused their efforts on finalising the architectural plans for the renovations. Their provisional work was nearly complete. Mr Berwick had a clear vision for how the renovations should proceed. Mr Bracknell, however, feared that few men would dare enter the manor if they knew of its hauntings. They would need to hire workers from outside the area, men unaware of the manor’s dark reputation.

There was a local Anglican parish within Halifax. Mr Cardew suggested they request the rector’s blessing for the house. It did not seem a bad idea to the others, but would it be enough to extricate the malevolent presence that had taken hold of Strudwick Manor?

To what extent could they even comprehend the evil lurking in the manor’s halls and corridors? Before proceeding to the manor, they stopped by the parish to speak with the rector. His name was Father Alister Barnes.

It felt somewhat awkward to make such a request, but their curiosity—and desperation—compelled them to ask whether they could rid themselves of the ghosts’ influence once and for all. They could no longer afford further delays or disruptions. Mr Berwick and Mr Bracknell entered the church, whilst Mr Cardew and Miss Hutchins remained in the car, impatiently waiting. They found the rector collecting prayer books from the pews. He was alone.

‘Good morning, Father. I hope our unannounced visit has not intruded on your duties’.

‘Not at all, gentlemen. What may I do for you?’

They introduced themselves and shook hands. ‘My name is Richard Berwick, and this is my colleague Robert Bracknell. We’ve come with a small request, Father’.

‘What sort of request, gentlemen?’

‘We were wondering if you might bless the manor we are in the process of renovating’.

‘Which manor do you refer to?’

‘Strudwick Manor’, replied Mr Berwick.

There was a pause. For a moment, the rector’s eyes revealed hesitation. Mr Berwick sensed that he was familiar with the manor’s dark history. After a moment’s silence, he responded, ‘I’m afraid I shan’t be of much assistance to you, gentlemen’.

‘May I ask why, Father?’ Enquired Mr Berwick.

‘I shall be leaving the area for a week’.

‘Is there anything we could say to persuade you to reconsider?’ Asked Mr Bracknell.

‘I rather suspect, Father, that you know the secrets of the Strudwick family. What happened in that manor—and to the children?’ Pressed Mr Berwick.

‘I don’t believe you truly want to know the truth’, he replied gravely.

As they departed, the rector paused and then said he would accompany them—just this once. They left the parish and arrived at the manor, where Father Barnes began blessing the premises both outside and within. He was clearly unnerved by the imposing statues of griffins. The rumours of haunting had long circulated, and the legacy of Lord Strudwick inspired fear among locals.

As the rector moved through the house, sprinkling holy water, an eerie howling echoed across the moorland. Mr Berwick and the others waited at the front door, tense with anticipation.

They heard the distant baying of mastiffs. Silence fell among them—until it was shattered by a bloodcurdling scream. Mr Berwick and Mr Bracknell rushed toward the source of the sound, while Mr Cardew and Miss Hutchins remained behind. They found the rector’s lifeless body. His eyes had been viciously plucked from their sockets by two jet-black ravens perched upon him.

It was a grotesque sight. Both men were horrified. Yet this was merely a prelude to the unspeakable horror still to come. As they stared in shock, a knock sounded at the front door. Mr Cardew answered it. Standing there was Mr Manthorpe, holding two black mastiffs on taut leashes—the very same dogs whose howling had echoed from the moor.

‘Mr Manthorpe, what are you doing with those fearsome mastiffs?’

He smiled with a wicked grin. ‘I’ve come to feed the dogs, sir’.

‘Feed the dogs? There’s no food here’, said Mr Cardew.

‘I think he means us’, whispered Miss Hutchins, blanched with fear.

There was a strange, selcouth look in Mr Manthorpe’s eyes—mad, possessed, and coldly indifferent. Without another word, he released the hounds. The mastiffs lunged, savagely attacking Mr Cardew. Miss Hutchins, the intended second victim, managed to flee into one of the corridors to alert the others. Mr Cardew was left to die, bleeding and lifeless.

Upon hearing the commotion, the others saw Miss Hutchins in a state of hysteria, unable at first to speak of what she had seen.

‘Miss Hutchins, what is it?’ Asked Mr Bracknell.

She stammered, trembling, before blurting, ‘Those bloody mastiffs have killed Mr Cardew!’

‘What mastiffs?’ Mr Berwick exclaimed.

‘The ones at the front door!’ She cried.

Mr Berwick grabbed a decorative sword from the main hall, and Mr Bracknell did the same. It wasn’t a gun, but it was the only weapon available. Miss Hutchins clung to them.

When they found Mr Manthorpe, he was calmly seated in the dining hall, dishevelled, the mastiffs by his side. A cold wind blustered in through the torn draperies. In one part of the manor lay Father Barnes’ body. In another, the remains of Mr Cardew. They stared at the caretaker in disbelief, unable to comprehend how he remained so calm amidst such carnage.

Mr Berwick and Mr Bracknell held firmly on to their weapons, uncertain of what to expect from Mr Manthorpe’s behaviour. Why would he be complicit in the death of Mr Cardew? What would cause him to be so cold-blooded? They had demanded answers from him.

'What the bloody hell is going on here, Mr Manthorne?' Mr Berwick raised his voice.

The caretaker grinned before replying, 'You should never have come here to the manor, Mr Berwick'.

'What are you talking about?'

'The manor. You see, it has a history that neither of you will ever comprehend. It has a life of its own. There is a presage you failed to perceive'.

'What are you hiding from us? Is this about Lord Strudwick?'

'Clever, aren’t you, Mr Berwick? Yes! You see, Lord Strudwick brutally murdered his children in this very manor'.

'But what does that have to do with you?'

'Everything. You see, Lord Strudwick had an illegitimate bastard son—my own kin. That’s how I’m related to Lord Strudwick'.

'That doesn’t answer the question. Why have you done all of this?'

'Because I cannot allow an outsider to take possession of the manor. It belongs to me!'

'Did you kill the rector?'

'Nay! He was slain by the presence of the manor. I told you—it has a life of its own”.

'Have you gone mad?' Asked Mr Bracknell.

'Perhaps I have, sir. But it is too late for all of you'.

'Too late? What are you planning to do with us?' Mr Berwick insisted.

'It is not what I shall do to you, but what they shall do!'

He then released the minacious mastiffs upon Mr Berwick and the others. Miss Hutchins scurried out into the corridor, whilst the men fought the mastiffs with their rusty swords. The powerful beasts were too much for Mr Cardew, who, regrettably, succumbed to their ferocious bites and later died.

Mr Berwick managed to fend off the mastiffs and escape their massive jaws. In the corridor, he found Miss Hutchins cowering in a ball, paralysed with fear, and led her towards the front door, hoping to flee the manor and the clutches of the mastiffs. The beasts pursued them and reached the front door. It seemed the fate of Mr Berwick and Miss Hutchins was tragically sealed.

Mr Manthorne had ordered the mastiffs to kill them, but a preternatural force thwarted their attack. Suddenly, the heavy chandeliers crashed down upon the mastiffs, killing them instantly. Something—or someone—had caused the chandeliers to fall. It could not be dismissed as mere coincidence.

Then, from the surreptitious shadows of the Stygian corridor, three spectres appeared. They were the three Strudwick children, their sable eyes glimmering with dread. They had come for Mr Manthorne. They would not allow him or the mastiffs to kill again. Sensing the horror that approached, Mr Manthorne attempted to flee, but was set upon by the wild bats that still lingered in the cellar.

The cellar door burst open, releasing the erumpent bats in a great flurry. Mr Manthorne swung desperately at them and tried to defend himself, but he gradually collapsed and succumbed to his wounds. His face was soon covered in the scarlet hue of blood.

Mr Berwick and Miss Hutchins were spared, though they knew not why. The once-haunting image of the Strudwick children would terrify them no longer. It was Mr Berwick’s first time seeing them. Miss Hutchins had seen them previously. The ghosts uttered no words. They simply stood there, watching. It was impossible to forget what had occurred that day.

The shutters flapped violently as the windows flung open, letting in a fierce birr of wind. The children then vanished into the whistling whispers of the gale. Mr Berwick realised their appearance was a warning—for anyone who dared to dwell in the manor. They would not be welcomed. The dreadful eyes of the children had pierced deeply into the minds of Mr Berwick and Miss Hutchins. Their warning was to be heeded by the remaining survivors.

The implacable horror was tied to the inimical force of evil conjured by Lord Strudwick upon his death. Mr Berwick discovered that Lord Strudwick had been a practising warlock during his lifetime centuries ago, involved in a satanic perversion of unprecedented malevolence. His sins were embedded in the unyielding terror that continued to haunt Strudwick Manor.

The portentous presage looming over the manor remained intact for any individual who dared to defy its ghostly inhabitants. The poor children were innocent victims of their father’s tyranny and had become trapped within the evil of the manor. Before his death, Lord Strudwick had cast a malediction. The children were never granted a proper burial by their rapacious father. Their graves had remained nameless for countless decades.

However, upon learning this, Mr Berwick took it upon himself to engrave their names on their grey headstones: Sara Strudwick Basildon, Michael Strudwick Basildon, and Eve Strudwick Basildon. Neither Mr Berwick nor Miss Hutchins would ever return to Strudwick Manor.

Rumours of their terrifying encounters brought all renovation efforts to a halt. The horrendous consequences they experienced were incomparable to any known phenomenon, and the deaths of their companions—including the rector—were not easily dismissed.

The manor was left untouched and abandoned for the remainder of the 20th century, cloaked beneath eldritch clouds and the unholy remnants of twilight above the craggy moors, where the river forever flows with currents of stammel blood, ever and anon.

Yorkshire was soon covered in the hoar of snow, borne upon the hypenemious gust that left behind glistening icicles hanging from the boughs of rimed ash trees. The local kinsfolk claim they have seen strange silhouettes at the break of dawn—reflections of something otherworldly. It is said that the dead are never truly dead, and from amidst the blossoming blooms of spring, wending upon the wuthering winds, roam the ghosts of the Strudwick children.

Some weeks had passed since the events at Strudwick Manor. The Yorkshire winds no longer howled with the same ghastly pitch, though they still bore with them a whisper of the past, like a cry etched into the vale. Mr Berwick, now a recluse in his modest home on the outskirts of Whitby, refused to utter much of what had occurred. The local constabulary had closed the case as an unexplained tragedy, for there were no living witnesses who dared offer the full account.

Mr Berwick sat daily before the fire, staring blankly into the dancing flame, his eyes lost in memory’s haze. Though spared from death, he had not been spared from horror. Each night he was visited by visions—not of the Strudwick children, but of the manor itself. He saw its long corridors, the flickering gas lamps, the sinister portraits that hung on its mouldering walls. They beckoned to him in dreams, sometimes speaking in tongues no longer used, sometimes merely pointing toward the locked room near the east wing—the room none of them had dared to open.

He had since scoured historical records, poring over yellowed documents and faded genealogies in the York archives. It was there he discovered further evidence that confirmed Lord Strudwick’s affiliation with a coven known as Custodes Tenebris—Keepers of the Darkness. Their rituals had been banned under the laws of the Crown in the late 17th century. Yet somehow, Lord Strudwick had evaded both exile and execution. Berwick found a cryptic Latin phrase recurring in the margins of these old papers: 'Mortem nobis non sufficit; in umbris vivimus'. Death is not enough for us; we live in the shadows.

He returned one evening from the archives to find a single, soil-covered envelope slipped beneath his door. No address, no sender, only the wax seal of Strudwick Manor—broken. Inside, a scrap of parchment bore a single line in delicate, childlike script: 'You gave us our names. You have our eyes'.

He dropped the letter at once. That night he dreamt of a hand clawing through the earth, nails torn and fingers pale, reaching from beneath the gravestone he had carved.

The next morning, Mr Berwick ordered all the windows boarded. He dismissed his housekeeper and sent letters of resignation to every institution with which he had ever held affiliation. He ceased all correspondence and lived as a man estranged from the world. It was said in town that he had gone mad, much like Mr Manthorne. But madness was too gentle a word for the affliction that gripped him.

For deep down, Berwick knew: the manor was not done with him. It never would be.

Miss Hutchins, though she had left the manor with her life, was not immune to its scars. Her once-ebullient disposition had waned. In the months following their harrowing escape, she relocated to a small parish house in Thirsk, under the care of her cousin, a spinster who worked as a seamstress for the parish vestry. It was there, in the quiet company of ticking clocks and musty hymnals, that she began to pen a diary—an attempt, she hoped, to make sense of the inconceivable.

The diary was never published. It would remain locked away in a cedar chest, wrapped in linen, until decades later it was unearthed by a curate cataloguing items for an estate sale. The diary was stained with ink, trembling strokes, and the scent of lavender and mildew. In its final entry, she wrote:

'I saw them again last night. Not in dreams, no, but as I sat beside the fire. The wind stirred the lace curtains and there they stood—Sara, Michael, and little Eve. No older than the day they died, but less mournful now. I thought I heard them say thank you...or perhaps forgive me. But the words were lost in the rustling of the trees outside. I wonder what keeps them here. Is it merely the malediction of their father, or the memory of their untimely end? I no longer believe they are the ones to fear. It was always him. Lord Strudwick. And perhaps…perhaps Mr Manthorne was not wholly wrong. The manor does live. It breathes through the walls and dreams through the floorboards. Even now I hear its groans when I close my eyes'.

She continued:

'The rector’s death was the first. But I wonder now whether it was punishment or liberation. Perhaps he too saw them—perhaps he too was trying to free them. We judged him too quickly. That is the great sin, isn’t it? The haste of assumption, the failure to see that some burdens are not worn on the outside'.

Miss Hutchins never married. She devoted her final years to caring for children orphaned by the war, perhaps drawn by some penance or inner longing. In each child she cradled, she swore she could feel the cold, frail hands of the Strudwick children lingering just behind her own.

Before her death, she arranged for three small candles to be kept perpetually lit at her bedside. Not a crucifix, nor a photograph adorned the table—only a miniature headstone, carved with the names she had once seen etched by Mr Berwick’s chisel.

Sara. Michael. Eve.

The curate who tended to her burial described her final moments as peaceful. 'She whispered something', he recalled, 'just before her breath gave out'.

He couldn’t make out the words clearly to his hearing.

But for a fleeting moment, he swore the air grew colder, and from the nearby churchyard came the distant laughter of children. The laughter was indelible. It was the laughter of the Strudwick children.

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