The shrill of the ringing phone tore Eleanor from a dream of bustling city streets. Disoriented, she fumbled for the receiver, her voice thick with sleep. "Hello?"
"Eleanor? It's Barnaby," a familiar voice rasped through the line. Static crackled along with it, emphasizing the distance between her Lagos flat and the old Lockwood Manor. A knot of dread formed in her stomach. Uncle Barnaby wouldn't call unless it was serious.
"Uncle Barnaby? What's wrong?" Her voice sharpened with a dawning sense of unease.
"It's your grandfather, Eleanor," he said, his voice heavy. "He's passed."
The news struck her like a physical blow. Her grandfather was gone. A wave of conflicting emotions washed over her; grief, a flicker of resentment, and a hollowness that surprised her.
"He would want you to be here for the funeral, Eleanor," Barnaby continued.
Eleanor hesitated. Ten years had passed since she'd slammed the heavy oak door of the manor shut, escaping the smothering indignation and unspoken resentments that choked the air within its walls. Building a life in Lagos, a life she'd carved for herself, had been a necessity.
"I... I don't know, Uncle Barnaby. It's been a long time."
"He wouldn't have wanted you to miss this, Eleanor," Barnaby pleaded. "Please, come home."
The weight of his words, laced with a tremor that spoke of his grief, pushed Eleanor towards a decision. "Alright, Uncle Barnaby. I'll come."
*****
The journey back to Maple Creek was a blur. The once-familiar landscape seemed alien, the quaint houses and dusty roads, a stark contrast to the neon pulse of the city she now called home. As she pulled up her car to the imposing iron gates of the manor, a wave of apprehension washed over her. In the heart of Maple Creek, nestled among the whispering pines and winding streams, stood the imposing manor of the Lockwood family.
For centuries, the Lockwoods had been shrouded in mystery and fear, their very presence striking terror into the hearts of the town's residents. According to old tales passed down through generations, the Lockwoods were not mere mortals, but supernatural beings who walked the earth disguised as humans. Whispers of dark magic and otherworldly powers surrounded their name, fueling the rumors that they were creatures of the night, feeding on the fear of those who dared to cross their path. But despite the centuries of speculation, there had never been any proof of the Lockwoods' true nature. They lived in isolation, their grand manor hidden behind high walls and thickets of thorns, rarely venturing out into the town except under the cover of darkness.
The Lockwoods were said to be among the founding members of Maple Creek, their name etched into the annals of history alongside the other prominent families who had shaped the town's destiny. But there were unspoken resentments between them and the other founding families, ancient feuds and long-buried grievances that had festered over the years and driven the Lockwoods into seclusion.
And now, Eleanor had returned, a prodigal daughter to a family shrouded in grief by their unending misery of hate and resentment. As she looked around the cavernous hall, a part of her yearned for the solace of the city, the anonymity it offered. But another part, a part she hadn't acknowledged in years, felt a tug towards the past, towards a family she'd run away from, a family she now had to face.
The heavy oak door swung open before she could even ring the bell. Barnaby stood there, his face etched with grief, his eyes red-rimmed. He pulled her into a tight hug, the familiar scent of pipe tobacco and old books a stark reminder of the life she'd left behind.
Inside, the air hung heavy with a mixture of floral arrangements and something deeper, a somberness that had always clung to the house. Jacob, the black sheep of the Lockwood descent, not a direct descendant but shared ties as a distant relative, not clearly fond of Eleanor but somehow perceived her to be a threat to everything he believes the family stood for. They only shared glances with each other, Eleanor never minded his judgments.
The fraternal twins, Michael and Abigael stood stiffly in the corner, their gaze cold and disapproving. The weight of their unspoken judgment settled on Eleanor's shoulders like a shroud.
Eleanor picked at a plate of cucumber sandwiches, the delicate crusts crumbling under her touch. Small talk filled the air, a cacophony of hushed tones and forced smiles. It felt like a performance, each family member playing their part in the somber charade.
A wispy old man with sunken eyes approached her. "Eleanor," he said, his voice breaking with emotion. "It's good to have you back."
There was a genuine warmth in his eyes that eased the knot of tension in her chest. "Thank you, Thomas," she replied, offering a small smile, expressing the looks of a shared understanding that bloomed in the face of their loss. Thomas was the groundkeeper. His family lived at the Lockwood manor for ages, different in nature, but regarded as family. He'd been at their service for many decades. His son Elijah, grew up being a close companion of Eleanor's.
Across the room, her Aunt Agatha, her mother's older sister, stood stiffly, her lips pursed in a permanent disapproval. Eleanor caught Agatha's glare and a flicker of resentment, sharp and cold, speared through her. Their relationship had always been strained, a battlefield of unspoken expectations and judgments. Eleanor gave a curt nod, which Agatha returned with a sniff.
Suddenly, a wave of relief washed over her as a familiar figure emerged from the crowd. It was Penelope, the youngest Lockwood, a whirlwind of red hair and infectious laughter even in these somber times.
"Elle!" Penelope practically shouted, throwing her arms around her in a tight hug. The scent of lavender and vanilla, Penelope's signature, brought a wave of nostalgia crashing over Eleanor.
"Penny," she breathed, returning the hug tightly. Penelope had always been her confidante.
Pulling back, Penelope's eyes sparkled with a shared memory. They reminisced about childhood escapades, and whispered secrets shared under the covers, a silent language only they understood. At that moment, the weight of the past seemed to lessen, replaced by a warmth that soothed the ache in Eleanor's heart.
Eleanor plastered a tight smile on her face as she endured another round of condolences from relatives she barely recognized. The forced pleasantries left a bitter taste in her mouth. Back home, but not really. Here, she was Eleanor, the prodigal daughter, the city slicker who'd abandoned her roots. It was a role she'd spent years shedding, and now it clung to her like a suffocating cloak.
Exhausted from the emotional tightrope walk, she excused herself and slipped out of the crowded drawing room. Fresh air, she craved fresh air. Navigating the labyrinth hallways of the old manor, her steps fell on familiar creaking floorboards. Memories flickered, childhood games of hide-and-seek, the hushed whispers shared with Penelope in dusty corners. But tonight, those memories offered little solace.
Purposefully, she steered clear of the grand staircase, taking a lesser-known passage that led to the west wing. Dust motes danced in the dim light filtering through a grimy high window. The air there hung heavy, undisturbed for years. This was the forgotten part of the house, a place she hadn't set foot in since her escape a decade ago.
Pushing open a creaking oak door, she stepped into a room bathed in moonlight. It was her old haven, a hidden attic nook she'd claimed as her own. Cobwebs draped the corners, and a sheet shrouded a forgotten chaise longue in the center. But beneath the dust and neglect, the essence of the place remained.
A wave of bittersweet nostalgia washed over her. Here, amidst the old dusty bookshelves, she'd found solace from the suffocating expectations of her family. Here, she'd try to imagine a life beyond the confines of the manor walls.
Eleanor sank onto the chaise longue, pulling the sheet aside. The worn velvet was cool against her skin, a familiar comfort. In this forgotten corner, the pretense she wore downstairs could melt away. Here, she could be just Eleanor, the girl who yearned for a life of her own, a life she'd fought so hard to build.
But the solace was laced with a new awareness. The life she'd built in the city felt distant now, a shimmering mirage in the face of her family's grief. A single tear traced a path down her cheek. Coming home had ripped open old wounds, but maybe, just maybe, it had also opened a door to a healing she hadn't dared to imagine.
Eleanor blinked away the stray tear, sniffling softly. The silence of the forgotten nook was suddenly broken by a voice from the doorway.
"Well, well, hiding from the festivities, are we?"
Eleanor's head snapped up, her heart hammering against her ribs. There, silhouetted in the moonlight, stood a figure. Relief flooded her as she recognized the familiar outline of Elijah.
"Elijah?" Her voice cracked a whisper in the still room.
"Hey, El." He drawled, a hint of amusement dancing on his lips. As he slowly stepped into the moonlight, his handsome features were etched with concern. Years had passed, adding a touch of maturity to his face, but his warm hazel eyes remained the same.
His voice was a gentle rumble, a sound that transported her back to countless whispered secrets shared in good company. Elijah, her childhood confidante, the boy who'd known her secrets and dreams without judgment.
Eleanor scrambled to her feet, the forgotten years melting away in an instant. "What are you doing here?"
A wry smile played on his lips. "Looks like you could use some company, runaway." His words, though teasing, held a layer of understanding that sent a fresh wave of tears threatening to spill.
Before she could speak, Elijah was crossing the room, his long strides closing the distance between them. Then, without a word, he enveloped her in a warm hug. The familiar scent of woodsmoke and worn leather filled her senses, a comforting anchor in the storm of emotions churning within her.
Eleanor clung to him, the dam holding back her tears finally breaking. The weight of grief, of estrangement from her family, of the life she'd built far away, all came crashing down. Elijah held her close, a silent pillar of strength in the forgotten attic nook. Here, in his arms, it was okay to break, to be the scared little girl who'd once hidden in this very room.
For a moment, they simply stared at each other, a silent conversation passing between them. Years had passed, yet a familiarity crackled in the air, a current connecting them across the gulf of time. His eyes, the color of a summer sky, held a mix of concern and a spark of something else, something she couldn't quite decipher.
The hug lasted longer than a simple greeting, a silent language of shared memories and unspoken emotions passing between them. When they finally pulled back, a comfortable silence settled between them.
"I haven't seen you since…" she began, then trailed off, the weight of years hanging heavy in the air.
"Since you flew the coop," he finished for her, his voice gentle. "Everyone knew you wouldn't stay here forever, Ellie."
A flicker of sadness crossed his features, a sentiment she mirrored. But there was something else too, a spark of hope that hadn't been there before.
"It's hasn't been the same here without you," he admitted, his voice low. "Maybe…" he hesitated, then continued, "Maybe things could be different this time."
Eleanor searched his eyes, a question hanging in the air. He wasn't just talking about the house, she realized. He was talking about them. And in the dusty, forgotten nook, with the ghost of memories swirling around them, a seed of possibility began to take root.