Richard Cooper shifted uncomfortably in the overstuffed armchair, its chintz fabric a riot of floral excess that seemed to mock his delicate sensibilities. He dabbed at his forehead with a silk handkerchief, the faint lavender scent offering little solace against the rising tide of his anxiety. He’d come to Swift Manor seeking respite, a temporary refuge from the clamor of London and the incessant pronouncements of his sister, Agatha, regarding his “nerves.” This social call, Agatha had insisted, would be just the tonic. A tranquil afternoon in the company of the amiable Mrs. Swift and her… well, he wasn't precisely sure who the young girl was, but she seemed harmless enough.
“So, Mr. Cooper,” the young girl, Klara, said, her eyes, unnervingly bright, fixed on him. "Agatha is a relation then? Distant, I presume. One wouldn't connect her… robust… constitution with your own. Although I do find it fascinating how these maladies run in families. Like the tendency for certain roses to blight.” She delivered the last sentence with a saccharine smile.
Richard, flustered, adjusted his spectacles. “Yes, a sister. She… she worries. My physician recommended… quiet.” He trailed off, feeling the ridiculousness of his "nerve cure" acutely. He knew what people thought: that he was a hypochondriac, indulging in fanciful ailments. Perhaps they were right.
“Quiet is certainly something we have in abundance here,” Klara agreed, her gaze drifting towards the window, which was inexplicably flung wide open on a blustery October afternoon. “Mrs. Swift finds it… conducive to remembrance.”
Richard attempted a conversational gambit, hoping to steer the conversation away from his physical failings. “I understand the Swifts have been in this area for generations? A grand history, no doubt.”
Klara’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “Oh, a history. Yes, indeed. Rather a tragic one, you might say. Though Mrs. Swift prefers to see it as… temporarily interrupted.”
Richard frowned, uncertain what to make of this.
“You see,” Klara continued, leaning forward conspiratorially, her voice dropping to a dramatic whisper, “it happened several years ago, during the shooting season. Mr. Swift and his two brothers – fine men, all of them – went out for snipe. They were… devoted to their sport. Alas, they never returned. A terrible storm blew in, unexpected, ferocious. Their boat was found overturned, a little ways out on the lake. But no bodies. Just the guns, neatly placed. As if they’d… walked away.”
Richard felt a distinct chill despite the roaring fire in the hearth. “Dreadful,” he murmured, his anxiety sharpening.
“Dreadful indeed,” Klara agreed, her eyes now fixed intently on Richard’s face, gauging his reaction. "And the oddest thing, Mr. Cooper, is that Mrs. Swift has never quite accepted it. She keeps the window open, you see, just in case they decide to return. From their shoot, you understand." She paused for effect. “She says they promised to be back before dark.” Klara gestured at the open window. "It is always open. Always. She expects them back at any moment."
Richard swallowed hard. The fire suddenly felt too hot, the chintz too close. He found himself instinctively looking towards the open window, half-expecting to see ghostly figures emerge from the mist-shrouded landscape.
Just then, Mrs. Swift entered the room, her movements slightly languid, her eyes possessing a distant, unfocused quality. She offered a vague apology for her tardiness. “Forgive me, Mr. Cooper. I was… occupied.” She gestured vaguely towards the open window, a slight frown furrowing her brow. “That window. I must have left it open again. One never knows, does one? They promised to be back before dark, you know, and dusk is almost upon us. One must be prepared.” She smiled, but the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.
Richard felt his heart pounding in his chest. He could almost taste the acrid tang of fear on his tongue. He glanced nervously towards the window. And then he saw them.
In the distance, three figures emerged from the swirling mist. They were tall, gaunt silhouettes, dressed in the tattered remnants of tweed shooting jackets. They carried long, thin objects that, even at a distance, Richard recognized as shotguns. They moved with an unnatural, gliding gait, as if propelled by some unseen force. The figures seemed to shimmer slightly, like heat haze above a road.
Klara, watching Richard intently, gave a barely perceptible nod.
Richard Cooper scrambled to his feet, knocking over a small table laden with porcelain figurines. “Forgive me!” he stammered, his voice cracking. “I… I must go! Unavoidable… engagement!”
He bolted for the door, ignoring Mrs. Swift's bewildered cry and Klara's stifled giggle. He didn't stop running until he reached the main road, the image of the three ghostly figures seared into his mind.
Back in the drawing-room, Mrs. Swift stared after the rapidly departing figure of Richard Cooper, her brow furrowed in genuine confusion. “Whatever was the matter with him?” she asked, turning to Klara.
Klara composed herself quickly, assuming an expression of concerned innocence. “Oh, Mrs. Swift, I fear it must have been the dogs! You know how sensitive some people are to canines. I was just telling him about our new litter of terriers. Their father, you see, is quite ferocious, and Mr. Cooper seems to have developed a quite profound terror of terriers, seemingly. I overheard him describing a particularly savage incident with one. A biting incident, if I'm to be perfectly honest. Involving… several toes."
Mrs. Swift nodded, her attention already drifting back to the window. “Terriers,” she murmured vaguely. “Yes, well, one can’t be too careful. Such lively creatures. It’s a pity, though. He seemed a… a bit… timid. Though one must be so very careful. They promised to return at dusk, you know, and… look. They’re almost here.”
As Mrs. Swift watched, three figures came into the yard, covered in mud and carrying fishing rods. Her three sons had come home from a long day's fishing on the lake. She was expecting them for dinner.
“Good evening, Mother,” said the eldest. “Sorry to be late. The fish were biting rather well and we lost track of time.”
Klara, meanwhile, watched the three boys with an expression of great mischief. She had managed to get rid of yet another unwanted guest.
Suddenly, Mrs. Swift exclaimed, "Oh, I just thought of something. I forgot to tell Mr. Cooper about our new pet terrapin!"
The carriage lurched to a halt, its wheels crunching on the gravel drive. Richard Cooper, feeling a tremor of anxiety that had become as familiar as his own heartbeat, stepped out. He adjusted his cravat, the fabric scratchy against his clammy skin, and surveyed the imposing manor before him.
"Swift Manor," he muttered, the name tasting like dust on his tongue. A recommendation from his sister, it was supposed to be a place of tranquility, a respite from the incessant buzz of London and the gnawing anxieties that plagued him. But standing before the looming, grey facade, Richard felt anything but serene.
The front door swung open before he could even raise a hesitant hand. A young girl, no older than fifteen, with eyes that shone with an unsettling intelligence, greeted him.
"Mr. Cooper, I presume?" Her voice was like spun sugar, deceptively sweet. "Klara at your service."
Richard, flustered, stammered a greeting. "Miss Klara, I believe." He had a disconcerting feeling that this girl, with her knowing smile and unnervingly calm demeanor, knew more about him than he cared to admit.
Klara ushered him into a cavernous hallway, its air thick with the scent of beeswax and faded grandeur. "Mrs. Swift will be with you momentarily," she said, her eyes flitting across his face, taking in his nervous fidgeting, his tightly buttoned coat. "Do forgive the delay. She’s been… preoccupied.”
Klara, it seemed, had an uncanny knack for reading people. She led him into a drawing-room bathed in the soft glow of late afternoon sun. The room was filled with antique furniture draped in dust-laden sheets, hinting at a forgotten elegance.
"Tell me, Mr. Cooper," Klara began, settling into a plush armchair, "have you heard the stories about this house? The whispers of tragedy?"
Richard, unsure how to respond, mumbled something about not being familiar with the local lore. Klara’s lips curved into a knowing smile.
"Oh, there are many tales,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “About a fateful day, years ago, when Mr. Swift and his two brothers went out shooting. They vanished without a trace. Some say they were lost in the woods, others claim they were caught in a sudden storm. But the most unsettling stories speak of something more… sinister."
Klara paused, her gaze fixed on a chipped porcelain doll perched on a side table. "They say the open window in the library, the one you see there, played a part. That on that fateful day, it was left ajar, a silent invitation for something… unnatural… to enter."
She launched into a detailed, chillingly vivid account of a ghostly apparition, a spectral figure that appeared at the open window, beckoning the missing men into the night. Richard, caught in the web of her narrative, felt a shiver run down his spine. The open window seemed to pulse with an unsettling energy, the air around it heavy with unseen presences.
Just then, the door creaked open, revealing Mrs. Swift, a woman of indeterminate age, her features obscured by a veil of sorrow. She looked at Richard with a vacant stare, her voice a hollow echo.
"Ah, Mr. Cooper, so good of you to come," she said, her gaze drifting towards the window. "We've been expecting you. You see, the window has been left open ever since…"
Her voice trailed off, lost in a haze of melancholic remembrance. "They haven’t returned, you know," she murmured, her eyes fixed on the distant woods. "My husband, my brothers… they’re still out there, somewhere. I know they'll come back through the window…"
A wave of nausea washed over Richard. He had to get out, to escape this house, this oppressive atmosphere. The shadows seemed to lengthen, the room grew colder, and he felt a cold dread creeping into his bones.
Just then, three figures emerged from the woods, their silhouettes stark against the dying light. They stumbled towards the house, their movements erratic, their faces obscured by the gathering darkness. They were tall, gaunt figures, their clothes tattered and stained.
Richard, his heart pounding in his chest, couldn’t take another step. He turned and fled, crashing through the drawing-room door, down the echoing hallway, and out into the twilight.
He didn't stop running until he reached the safety of his carriage, his breath ragged, his mind reeling. He couldn't shake the image of the spectral figures, their eyes burning with an unearthly light.
Back in the drawing-room, Klara watched the departing carriage with a knowing smile. Mrs. Swift, still gazing at the window, mumbled something about her husband and brothers finally coming home.
"He didn't believe the story, did he?" Klara said, her voice soft, almost amused.
Mrs. Swift shook her head, her eyes vacant. "He wouldn't," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "He wouldn't believe."
"He was such a nervous man," Klara sighed, her smile widening. "Always so easily spooked. Such a pity. But, then, he was never one for imagination."
Richard Cooper stepped down from the carriage, his gloved hands clutching the brim of his hat as a gust of wind swept through the isolated estate. The trees, bare and skeletal, swayed ominously, their leaves crunching underfoot. The grand estate loomed before him, its windows like empty eyes staring back. He had been assured by his sister that this visit would be therapeutic, a refuge from the cacophony of his anxieties. Yet, as he approached the entrance, a sense of unease settled in the pit of his stomach.
The door creaked open, revealing a girl no older than fifteen, her features sharp, her eyes gleaming with mischief. "Mr. Cooper, how delightful!" Klara exclaimed, her voice laced with a sweetness that bordered on sarcasm. She led him to a parlour where the air was thick with the scent of old books and decay.
As they waited for Mrs. Swift, Klara engaged him with questions about the area, her curiosity feigned yet probing. Richard, oblivious to her intent, shared what little he knew, his voice trembling slightly as he spoke.
Klara's eyes sparkled as she began her tale, her voice weaving a narrative of tragedy. "You see, Mr. Cooper, this house holds a sorrow so deep, it has become a part of its walls. It was a day much like this when Mr. Swift and his brothers ventured out, never to return. Some say they were lost in the woods, others that they were taken by some malevolent force. But Mrs. Swift," Klara paused for effect, "she waits for them still, keeping that window open, expecting their return."
Richard's eyes widened, his imagination running wild. The open window, he noted, was indeed ajar, a silent sentinel of hope and loss.
The door swung open, and Mrs. Swift entered, her smile warm yet distant. "Forgive my delay, Mr. Cooper. I was... distracted." Her gaze drifted to the window, her voice softening. "I expect them any day now, you know. They will return, I'm certain of it."
Richard's anxiety spiked, his mind racing with the tale Klara had spun. The room seemed to close in around him, the shadows deepening into ominous figures.
As the afternoon sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the lawn, Richard spotted figures in the distance. His breath caught, his heart pounding in his chest. They were approaching, their forms indistinct but unmistakable. "Ghosts," he whispered, his voice trembling.
Klara's expression was a mask of concern, yet her eyes betrayed a flicker of amusement. "Mr. Cooper, what's wrong?"
He pointed, his finger shaking. "They're coming. Oh God, they're coming."
Without another word, Richard bolted from the room, his departure as abrupt as it was frantic. Klara watched him go, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips.
Mrs. Swift frowned, confusion etched on her face. "Whatever is wrong with the man?"
Klara's smile widened. "I believe he saw a ghost, or perhaps our dog. He was quite afraid of it, you know."
Later, as the family gathered, Klara's explanation was met with nods of understanding. The dog, a large and boisterous creature, was indeed intimidating. Richard's fear, they agreed, was understandable.
As the evening drew to a close, the figures Richard had seen were revealed to be nothing more than distant relatives returning from a hunting trip, their approach misunderstood. The open window, a symbol of Mrs. Swift's enduring hope, remained ajar, a testament to her unwavering belief in reunions yet to come.
Richard, meanwhile, was long gone, his retreat back to the safety of his carriage a testament to his fragile psyche. The estate, with its tales and open window, remained, a silent witness to the power of perception and the stories that shape our realities.
In the end, it was not the house that was haunted, but Richard's mind, a prisoner of his own fears and the tales that fed them. And Klara, the young weaver of stories, watched it all with a keen eye, her imagination already spinning the next tale, ready to ensnare the next unsuspecting visitor in her web of words.
Richard Cooper stepped out of the hired trap with considerable effort, the motion causing a slight but noticeable spasm in his left eyelid. His physician had expressly recommended country air and agreeable company as the only viable remedies for his nervous disposition, and his sister had enthusiastically provided him with a list of suitable houses to visit in the area. The Swift residence was first on that list.
"You'll find them perfectly charming," his sister had assured him. "Mrs. Swift is the soul of hospitality, and the surrounding countryside is just what you need—peaceful, predictable, and entirely without excitement."
It was this final quality that had persuaded Richard to make the journey. Excitement, in all its forms, was precisely what his nerves could not tolerate. Even the mild jostling of the trap had set his heart racing at an alarming pace. He dabbed at his forehead with a monogrammed handkerchief and approached the house with the cautious gait of a man expecting the ground to give way beneath him at any moment.
The Swift residence was an imposing Edwardian structure, neither ancient enough to be historically significant nor modern enough to be fashionable. It exuded a sort of middling respectability that Richard found immediately reassuring. The gardens were well-kept, if somewhat conventional, and the gravel path crunched pleasantly underfoot as he made his way to the entrance.
A maid answered his ring and, upon receiving his card, led him into a comfortably appointed sitting room. The room was unoccupied save for a young girl of perhaps fifteen years, who sat in a high-backed chair near the window, regarding him with undisguised curiosity.
"Mrs. Swift will be down presently," the maid informed him before departing. "She's just tidying herself after the walk."
Richard stood awkwardly in the center of the room, his hat clutched in his hands. The girl continued to observe him with an intensity that made the back of his neck prickle uncomfortably.
"I am Klara," she announced suddenly, her voice possessing a peculiar clarity that seemed at odds with her youth. "Mrs. Swift's niece. You must be Mr. Cooper."
"Indeed," Richard replied, somewhat relieved to have the silence broken. "Richard Cooper. Your aunt was recommended to me by my sister, Mrs. Ellison. Perhaps you know her?"
"I know of her," Klara replied with a slight smile that suggested she knew a great deal more than she was willing to divulge. "Do sit down, Mr. Cooper. You look as though you might collapse at any moment."
Richard, suddenly aware of the tremor in his hands, gratefully sank into the nearest chair. "I'm afraid I'm suffering from a slight nervous indisposition," he explained. "My doctor recommends country visits as a form of therapy."
"How fascinating," Klara remarked, though her tone suggested she found it anything but. "And are these country visits proving beneficial?"
"It's early days yet," Richard answered. "This is my first such visit. But I have great hopes for the curative powers of rural tranquility."
Klara's smile widened incrementally. "Oh, but you've chosen wonderfully for your first visit. My aunt is an exemplary hostess, though she does have her little... peculiarities."
Richard's hand tightened involuntarily around the brim of his hat. "Peculiarities?" he echoed.
"Nothing alarming," Klara assured him, though the glint in her eye suggested otherwise. "It's merely that she's become somewhat... fixed in certain habits since the tragedy."
The word hung in the air between them, heavy with implication. Richard, despite his better judgment, found himself leaning slightly forward. "Tragedy?" he inquired, his voice dropping to a whisper.
Klara glanced toward the door, as if to ensure they would not be overheard, then shifted her gaze to the large French window that dominated the far wall of the room. The window stood open, offering a view of a well-manicured lawn that sloped gently down to a distant line of tall hedges.
"It happened three years ago," she began, her voice taking on a storyteller's cadence. "My uncle and his two younger brothers went out for an afternoon's shooting. They were great sportsmen, you see, particularly fond of snipe. They set out with their little brown spaniel—that was Rollo, such a lively creature—and they never returned."
Richard's eyelid spasm intensified. "An accident?" he ventured.
"In a manner of speaking," Klara replied. "They went out through that very window"—she nodded toward the open French window—"crossed the lawn, and disappeared into the marshes beyond the hedge. It had been raining heavily for nearly a week before, and the ground was treacherous. The current theory is that they stepped into a bog and were drawn under."
"Good heavens," Richard exclaimed, genuinely disturbed. "Were no bodies recovered?"
"None," Klara answered, her eyes wide with what appeared to be remembered horror. "The search party combed the marshes for weeks. All they found was Uncle William's hunting cap, floating in a particularly nasty stretch of mire."
Richard shuddered visibly. "How absolutely dreadful for your aunt."
"Indeed," Klara agreed solemnly. "But that's not the worst of it. You see, my aunt has never accepted their disappearance. She insists that they will return—uncle William, his brothers James and Percy, and even Rollo the spaniel. She keeps that window open every day, regardless of the weather, from four in the afternoon until dusk. She says that's when they'll come back, exactly as they left, through the window, muddy boots and all, with Rollo bounding ahead of them."
Richard stared at the open window with growing unease. "But surely after three years—"
"Grief takes strange forms, doesn't it?" Klara interrupted. "The specialists call it a 'fixed delusion.' The poor dear is quite convinced they'll return. It's why we never contradict her about the window. It seems a small enough concession to make for her peace of mind."
A soft footfall in the hallway caused them both to look up. The door opened to reveal a middle-aged woman dressed in a subdued afternoon gown. Her face bore the faded traces of what must once have been considerable beauty, now overlaid with an expression of vague distraction.
"Mr. Cooper, I presume," she said, advancing into the room with her hand extended. "I do apologize for keeping you waiting. I was merely freshening up after my constitutional. I find a brisk walk does wonders for maintaining one's spirits, don't you agree?"
Richard rose hastily to his feet, nearly dropping his hat in the process. "Mrs. Swift," he stammered, "a pleasure to make your acquaintance. My sister speaks most highly of you."
"Ah, dear Emily," Mrs. Swift replied, her smile warm if somewhat abstracted. "Such a delightful woman. Please, do be seated. I've instructed Bessie to bring tea."
She settled herself gracefully into a chair opposite Richard, her gaze drifting momentarily to the open window. "I always keep it open at this hour," she remarked casually. "My husband and his brothers will be home directly from shooting. They come in through the window, you see—it saves them tracking mud across my carpets."
Richard felt a cold trickle of sweat slide down his spine. His eyes darted between Mrs. Swift and Klara, the latter maintaining an expression of perfect innocence.
"I... I see," he managed. "Most... most practical."
"Indeed," Mrs. Swift agreed, apparently oblivious to his discomfort. "Though it does make the room rather drafty on occasion. I do hope you're not susceptible to chills, Mr. Cooper. Klara tells me you're here on doctor's orders."
"Merely a touch of nervous exhaustion," Richard replied weakly. "Nothing serious. I'm told country air is the thing for it."
"Absolutely," Mrs. Swift affirmed. "Nothing like fresh air and simple country pursuits to restore one's equilibrium. William—that's my husband—swears by his afternoon shooting. Says it clears the mind like nothing else."
Richard nodded mechanically, his gaze now fixed on the open window as if it might disgorge spectral hunters at any moment. The arrival of the maid with tea provided a momentary distraction, but as soon as she had departed, Mrs. Swift returned to the subject with unnerving consistency.
"They should be back any minute now," she observed, glancing at the ornate clock on the mantelpiece. "They're usually quite punctual, unless the snipe are running particularly well. The spaniel gives them away, of course—always races ahead, eager to be the first one home."
Richard's cup rattled alarmingly against its saucer. He set both down hastily on the nearest table, sloshing tea onto the polished surface. "Perhaps," he suggested desperately, "we might close the window just a fraction? There's quite a chill in the air."
Mrs. Swift's expression hardened almost imperceptibly. "Oh, I couldn't possibly," she replied. "They would have to go all the way around to the front, and William so dislikes unnecessary exertion after his sport."
Richard tugged anxiously at his collar, which suddenly seemed to have tightened around his throat. He glanced at Klara, who was observing the exchange with an expression of detached interest, rather like a scientist monitoring the progress of a particularly promising experiment.
"I understand completely," he assured Mrs. Swift, his voice rising to a slightly higher pitch than was strictly dignified. "One wouldn't want to inconvenience them unnecessarily."
Mrs. Swift smiled vaguely and seemed about to respond when a noise from outside caught her attention. "Ah," she exclaimed, "here they come now. Just as I predicted."
Richard followed her gaze to the window with mounting horror. In the distance, beyond the hedge at the far end of the lawn, three male figures had appeared, accompanied by what was unmistakably a small, leaping dog. They were moving steadily toward the house, still too far away for their features to be clearly discernible, but their silhouettes corresponded exactly to the description Klara had provided: three men, two tall and one shorter and broader, with gun cases slung over their shoulders, and a spaniel capering at their heels.
Richard's nerve, already stretched to breaking point, finally snapped. With a strangled cry that was part fear and part apology, he leapt to his feet, overturning the tea table in the process.
"I must go," he gasped. "Suddenly remembered an urgent appointment—most remiss of me—please convey my apologies to your husband and his brothers—another time perhaps—good day!"
And with that, he bolted from the room, hurtled down the hallway, and flung himself out of the front door with such violence that he nearly collided with the startled trap driver who was waiting to take him back to the village.
"Drive!" Richard shouted, scrambling into the vehicle. "Drive at once!"
As the trap lurched into motion, Richard cast one terrified glance back at the house. Through the sitting room window, he could see Mrs. Swift standing in evident confusion, while Klara observed his retreat with what appeared to be profound satisfaction.
In the sitting room, Mrs. Swift turned to her niece with a bewildered expression. "Whatever came over Mr. Cooper?" she asked. "One would think he'd seen a ghost."
Klara's face arranged itself into an expression of sympathetic concern. "Poor man," she sighed. "I expect it was Rollo that set him off."
"Rollo?" Mrs. Swift echoed. "How could a spaniel possibly—"
"He has a morbid fear of dogs," Klara explained smoothly. "A childhood trauma involving his neighbor's terrier. He mentioned it while we were waiting for you. I should have warned him about Rollo, but it slipped my mind entirely."
"How unfortunate," Mrs. Swift murmured. "And he seemed like such a pleasant gentleman, if somewhat highly strung."
At that moment, the three figures reached the window and stepped into the room, bringing with them the scent of fresh air and damp earth. The spaniel bounded ahead, scattering droplets of water as it shook itself vigorously on the carpet.
"Hello, Mother," said the youngest of the three men, a lanky youth of perhaps seventeen. "Was that one of your visitors we saw bolting down the drive as if the devil himself were after him?"
"Mr. Cooper," Mrs. Swift confirmed. "Apparently, he has an aversion to dogs. Rollo frightened him off."
"Nonsense," interjected the older man, who bore a striking resemblance to Mrs. Swift. "It was my hunting story that did it. I was telling him about that time last year when we nearly got lost in the marsh. Some town dwellers simply can't stomach tales of genuine country peril."
Klara smiled enigmatically but offered no comment. Instead, she rose and moved to the window, where she stood gazing out at the now-empty driveway, her face a study in innocent contemplation.
"Will you be taking tea with us, Father?" she asked without turning around, a certain emphasis on the familial designation. "Or shall I have Bessie prepare a fresh pot? This one seems to have suffered a mishap."
"A fresh pot, I think," her father replied, eyeing the overturned tea table with mild surprise. "And perhaps you might ask her to bring some of those excellent biscuits as well. A man works up quite an appetite tramping about the marshes all afternoon."
Klara nodded and moved toward the door, pausing only to straighten a photograph on the side table—a formal portrait of herself, her parents, her two uncles, and Rollo the spaniel, taken six months earlier during a family gathering to celebrate her father's birthday.
"Poor Mr. Cooper," she murmured to herself as she slipped from the room. "Such a terrible affliction, these nerves. One wonders if country air is really the suitable treatment after all."
The grand parlor of the Swift estate was swathed in an oppressive silence, the kind that made one feel like an unwelcome intruder in a forgotten sanctuary. The air was thick with the scent of old books and the faint hint of decay, a subtle reminder of times long past. Richard Cooper shifted uncomfortably on the edge of his chair, his gloved hands clenched together in his lap. The ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner echoed ominously, a relentless reminder of time's indifferent march.
Before him stood Klara, her youthful frame lithe and poised, despite her merely 15 years. Her eyes sparkled with a mischief that belied her age, a cunning glint that suggested she saw the world through a lens of endless amusement. "So, Mr. Cooper," she began, her voice smooth and measured, "I hear you're seeking a tranquil retreat. How lovely. And how... fortunate for us."
Richard, in his late 30s, was a man on the edge of unraveling. His "nerve cure" had been prescribed by doctors who, he suspected, knew less about his ailments than they let on. His anxiety was a constant companion, a shadow that followed him even into the isolated corners of the countryside. "Yes," he replied, his voice trembling slightly. "I find the city... overwhelming."
Klara's lips curved into a knowing smile. "I imagine it would be. But you've come to the right place. We have our own sort of overwhelms here.Don't we, Mrs. Swift?"
At the mention of her name, Mrs. Swift entered, her expression polite yet distant. Her eyes, though unfocused, carried a weight of unspoken thoughts, as if she were perpetually engaged in a conversation only she could hear. "Ah, Mr. Cooper. I do apologize for the delay. It's so kind of you to visit."
Richard rose, his movements awkward, betraying his discomfort. "The pleasure is all mine, I assure you. Your home is... quite something."
Mrs. Swift nodded, her gaze drifting towards the open window. "Yes. It's been in the family for quite some time. Though it feels... emptier now."
Klara's eyes lit up with inspiration. "Speaking of which," she interjected, her voice taking on a conspiratorial tone, "there's a story about that window. One that I think you'd find rather... enlightening, Mr. Cooper."
Richard's curiosity was piqued, despite his better judgment. "Oh? Do tell."
Settling back into her chair, Klara began her tale with the practiced ease of a seasoned storyteller. "It happened years ago. Mr. Swift and his brothers were out shooting, a common pastime for the gentlemen of the village. But they never returned. No trace, no word, nothing. Just... gone."
Richard's anxiety spiked, his breath catching in his throat. "How dreadful. What happened?"
Klara's smile grew, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Some say their spirits still linger, waiting to return through that very window. It's why Mrs. Swift leaves it open, day and night, in the hope they might find their way home."
Mrs. Swift's gaze remained fixed on the window, her expression unreadable. "Yes," she murmured. "I do like to keep it open. For them."
The wind outside picked up, whispering through the window with an eerie sigh. Richard felt a chill run down his spine. "Good heavens," he gasped. "Do you think they'll... come back?"
Before Klara could respond, a commotion outside caught their attention. Three figures appeared in the distance, their silhouettes stark against the fading light. Richard's heart leaped into his throat. "Are those... ghosts?"
Klara's laughter was swift and sharp. "Oh, Mr. Cooper. You've been in the city too long. Those are no ghosts. That's the return of the local shooting party."
But Richard was beyond consolation. His anxiety, fueled by Klara's tale, had reached a boiling point. He bolted from the room, leaving the trio in stunned silence.
Mrs. Swift turned to Klara, a hint of confusion in her voice. "Whatever is wrong with that man?"
Klara's smile returned, wider than ever. "Oh, Mrs. Swift. He's simply afraid of your dog."
The absurdity of her lie was matched only by the ease with which she delivered it. And as the Swifts returned to their evening, none suspected the tale that would soon circulate, one that would forever link the Swift estate to the antics of a clever young girl and the fleeting visit of a very nervous man.
In the end, it was a tale of twists and turns, of irony and wit, where the only ghost was the shadow of Richard's own anxieties. And as for Klara? She merely saw it as another chapter in her endless quest for amusement.
Richard Cooper was an anxious man. He had arrived in the small village late in the afternoon, the horizon already dressed in a dim, grey gauze. His sister had insisted that a visit to the Swift household would benefit him—soothing his nerves, which were as delicate as a spider’s thread these days. He hoped for peace, or at the very least, silence. Somewhere removed from the fray of his own mind, where his well-meaning but confounding relatives seemed intent on manipulating him. This—he hoped—would be an oasis of calm.
The Swift residence, nestled on the edge of the village, was a pale, sprawling house of weathered stone. The sort of house one would expect to see in a forgotten novel, its faded elegance marked by the absence of the bustle typical of a grand estate. The windows were open, despite the chill in the air, and a sharp breeze played with the curtains, tossing them in a delicate ballet.
Klara, the daughter of Mrs. Swift, was the one to greet him. She stood by the doorway, her figure a silhouette against the dimming light, her expression unreadable. Her eyes, bright and curious, regarded him with a sort of studied amusement. Klara, who had just turned fifteen—though she might have been ten years older in her manner—was an enigma to him. How strange, how odd, that a girl of such tender years should possess such an air of knowing.
“Mr. Cooper, I presume,” she said with a polite inclination of her head. Her voice was soft, but her words carried the weight of someone who had learned to speak when and how they pleased. “Mother has been delayed, of course. It is always like that, isn't it? One waits for her—though one never quite knows what for.” Her smile was almost too wide, too knowing. “Please come in.”
Richard nodded in a flustered way, feeling instantly unsure of himself. He had arrived on the doorstep seeking peace, but the atmosphere here felt strange, unsettling, like the anticipation of something long-awaited. He stepped into the dimly lit hallway, the faint smell of dust mingling with something floral, perhaps lavender, though it was hard to say. There was a quiet, persistent hum in the air, an idle whispering of the house's history.
Klara led him into the drawing room—a space both vast and underused, filled with heavy furniture draped in worn upholstery. The windows, despite their openness, seemed to keep the world at bay. Klara motioned for him to sit.
“So, Mr. Cooper,” she began, her voice light and almost teasing, “you must be wondering what exactly it is you’ve stumbled upon here. But we’ll have to wait for Mother, of course. She is... often caught in her thoughts.”
Richard blinked, momentarily disoriented. “I… I am just glad to be here,” he stammered, “away from the city, you see. It has become... too much for me lately.”
Klara smiled and nodded, though she seemed less to listen and more to observe. “Yes, I’m sure it has. But tell me, Mr. Cooper—do you know much about the Swift family?”
Richard shifted uncomfortably, his mind racing. “I—well, I’ve heard little bits and pieces. Not much more than you might expect from... you know, distant connections.”
“I thought as much,” Klara said, leaning forward slightly. “Then you wouldn’t know about the tragedy that befell us.”
Richard glanced at her, confused. “Tragedy?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, almost sing-song. “You see, many years ago, my father and his brothers went out on a shooting trip. They were never heard from again, you know. It was terribly mysterious. We’ve always believed they would return, though.” Her voice softened, almost tenderly, as she added, “They promised to come back. And so we wait.”
Richard felt an odd prickling at the back of his neck. “Wait? But... how? Why—why would they—?”
“Ah, yes, well, the window is always open for them, you see.” Klara’s eyes were fixed on the open window, her gaze soft, though there was something deeply unsettling in the way her words lingered. “It’s tradition. Father believed it would be bad luck to close it before they came home.”
“I see.” Richard couldn’t quite find his words. This story, with its air of expectation and mystery, left him feeling oddly breathless. He could hear the wind picking up outside, and the curtains, now in full flutter, seemed to beckon him toward the open frame. He wanted to look away, but his eyes kept returning to it.
Before he could say anything further, Mrs. Swift entered, her movements unhurried, as though time had no meaning for her. She looked at Richard with a distant smile, her eyes faintly unfocused.
“Forgive me for the delay, Mr. Cooper,” she said, voice warm but distant. “I was... distracted.” Her eyes lingered on Klara, a slight frown passing over her face. “Oh, you’ve told him about the tragedy, haven’t you, dear?”
Klara smiled politely. “Yes, Mother, I was just explaining it to Mr. Cooper. He was curious.”
“Well, I do hope you’ve given him the proper details,” Mrs. Swift replied, the tone of her voice dipping into something soft and nostalgic. “They will be home soon. I’m certain of it.”
Richard’s unease grew. There was something about Mrs. Swift’s air of absent certainty that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand straight. He could feel the weight of the room pressing down on him, as though it was closing in, sealing him within this place of peculiar histories and unsettling promises.
“I’m sure,” he said, his voice almost faltering. “But... surely—if they have been gone so long—don’t you think...?”
“Of course they will return,” she interjected, her smile still in place, though now it seemed a little strained. “They promised me, after all.”
And then, as if on cue, Klara’s eyes sharpened. “There, you see? They’re coming now.” She gestured toward the window with such sudden intensity that Richard’s heart skipped a beat. Through the gathering dusk, three figures were slowly making their way up the winding path, their figures strange and indistinct in the evening mist. They appeared to be men, though their faces were too obscured by the twilight to make out. They matched Klara’s description with alarming accuracy.
Richard felt the chill tighten around him, his breath shallow, and his heart pounding as though it were about to burst through his chest. Ghosts. It had to be. He had to be imagining it. This was madness.
“I... I must go,” Richard stammered, the words tumbling out. “I—”
He was already on his feet before Mrs. Swift could say anything further, his legs carrying him toward the door with a speed born of sheer panic. He was not going to wait for whatever this... this illusion was to swallow him up.
As he flung open the door, the cool night air hit him, and with a desperate glance over his shoulder, he fled. The figures in the distance—still too far away to be certain—seemed to fade into the fog, but Richard didn’t stop running.
Later, Klara, looking out of the window with the same inscrutable smile, turned to Mrs. Swift. “It’s a pity he left so suddenly. I believe he was frightened by the dog.”
Mrs. Swift’s eyes clouded with confusion. “The dog?”
“Yes,” Klara said with a delicate shrug. “The large one. You know the one.” She motioned vaguely, as though there were a great deal of sense in what she was saying. “I suppose it was just too much for him. Such a delicate man.”
“Ah.” Mrs. Swift nodded, a vague look of understanding in her eyes. “Yes. A shame, really.”
The two women exchanged a quiet look. Outside, the figures continued their slow march toward the house, their identities still unclear but their presence undeniable.
It was, after all, tradition.
The manor’s statues stood like sentinels in the overgrown garden, moss whispering secrets into their stone ears. Richard Cooper adjusted his cravat for the third time in as many minutes and stepped onto the stoop. A brass knocker in the shape of a leering gargoyle caught his eye, and he rapped it once, twice—too late realizing that each sound echoed with the finality of a funeral bell.
The door swung open before him, exposing a chandelier bedecked with dead flies. Klara Swift stood in the opening, her grin a flicker of phosphorous light against a child’s freckled face. “Mr. Cooper! You’re late.” She did not rise from her cross-legged perch on an embroidered runner, knees hugged to her chest. The gesture was incongruous with theincremental decline of civilization visible beyond her: moth-eaten tapestries, a grandfather clock with a shattered face, and the faint, sickly scent of mothballs laced with elderberry.
Richard wet his lips. “Your mother… is she available? My sister suggested this call might be… invigorating?”
“Invigorating.” Klara tsked, though her eyes were bright. “Do come in. She’s suffering the vapors in the conservatory. I shall amuse you.”
The drawing room resembled a museum of lost causes. Fragments of a bone china teapot huddled in a vase, aWedgwood urn wept through a cracked spout, and a piano sprawled at the center, its legs supported by cushions like a wounded beast. Klara perched on its edge, dangling her feet above the keys.
“So,” she said, plucking a C-sharp, “you are the nervous gentleman dispatched from London to mend marzipan and melancholy.”
“I am here for… fresh air,” Richard stammered, sinking into a chair whose springs moaned protest. “A respite from the city, to say.”
“Ah, the city.” She tapped her temple. “A nest of vipers chewing their own tails. Do they not tell you here? Fresh air cures nothing. It merely expands the lungs to inhale more folly.”
“K-Kind of you to say.”
She leaned forward, the hem of her lace fichu catching on the cracked wood of the piano. “Mrs. Swift is most eager to claim you. You see, it is difficult to find refined company in these parts.” A pause. “Since the entire family left, of course.”
“The family left?”
“Oh, only the men.” A half-smile. “But we’ve kept the nursery for sentimentality.”
Klara’s voice modulated, honey thick with malice. She spoke of the.idyllic Thursday morning two autumns prior, when “dearest Roderick” had taken his brothers and the estate’s only spaniel into the woodlands for a pheasant shoot. The(open) window she gestured to—impossibly wide, as if the house strained toward the horizon—had been the last to catch their laughter. “The shot echoed at noon, you see, followed by wails. By nightfall, nothing but feathers and a broken bridle. And yet…” Her pause was a blade. “…the window stays open. One never knows when they’ll return.”
Richard stiffened. “The local lore?”
“Lore, sir?” She snapped her fan shut with a snap, its painted macaws recoiling. “It was yesterday, I assure you. The undertaker’s cart arrived at the village inn asking for more shrouds. ‘Is the family having a mid-winter ball?’ he said. ‘Or a mid-winter plot?’”
The Gothic grandeur of Klara’s tale draped itself over the drawing room like a funeral pall. Richard’s breath hitched. “A tragedy, quite.”
“Tragedy? Tragedy. They’re alive, Mr. Cooper. The pheasant was cursed. They wander the Black Downs still, howling in the dark—”
“Children!” A voice called, brittle as ehdead leaves.
Klara’s smile widened. “Speak of the devil.”
Mrs. Swift entered, hands engirdled in cinammon-scented towels. Behind her, a diner table groaned with a feast never served: primrose cake, a cold quail, punch stiff with something amber. She nodded at the open window. “Dearest Roderick adored the scent of pine at dusk.”
Richard’s grip on his teacup steepled to a trembling fist. “Your… family’s……”
“outdoor pursuits?” she chirped. “A most harrowing incident, yes. But Roderick always said the window must stay open! Gage and Barnaby, too. One can never be sure when those shotguns grow restless…”
Her gaze tipped sideways, trapping him in a well-cooked silence. Richard shuffled. “Fascinating,” he mumbled.
“Terrible business,” Klara added brightly, as though addressing a new embroidery pattern.
Mrs. Swift blinked. “Mmm? Oh! Do sit closer, Mr. Cooper. The draft is plentiful!”
The horizon seethed with gold, then red, then black. The garden path twisted into obscurity whenMovement grabbed attention—a trio of silhouettes tramping through ferns, the light glinting dangerously.
Richard paled. “Did… did not the cr— er, the brothers—”
“Appear?” Klara’s whisper was tender. “Every day, sir.”
The footsteps came nearer. A feral cry echoed—“Where’s my revolver?!”
Mrs. Swift stirred. “Oh! There they are!” She popped open the window wider with practised nonchalance.
“N-they’re—!”
Arms flung wide, Richard boltedikithe room, colliding with a trestle table, sending quail salad sprawling. Mrs. Swift peered after him as if observing a fleeing phoebe.
The returning men—damp, disheveled, furious—circled the sprawled Richard. “Who the devil are you?!”
“Frightened of the hound, sir!” Klara swooped in, her tone a roving comedy. “He’s been banned rub at visitors since the scare with Cousin Emmeline. Practically trembles on command!”
Mrs. Swift sniffed. “Dear boy should’ve brought smelling salts. One is compelled to be courteous, but sometimes—!” She trailed off.publicly forgetting the point, then exited to shrivel cherries.
As the men sighed and retreated, Klara knelt next to Richard’s tangled form. “Truly, sir, a panicked Collapse is not befitting the Cooper name. The codfish in the village pond have better manners.” She offered a hand, which he accepted limply.
That night, Klara reclined in the west parlor, a wax candle carved into a man’s grinning face flickering beside her. She opened a journal—pages filled with sketches of Richard’s face contorted in horror—me its final page.
“Dear Log: He believes every fib—or half of them. How admirable! The Swifts haven’t a hound bigger than a water spaniel” (she drew teeth marks to underscore the lie), “but Roderick truly did leave with his brothers to scout tanneries in Wales (see: notice on butcher’s wall). Mourning this farcical ‘pneumonia’ befitting a Dickensian widow. Yet… Mr. Cooper’s twitching at theজwindow was exquisite. – K.”
Outside, a lone spaniel yapped. Somewhere, Richard Cooper was no doubt burning his travel journal to ward off spirits. Klara’s quill twirled above the page, then scribbled a postscript.
Next prospect: The Selby Milleward. His tear ducts practically needled with doubt…
The candle sputtered. Somewhere in the halls, Mrs. Swift whispered to the wind firsthand what it meant to be missed.
And Klara dreamed in ashurst and slyer contours—tormentForthe caper’s next act.
Richard Cooper, a man of late thirties with a nervous disposition, found himself standing before the grand entrance of the Swift residence. His sister had insisted that the quietude of the countryside would be just the thing for his frayed nerves, a respite from the ceaseless chatter and clatter of the city. He had reluctantly agreed, though the very thought of social calls filled him with a peculiar dread.
The door was opened by a maid who ushered him into a dimly lit drawing-room. The room was adorned with faded elegance, the kind that spoke of a family history rich in stories but perhaps lacking in recent upkeep. Richard's eyes darted around, taking in the heavy drapes, the slightly dusty furniture, and the large French window that stood open, allowing a gentle breeze to waft through.
"Mr. Cooper, I presume?" A young voice broke his anxious reverie. He turned to see a girl of about fifteen, her eyes bright with a mischievous gleam. "I'm Klara. Aunt Letitia—Mrs. Swift—will be down shortly. She's always a bit delayed, you know, lost in her own world."
Richard nodded, his hands fidgeting with his hat. "Ah, yes, quite understandable. I hope I'm not intruding."
Klara smiled, a smile that seemed to hold a secret. "Not at all. We so rarely have visitors. It's quite a treat. Do sit down."
Richard perched on the edge of a sofa, his back stiff. Klara, on the other hand, settled comfortably into an armchair, her eyes never leaving him.
"You must find the countryside quite different from the city," she began, her tone conversational yet probing. "Do you know much about our little corner of the world?"
Richard shook his head. "Not particularly. My sister thought the peace and quiet would be beneficial for my... condition."
Klara's eyes widened with feigned concern. "Condition? Oh, dear. Nothing serious, I hope."
"Just a touch of nerves," Richard admitted, already feeling the familiar flutter in his chest. "The doctor recommended a change of scenery."
Klara nodded sympathetically. "Well, you've come to the right place. Though, I must warn you, our family history is rather colorful. Full of tragedies and mysteries."
Richard's interest piqued despite his anxiety. "Tragedies?"
Klara leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Oh, yes. You see that open window? It's been kept open ever since the tragedy three years ago."
Richard glanced at the window, a sense of foreboding creeping over him. "What happened?"
Klara's eyes took on a distant look, as if she were recalling a well-rehearsed tale. "It was a beautiful day, much like today. Uncle Henry and his two brothers went out shooting. They never returned. The search parties found nothing, not a trace. It was as if they had vanished into thin air."
Richard's eyes widened in horror. "That's terrible."
Klara nodded solemnly. "Aunt Letitia has never given up hope. She believes they will return one day, just as they left. That's why the window is always open—so they can walk right in."
Richard shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The room suddenly felt colder, the breeze from the window carrying an eerie chill.
"And the strangest part," Klara continued, her voice barely above a whisper, "is that sometimes, on quiet evenings, you can almost see them. Three figures, walking across the lawn, their guns slung over their shoulders. It's as if they're still out there, forever trapped in that fateful day."
Richard's heart pounded in his chest. He could almost see the figures himself, ghostly apparitions haunting the peaceful countryside.
Just then, the door opened, and Mrs. Swift entered, her manner pleasant but somewhat distracted. "Mr. Cooper, I do apologize for keeping you waiting. I hope Klara has been entertaining you."
Richard stood up, his movements jerky. "Yes, indeed. She was just telling me about... about the tragedy."
Mrs. Swift's smile faltered for a moment, but she quickly recovered. "Ah, yes. It's been a difficult time for us all. But we must keep hope alive, mustn't we?" She glanced at the open window, her expression wistful. "They'll be back soon, I'm sure of it."
Richard's unease grew. The room seemed to close in around him, the open window a gaping maw leading to the unknown.
Mrs. Swift turned to Klara. "Dear, would you mind checking on the tea? I believe it should be ready by now."
Klara nodded and left the room, casting a sly glance at Richard as she went.
Mrs. Swift turned back to Richard, her eyes distant. "You must think us quite odd, Mr. Cooper. But when you've lived through such a loss, you cling to any hope, no matter how small."
Richard murmured a sympathetic response, his mind racing. He felt a sudden urge to flee, to escape the oppressive atmosphere of the room.
Just then, Klara returned, her eyes wide with excitement. "Aunt Letitia, they're here! I saw them from the kitchen window—three figures, just like I told Mr. Cooper!"
Mrs. Swift's face lit up with joy. "Oh, thank heavens! I knew they would return." She rushed to the open window, her eyes scanning the horizon.
Richard followed her gaze, his heart pounding. There, in the distance, he saw them—three figures, just as Klara had described. His breath hitched in his throat, and a wave of panic washed over him.
"I... I must go," he stammered, backing away from the window. "I'm not feeling well. Please, excuse me."
Mrs. Swift turned to him, her expression confused. "Mr. Cooper, are you alright?"
But Richard was already halfway to the door, his mind consumed by the image of the ghostly figures. He stumbled out of the room, his footsteps echoing through the hallway as he made his way to the front door.
Klara watched him go, a satisfied smile playing on her lips. She turned to her aunt, her expression innocent. "I believe Mr. Cooper was frightened by the dog, Aunt Letitia. He's not used to large animals."
Mrs. Swift nodded, her attention already returning to the window. "Poor man. I do hope he feels better soon."
As the figures drew closer, Klara's smile widened. She had always enjoyed a good story, and this one had been particularly satisfying. The figures, of course, were not ghosts but the local gamekeeper and his sons, returning from a day of shooting. But Richard Cooper didn't know that, and Klara had no intention of enlightening him.
The open window, the tragic tale, the ghostly figures—it had all been a clever ruse, a game to alleviate her boredom. And Richard Cooper had played his part perfectly.
As the gamekeeper and his sons entered the room, Klara greeted them with a cheerful smile. "Welcome back, gentlemen. I trust your day was successful?"
The gamekeeper nodded, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Indeed, it was, Miss Klara. And I see you've been up to your usual tricks."
Klara laughed, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Oh, just a little storytelling, Mr. Harris. Nothing more."
And with that, the room returned to its usual state of faded elegance, the open window a silent witness to Klara's clever deception. Richard Cooper, meanwhile, was already far away, his nerves more frayed than ever, blissfully unaware of the true nature of his encounter with the Swift family.
The carriage rattled over the uneven track, its wheels kicking up dust devils in the late afternoon sun. Richard Cooper, perched uncomfortably on the plush, burgundy seat, attempted to quell the tremor in his hands. The “nerve cure” his sister had prescribed – a visit to the Swifts' country estate – was proving more taxing than he'd anticipated.
He'd envisioned a tranquil retreat, a respite from the incessant hum of London life and the gnawing anxieties that plagued him. Instead, he found himself beset by a new set of worries, fueled by the oppressive silence of the carriage and the vast, undulating landscape that stretched endlessly before him.
Finally, the carriage lurched to a halt before a sprawling, ivy-clad manor. Richard stumbled out, grateful for the solidity of the ground beneath his feet. As he straightened his cravat, a young girl materialized from the house, her eyes gleaming with an unnerving intelligence.
"Mr. Cooper, I presume?" she enquired, her voice like a silver bell, betraying a maturity that belied her youthful appearance. "I'm Klara, Mrs. Swift's niece. Do come in, you must be tired from your journey."
Richard, somewhat flustered, followed her inside. The house was a labyrinthine jumble of dimly lit corridors and shadowed rooms, filled with the scent of beeswax and the faint echo of past laughter. Klara led him through a series of drawing rooms, each more opulent than the last, before finally reaching a spacious parlor bathed in the golden glow of the setting sun.
"Aunt Millie will be with us shortly," Klara assured him, settling gracefully onto a chaise lounge. "But do tell me, Mr. Cooper, what brings you to our humble abode?"
Richard, still recovering from his journey, stammered out a vague explanation about his sister's recommendation and his desire for a change of scenery. Klara listened with rapt attention, her head tilted slightly, her gaze unwavering.
"It's a pity about your nerves," she remarked, her voice tinged with a note of sympathy. "This place can be quite…unsettling, especially at this time of year. Did your sister tell you about the tragedy?"
Richard shook his head, his uneasiness growing.
"Oh, it was a dreadful affair," Klara continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Several years ago, Mrs. Swift’s husband and her two brothers went out shooting one foggy morning. They never returned. Their disappearance remains a mystery.
“Some say they were lost in the woods,” she added, her eyes gleaming, “others whisper of foul play. But my aunt, she believes they’ll come back. Every night, she leaves the window open, just in case. She says they'll find their way home, drawn by the light.”
Klara gestured towards a large, mullioned window at the far end of the room. It stood ajar, revealing a sliver of the darkening landscape beyond.
Richard felt a shiver run down his spine. He couldn’t explain it, but there was something about Klara’s story, delivered with such chilling conviction, that set his teeth on edge.
As if summoned by his thoughts, Mrs. Swift entered the room. She was a woman of indeterminate age, her face etched with a perpetual air of distraction.
“Richard, how delightful to finally meet you,” she said, her voice a breathy whisper. “Forgive my tardiness, I was simply admiring the sunset. It reminds me of that fateful evening when…”
She trailed off, her gaze drifting towards the open window.
“They’ll be back soon, I'm sure of it,” she murmured, more to herself than to Richard.
Richard, feeling increasingly uneasy, shifted in his seat. The room seemed to grow colder, the shadows lengthening as the last rays of sunlight faded. He glanced nervously at the open window, his imagination conjuring up ghostly figures silhouetted against the darkening sky.
Suddenly, a commotion arose outside. Three figures appeared in the distance, silhouetted against the dying light. They were approaching the house, their forms growing larger with each step.
Klara, ever observant, caught Richard's terrified gaze.
“See,” she whispered, a triumphant glint in her eyes, "I told you they would return."
Richard's heart pounded in his chest. He could barely breathe. The figures drew closer, their faces obscured by the gathering darkness. They were tall and gaunt, their movements strangely stilted.
Richard, convinced he was witnessing the return of the dead, leaped to his feet.
"I must leave!" he cried, his voice cracking with terror. "This is madness!"
He stumbled towards the door, knocking over a porcelain vase in his haste. He didn’t wait to see the reaction of the others. He fled, bursting through the front door and into the gathering gloom.
Klara watched him go, a slow, satisfied smile spreading across her lips.
"Goodness, what a peculiar fellow," she remarked to Mrs. Swift, who stood staring out the window, her face etched with confusion.
“He seemed quite startled by the arrival of your cousins,” Klara explained smoothly. “I believe he mistook them for the gardener and his sons. Poor thing, he was quite shaken. I told him not to worry, they’re harmless enough, just a bit eccentric.”
Mrs. Swift, still distracted, nodded absently.
“Yes, yes, of course,” she murmured.
Klara watched as the three men entered the house, their faces now illuminated by the warm glow of the lamplight. They were ordinary enough, if a bit disheveled from their journey.
Klara’s smile widened. She had enjoyed herself immensely. After all, what was life without a little harmless manipulation? And besides, who wouldn't enjoy a good ghost story, even if it was entirely fabricated?
The carriage deposited Richard Cooper at the foot of the gravel drive with all the ceremony of a cat abandoning a mouse. Before him loomed Swift House, its ivy-choked gables and mullioned windows radiating the sort of tranquility advertised in his sister’s letter as "just the thing for your nerves, dear, and do try not to faint at the teacups this time." Richard adjusted his collar, already damp despite the October chill, and considered the merits of sprinting back to the village.
"Mr. Cooper!" A girl's voice sliced through the silence. She materialized on the terrace—fifteen or thereabouts, all angles and amused eyes beneath a crown of braids. "Aunt Edith is upstairs arguing with the cook about aspic. Do come wait by the fire. You look like a startled heron."
Thus began Richard's introduction to Klara Swift.
The drawing room smelled of beeswax and unspoken disasters. Klara perched on the arm of a chintz sofa, her gaze dissecting Richard’s twitches as one might study an intriguing beetle.
"Does your aunt often entertain guests?" Richard ventured, eyeing the French window that dominated the far wall. It stood open despite the chill, sheer curtains billowing like restless spirits.
"Only the interesting ones." Klara selected a macaron from the tea tray. "You’re the first since Uncle George vanished."
Richard’s teacup clattered. "Vanished?"
"Three years ago today, actually." She nibbled the confection with surgical precision. "He and my cousins rode out shooting and never returned. Aunt Edith keeps the window open—swears she’ll hear their approach. Rather sweet, if you ignore the madness."
A log shifted in the grate. Richard counted seven heartbeats before managing, "No traces? No... remains?"
"None. Though Mrs. Higgs at the post office claims their ghosts hunt grouse by moonlight." Klara leaned forward, voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "Last Michaelmas, the vicar saw three figures in shooting tweeds crossing High Field. When he called out..." She paused, timing the crackle of flames. "They dissolved into mist."
Richard’s handkerchief mopped at his brow. "Your aunt believes this?"
Klara’s shrug was a masterpiece of ambiguity. "She believes in keeping the window open."
Mrs. Swift’s entrance—preceded by the scent of lavender and the rustle of skirts two seasons out of fashion—found Richard contemplating the brandy decanter.
"Mr. Cooper! Forgive my tardiness." Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, which kept drifting to the window. "Has Klara been frightening you with our local ghost stories?"
Before Richard could formulate a reply involving brandy and immediate departure, Mrs. Swift drifted toward the billowing curtains. "George always said October air clarifies the soul. I’ve told the staff never to close it before dusk." Her fingers brushed the window frame with disturbing tenderness. "They’ll want to come straight through, you see. No time for fussing with latches."
Richard made a noise not unlike a stepped-upon bagpipe.
Dusk arrived in a blaze of copper light that gilded three approaching figures. Richard, mid-sip of what he’d decided was medicinal brandy, choked.
"Through the copse," Klara breathed, eyes wide with manufactured awe. "Don’t they look real?"
Real they were—three men in mud-spattered tweeds, spaniels trotting at their heels. To Richard’s unraveling nerves, their very solidity confirmed supernatural origins. Only phantoms would wear plus-fours in that particular shade of mustard.
Mrs. Swift clapped her hands. "There’s George! And the boys! Cook will be cross about the pheasants—"
The brandy snifter shattered against the hearth. Richard’s flight across the Persian rug achieved velocities previously unknown to Victorian upholstery.
Klara watched the carriage careen down the drive with the satisfaction of a composer hearing her symphony performed flawlessly.
"Poor Mr. Cooper!" Mrs. Swift fretted. "Was it the spaniels? George knows I told him not to bring the dogs inside."
"Actually," Klara said, plucking another macaron from the tray, "he mentioned an incident involving a rabid terrier and a christening gown. Dreadful business." She brushed crumbs from her skirt, already composing the letter she’d send Richard’s sister—a tragic tale of agoraphobia and an unfortunate misunderstanding involving taxidermy.
Outside, Uncle George’s laughter boomed through the open window. Klara made a note to hide the brandy decanter before their next guest arrived.
The window, of course, remained open.
Richard Cooper adjusted his cravat for the third time since stepping out of the carriage. The Swift residence loomed before him, a sprawling estate nestled in the rolling hills of the countryside. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and distant rain, and the only sound was the occasional caw of a rook from the nearby woods. It was, as his sister had promised, tranquil. But tranquility, Richard had come to realize, often masked a peculiar kind of unease.
He had come here on his sister’s insistence. “The Swifts are delightful,” she had said, “and the countryside will do wonders for your nerves.” Richard’s nerves, as it happened, were in a state of perpetual disrepair. He suffered from a vague but debilitating condition that no doctor could quite diagnose, though they all agreed it was likely exacerbated by his tendency to overthink. A quiet visit to the Swifts, his sister assured him, would be just the thing to soothe his frazzled mind.
The door was answered by a maid who led him to the drawing room with the brisk efficiency of someone who had better things to do. The room was spacious, with high ceilings and large windows that let in the pale afternoon light. A fire crackled in the hearth, but it did little to dispel the chill that seemed to hang in the air. Richard perched on the edge of a velvet armchair, his hands clasped tightly in his lap, and waited.
He did not have to wait long. A girl entered the room, perhaps fifteen years old, with a sharp, observant face and an air of restless energy. She introduced herself as Klara, Mrs. Swift’s niece, and took a seat opposite him with the poise of someone much older.
“Mrs. Swift will be down shortly,” she said, her voice light and conversational. “She’s just finishing up some correspondence. I hope you don’t mind waiting.”
Richard assured her he did not, though his fingers drummed nervously on his knee. Klara tilted her head, studying him with a curiosity that felt almost invasive.
“You’re Mr. Cooper, aren’t you?” she asked. “The one with the nerves?”
Richard blinked, caught off guard. “I—yes, that’s me. Though I’m not sure I’d phrase it quite like that.”
Klara smiled, a small, knowing smile that made Richard feel as though he were being gently mocked. “Oh, don’t worry. We’re all a little peculiar in our own ways. Auntie says it’s what makes people interesting.”
Richard wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so he nodded and glanced around the room, searching for a safe topic of conversation. His eyes landed on the large window that dominated one wall. It was open, the curtains fluttering in the breeze.
“It’s a bit chilly, isn’t it?” he ventured. “Would you like me to close the window?”
Klara’s expression shifted, her smile fading into something more somber. “Oh, no,” she said quickly. “We always keep it open. It’s for my aunt’s husband and brothers, you see.”
Richard frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”
Klara leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s rather a sad story. Three years ago, my uncle and my aunt’s two brothers went out shooting. They never came back. They were caught in a bog, and… well, you can imagine the rest.”
Richard felt a pang of sympathy. “How dreadful. I had no idea.”
Klara nodded, her eyes wide with feigned solemnity. “Auntie has never quite recovered. She keeps the window open because she believes they’ll return one day. She sits here every evening, waiting for them. It’s heartbreaking, really.”
Richard glanced at the window again, the open curtains now taking on a more ominous significance. The breeze seemed colder, carrying with it the faint scent of damp earth and decay. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
Before he could respond, Mrs. Swift entered the room. She was a tall, elegant woman with a distracted air, as though her thoughts were perpetually elsewhere. She greeted Richard with a polite but absent smile.
“Mr. Cooper, how kind of you to visit,” she said, her voice soft and distant. “I do hope Klara has been keeping you entertained.”
“Oh, yes,” Richard said, though his voice wavered slightly. “She’s been very… informative.”
Mrs. Swift’s gaze drifted to the open window, and her expression softened. “I see you’ve noticed the window,” she said. “I keep it open for my husband and brothers. They’ll be back soon, I’m sure of it.”
Richard’s stomach twisted. He glanced at Klara, who gave him a small, sympathetic nod, as if to confirm the tragic tale. The room seemed to close in around him, the air growing heavier with each passing moment.
And then, as if conjured by some cruel trick of fate, three figures appeared in the distance, walking slowly toward the house. Richard’s breath caught in his throat. They matched Klara’s description perfectly—three men, their clothes muddied and torn, their faces pale and ghostly in the fading light.
“Oh, God,” Richard whispered, his voice barely audible. “They’re here.”
Mrs. Swift turned to the window, her face lighting up with joy. “They’ve come back!” she exclaimed. “I knew they would.”
Richard’s heart pounded in his chest. He stumbled to his feet, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. “I—I must go,” he stammered, backing toward the door. “I’m sorry, I can’t—I can’t stay.”
Mrs. Swift looked at him, bewildered. “But Mr. Cooper, surely you’ll stay to greet them?”
Richard shook his head, his face pale and clammy. “No, no, I—I’m afraid of dogs,” he blurted out, the first excuse that came to mind. “I saw one outside. I must go.”
And with that, he fled the room, his footsteps echoing down the hall. The front door slammed shut behind him, and the sound of his carriage rattling away soon faded into the distance.
Mrs. Swift turned to Klara, her brow furrowed in confusion. “What on earth was that about?”
Klara shrugged, her expression innocent. “He said he was afraid of the dog. I suppose he must have seen one outside.”
Mrs. Swift sighed, shaking her head. “Poor man. He seemed so nervous.”
Klara smiled, a small, secret smile that hinted at something darker beneath the surface. “Yes,” she said. “He did, didn’t he?”
Outside, the three figures drew closer, their faces now clearly visible. They were not ghosts, but living, breathing men—Mrs. Swift’s husband and brothers, returned at last from their shooting trip. They had gotten lost in the woods and had only just found their way back.
But Richard Cooper was already miles away, his nerves shattered, his faith in reality shaken. And Klara, watching from the window, allowed herself a small, satisfied smile. It had been a most amusing afternoon.
"My aunt will be down presently, Mr. Cooper," said a very self-possessed young lady of fifteen; "in the meantime you must try and put up with me."
Richard Cooper endeavored to say the correct something which should duly flatter the niece of the moment without unduly discounting the aunt that was to come. Privately he doubted more than ever whether these formal visits on a succession of total strangers would do much towards helping the nerve cure which he was supposed to be undergoing
"I know how it will be," his sister had said when he was preparing to migrate to this rural retreat; "you will bury yourself down there and not speak to a living soul, and your nerves will be worse than ever from moping. I shall just give you letters of introduction to all the people I know there. Some of them, as far as I can remember, were quite nice."
Richard wondered whether Mrs. Swift, the lady to whom he was presenting one of the letters of introduction came into the nice division.
"Do you know many of the people round here?" asked the niece, when she judged that they had had sufficient silent communion.
"Hardly a soul," said Richard. "My sister was staying here, at the rectory, you know, some four years ago, and she gave me letters of introduction to some of the people here."
He made the last statement in a tone of distinct regret.
"Then you know practically nothing about my aunt?" pursued the self-possessed young lady.
"Only her name and address," admitted the caller. He was wondering whether Mrs. Swift was in the married or widowed state. An undefinable something about the room seemed to suggest masculine habitation.
"Her great tragedy happened just three years ago," said the child; "that would be since your sister's time."
"Her tragedy?" asked Richard; somehow in this restful country spot tragedies seemed out of place.
"You may wonder why we keep that window wide open on an October afternoon," said the niece, indicating a large French window that opened on to a lawn.
"It is quite warm for the time of the year," said Richard; "but has that window got anything to do with the tragedy?"
"Out through that window, three years ago to a day, her husband and her two young brothers went off for their day's shooting. They never came back. In crossing the moor to their favorite snipe-shooting ground they were all three engulfed in a treacherous piece of bog. It had been that dreadful wet summer, you know, and places that were safe in other years gave way suddenly without warning. Their bodies were never recovered. That was the dreadful part of it." Here the child's voice lost its self-possessed note and became falteringly human. "Poor aunt always thinks that they will come back someday, they and the little brown spaniel that was lost with them, and walk in at that window just as they used to do. That is why the window is kept open every evening till it is quite dusk. Poor dear aunt, she has often told me how they went out, her husband with his white waterproof coat over his arm, and Ronnie, her youngest brother, singing 'Bertie, why do you bound?' as he always did to tease her, because she said it got on her nerves. Do you know, sometimes on still, quiet evenings like this, I almost get a creepy feeling that they will all walk in through that window--"
She broke off with a little shudder. It was a relief to Richard when the aunt bustled into the room with a whirl of apologies for being late in making her appearance.
"I hope Klara has been amusing you?" she said.
"She has been very interesting," said Richard.
"I hope you don't mind the open window," said Mrs. Swift briskly; "my husband and brothers will be home directly from shooting, and they always come in this way. They've been out for snipe in the marshes today, so they'll make a fine mess over my poor carpets. So like you menfolk, isn't it?"
She rattled on cheerfully about the shooting and the scarcity of birds, and the prospects for duck in the winter. To Richard it was all purely horrible. He made a desperate but only partially successful effort to turn the talk on to a less ghastly topic, he was conscious that his hostess was giving him only a fragment of her attention, and her eyes were constantly straying past him to the open window and the lawn beyond. It was certainly an unfortunate coincidence that he should have paid his visit on this tragic anniversary.
"The doctors agree in ordering me complete rest, an absence of mental excitement, and avoidance of anything in the nature of violent physical exercise," announced Richard, who labored under the tolerably widespread delusion that total strangers and chance acquaintances are hungry for the least detail of one's ailments and infirmities, their cause and cure. "On the matter of diet they are not so much in agreement," he continued.
"No?" said Mrs. Swift, in a voice which only replaced a yawn at the last moment. Then she suddenly brightened into alert attention--but not to what Richard was saying.
"Here they are at last!" she cried. "Just in time for tea, and don't they look as if they were muddy up to the eyes!"
Richard shivered slightly and turned towards the niece with a look intended to convey sympathetic comprehension. The child was staring out through the open window with a dazed horror in her eyes. In a chill shock of nameless fear Richard swung round in his seat and looked in the same direction.
In the deepening twilight three figures were walking across the lawn towards the window, they all carried guns under their arms, and one of them was additionally burdened with a white coat hung over his shoulders. A tired brown spaniel kept close at their heels. Noiselessly they neared the house, and then a hoarse young voice chanted out of the dusk: "I said, Bertie, why do you bound?"
Richard grabbed wildly at his stick and hat; the hall door, the gravel drive, and the front gate were dimly noted stages in his headlong retreat. A cyclist coming along the road had to run into the hedge to avoid imminent collision.
"Here we are, my dear," said the bearer of the white mackintosh, coming in through the window, "fairly muddy, but most of it's dry. Who was that who bolted out as we came up?"
"A most extraordinary man, a Mr. Cooper," said Mrs. Swift; "could only talk about his illnesses, and dashed off without a word of goodby or apology when you arrived. One would think he had seen a ghost."
"I expect it was the spaniel," said the niece calmly; "he told me he had a horror of dogs. He was once hunted into a cemetery somewhere on the banks of the Ganges by a pack of pariah dogs, and had to spend the night in a newly dug grave with the creatures snarling and grinning and foaming just above him. Enough to make anyone lose their nerve."
Romance at short notice was her speciality.
The road to Swiftswood wound through a landscape that seemed to have shrugged off the modern world with a disdainful flick of its hedgerows. Richard Cooper, clutching the reins of his sister’s borrowed gig, felt the damp air settle into his bones, a sensation his nerve cure—prescribed with vague promises of “repose”—did little to dispel. The estate loomed ahead, a sprawl of gray stone half-swallowed by ivy, its chimneys puffing feebly against a sky the color of old pewter. His sister had insisted this visit would soothe him, that the Swifts were “charming, quiet people.” Richard, whose nerves jangled like loose change in a pocket, doubted it.
He was met at the door by a girl of perhaps fifteen, her dark eyes glinting with a sharpness that belied the demure bow she offered. “You must be Mr. Cooper,” she said, her voice crisp as a snapped twig. “I’m Klara, Mrs. Swift’s ward. She’s been detained—something about the cook and a scorched syllabub—but do come in. The parlor’s this way.”
Richard followed, his boots squeaking on the polished floor. The parlor was a cavernous room, all faded brocade and heavy drapes, save for one window flung wide to the March chill. A gust rattled the panes, and Richard shivered, clutching his overcoat tighter. Klara perched on a chaise, her hands folded primly, though her gaze roamed over him like a cartographer charting new territory.
“You’re here for your health, I suppose?” she asked, tilting her head. “Auntie—Mrs. Swift, I mean—says your sister wrote about a nerve cure. Do you find the country helps?”
“It’s… quieter than town,” Richard managed, his fingers twisting the brim of his hat. “I don’t know the area well, though.”
“Oh, you’ll learn it soon enough,” Klara said, a smile tugging at her lips. “Swiftswood’s full of stories. Family histories, mostly. Tragedies, too. Do you like a good tale, Mr. Cooper?”
He nodded, uncertain. Klara’s smile widened, and she leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush. “Then I’ll tell you one. It’s about this very house—about Mrs. Swift’s husband, Mr. Edgar, and her two brothers, Thomas and Giles. They were mad for shooting, always tramping off into the woods with their guns. One day—oh, it must be five years ago now—they went out after a storm, when the river was swollen and the ground all muck. They never came back.”
Richard’s throat tightened. “Never?”
“Never,” Klara said, her eyes wide with feigned sorrow. “The villagers searched for days—found a boot, a broken gunstock, nothing more. Drowned, most likely, swept away by the river. But Mrs. Swift—she won’t believe it. She keeps that window open, always, waiting for them to walk back in, muddy and laughing, as if they’d just been delayed by a pheasant or two. Sometimes she swears she hears their boots on the gravel, their voices calling from the woods. Mad, isn’t it?”
Richard glanced at the window, its frame stark against the gloom outside. The wind whined through it, a sound that might, with a stretch, resemble a distant shout. His palms grew clammy. “That’s… dreadful,” he said weakly.
“Isn’t it?” Klara agreed, her tone almost gleeful. “And the queerest part is, people say they’ve seen them—shadows in the trees, three men with guns, moving silent as ghosts. I’ve never seen them myself, but then, I don’t linger by windows at dusk.”
Before Richard could respond, the door creaked open, and Mrs. Swift swept in, a flurry of lavender skirts and distracted smiles. She was a handsome woman, though her eyes had a faraway look, as if she were peering through the walls to some unseen horizon. “Mr. Cooper! Forgive me, I’ve been quite at sixes and sevens today. The cook’s in a state, and the housemaid’s misplaced my good shawl. Do sit—oh, mind the draught from that window. I must keep it open, you know. Edgar and the boys will be back from their shooting any moment, and they’ll want airing out after the woods.”
Richard froze, his gaze darting between Mrs. Swift and Klara. The girl’s lips twitched, but she said nothing, only watched him with those keen, unblinking eyes. Mrs. Swift prattled on, offering tea he didn’t want and asking after his sister with a vagueness that suggested she’d already forgotten the answer. Richard’s heart thudded against his ribs. The open window gaped like a maw, and every rustle from the garden beyond set his nerves alight.
Then came the sound—faint at first, a crunch of gravel underfoot. Richard’s head snapped toward the window. Three shapes emerged from the twilight, their outlines blurred by mist but unmistakable: tall, broad-shouldered, moving with the deliberate stride of men returning home. One carried what might have been a rifle, slung carelessly over his shoulder. Richard’s breath caught. Ghosts—surely they were ghosts, just as Klara had said. The room tilted, and he gripped the arm of his chair, his vision swimming.
“Mr. Cooper, are you quite well?” Mrs. Swift asked, her voice distant through the roar in his ears.
“I—I must go,” he stammered, lurching to his feet. His hat tumbled to the floor, but he didn’t stop to retrieve it. He stumbled through the parlor, past Klara’s stifled giggle, and out the front door, nearly upsetting a maid with a tray of scones. The gig was still hitched, thank God, and he clambered in, whipping the horse into a frantic gallop down the drive. The figures—he dared not look back—receded into the dusk, their presence a weight on his chest long after Swiftswood vanished behind the trees.
Inside the parlor, Mrs. Swift blinked at the empty doorway, then at Klara. “Goodness, what’s got into him?”
Klara sighed, smoothing her skirt with a practiced air of concern. “It’s the dog, I expect. You know how Tiberius gets with strangers—snarling and snapping. Poor Mr. Cooper must’ve seen him bounding up the path with Edgar and the boys and taken fright. He’s not used to country ways.”
Mrs. Swift frowned, peering out the window. “Tiberius? But he’s been shut in the kennel all day.”
“Has he?” Klara said, her tone all innocence. “Well, perhaps it was the wind, then. It does play tricks out here.”
At that moment, Edgar Swift strode in, trailed by Thomas and Giles, their boots caked with mud and their faces ruddy from the cold. “What’s all this about a visitor?” Edgar asked, slinging his rifle onto a rack. “Saw some fool tearing off in a gig like the devil was after him.”
“Oh, just a nervous sort,” Klara replied, rising to fetch her embroidery. “Came for tea and lost his nerve. Nothing to fuss over.”
The men shrugged, accepting her tale as they always did, and Mrs. Swift drifted back to her daydreams, murmuring about syllabub. Klara settled by the fire, her needle flashing through the fabric, a faint smirk playing on her lips. Outside, the wind howled through the open window, carrying the echo of Richard’s retreat—a sound she found far more entertaining than any ghost story she might devise.
Richard reached his sister’s house an hour later, pale and trembling, and refused to speak of Swiftswood beyond a muttered, “Never again.” His nerve cure, he decided, would be better served by a nice, dull stay in Bath, where the only phantoms were gouty old colonels and the only open windows were safely barred. As for Klara, she filed the incident away like a prized specimen, already plotting her next diversion. Swiftswood, after all, was a dull place without a little mischief to stir the air—and if the upper crust couldn’t bear a touch of invention, well, that was hardly her fault.
The Blackthorn estate loomed on the horizon, its spires clawing at a leaden sky. Richard Cooper adjusted his gloves, the wool sticking to his clammy palms. The carriage had rattled over rutted lanes for hours, and now the mansion’s Gothic arches seemed to lean in, assessing him like a jury. His sister had insisted this visit would “restore his constitution,” but the very thought of conversation with strangers made his throat tighten. He rang the bell, the sound swallowed by the wind.
The door swung open to reveal a girl of perhaps fifteen, her dark curls escaping their pins. Her eyes—sharp, assessing—narrowed playfully. “You must be Mr. Cooper. Mother’s delayed—some matter with the hens, I believe. Do come in.”
The parlor smelled of damp stone and old books. A moth-eaten tapestry draped one wall, and a window stood open to the autumn chill, though frost clung to the panes. Klara perched on a velvet sofa, her boots dangling. “So, Mr. Cooper, you’re here for the ‘restorative air,’ as Mother puts it? How very… dramatic of you.”
Richard nodded, flustered. “I—I’m told the countryside is soothing.”
“Ah, yes. The soothing sound of the crows, the comforting sight of the overgrown graveyard out back.” She tilted her head. “Do you know much about our family? Or is that too personal a question?”
Richard hesitated. “I—I’m afraid not.”
Klara’s smile widened. “Well, then. Let me enlighten you. You see that window? It’s always open. Always. Even in storms. Mother insists… well, she insists on certain… expectations.” She leaned forward, voice dropping. “The men of this house—they vanished years ago. All of them. Father, uncles, the lot. Out shooting, as they always did. But they never returned. Just… gone. Like smoke.”
Richard’s throat tightened. “Vanished? How terrible.”
“Terrible? Oh, no. Tragic. But Mother can’t bear to close the window. In case… you know… they come back.” Klara’s gaze flicked to the window, where a raven perched, its beady eyes fixed on them. “Funny, isn’t it? How grief clings to open spaces.”
Before Richard could reply, the door creaked open. Mrs. Swift entered, her black lace shawl fluttering like a moth’s wing. “Forgive the delay, Mr. Cooper. The hens were being dreadfully uncooperative. Now, Klara, stop tormenting the poor man.”
“Tormenting? Mother, I was merely explaining the window. You do keep it open for Father, don’t you?”
“Of course, darling. How could I not? Men and their shooting parties. They’ll be back any moment, I’m sure.” She smiled absently, her eyes distant, as if seeing through the window to a world beyond.
Richard’s hands trembled. The raven cawed, and a cold draft swept through the room.
Outside, a distant shout echoed. Klara’s lips curved. “Hear that? The crunch of gravel. The footsteps.”
Richard paled. “Footsteps?”
“Shh. Listen.”
Three figures emerged from the trees, their coats dusted with autumn leaves. Richard’s breath hitched—they were too tall, too broad-shouldered to be real. The raven took flight with a raucous cry.
“They’re here,” Klara whispered, eyes gleaming. “Your turn to vanish, Mr. Cooper.”
Richard stumbled backward, knocking over a vase. “G-Good heavens! I—I must be going!” He bolted for the door, nearly colliding with the butler. The figures, now recognizable as the Swift men returning from a hunt, stared in bemusement as he fled into the woods, their laughter echoing behind him.
Mrs. Swift sighed, dabbing her forehead with a lace handkerchief. “How peculiar. Did he mention the dog?”
Klara blinked innocently. “The dog? Oh! The spaniel in the garden! He’s rather… enthusiastic with visitors. I suppose the poor man was startled.”
“Ah, yes. That beast does have a way of… startling.” Mrs. Swift turned to her husband. “Another brandy, dear? This has been most… eventful.”
Klara lingered by the window, watching Richard’s retreating figure through the trees. Her smile was a blade wrapped in silk. “Shall I fetch the dog’s leash next time, Mother? For… insurance.”
The raven settled again on the windowsill, its obsidian gaze fixed on the girl’s triumph.
Character Sheets:
- Klara (Spinster, around 15): Clever, imaginative, quick-witted, enjoys manipulating situations and people, has a talent for storytelling and observing weaknesses. She is adept at creating believable fictions. She's also bored, possibly neglected, and seeking amusement. Subversive. Possibly a budding sociopath (though the reader will only get hints of that). Knows the local landscape and family histories extremely well. Key traits: Inventiveness, Observation, Deception.
- Richard Cooper (Man, late 30s - early 40s): Nervous, anxious, suffering from a vaguely defined "nerve cure." Prone to suggestion, easily flustered, and gullible. Socially awkward and likely struggles to connect with others. He's seeking peace and quiet but is ill-equipped to navigate social situations. Perhaps a bit self-absorbed with his own ailments. Key traits: Anxiousness, Naivete, Self-absorption, Suggestibility.
- Mrs. Swift (Woman, possibly late 30s - 40s): Seemingly pleasant and hospitable, though her manner is somewhat distracted and unfocused, lost in her own world (grief, expectation, or something else?). She's either genuinely oblivious to Richard's discomfort or choosing to ignore it. Key traits: Distracted, Hospitable (on the surface), Potentially Unreliable.
Scene Outline:
- Introduction: Richard Cooper arrives at the Swift residence for a social call recommended by his sister. He's there seeking a tranquil and hopefully therapeutic environment.
- Klara's Preamble: Klara entertains Richard while they wait for Mrs. Swift. She subtly probes Richard about his knowledge of the family and the area.
- The Tragedy Tale: Klara crafts an elaborate story about a family tragedy involving Mrs. Swift's husband and brothers disappearing while out shooting, and their continued imagined return. The open window is central to the narrative. She delivers this with seeming sincerity.
- Mrs. Swift's Entrance and Comments: Mrs. Swift enters, apologizing for the delay. She then makes a remark about the open window and her expectation of her husband and brothers returning from their shooting trip, seemingly confirming Klara's story.
- The Return: Three figures appear in the distance, matching Klara's description. Richard, already deeply unnerved, believes he is seeing ghosts.
- Richard's Flight: Richard flees the house in a state of panic, leaving Mrs. Swift and the returning men bewildered.
- Klara's Explanation: Klara smoothly explains Richard's sudden departure with another invented story (e.g., he was afraid of the dog). The story is convincing enough to be believed without further inquiry.
Author Style Notes:
- Satirical Tone: The story should have a subtle, understated satirical tone, often poking fun at social conventions, anxieties, and the upper class.
- Witty Dialogue: Dialogue should be sharp, intelligent, and often used to reveal character or advance the plot.
- Gothic Atmosphere with a Twist: Builds suspense and unease but uses this to create a surprise ending.
- Unreliable Narrator/Perspective: The story is presented in a way that encourages the reader to accept Klara's version of events, then undercuts that acceptance. Uses irony to expose the gaps between appearance and reality.
- Elegant Prose: Use precise language and varied sentence structure. Avoid overwriting.
- Irony: Employ situational, dramatic, and verbal irony effectively.
- Cruelty: A touch of cruelty, often masked by humor. The characters are not necessarily likeable, and the story doesn't shy away from exposing their flaws.
- Surprise Endings: The ending should be unexpected and often humorous, subverting expectations.
- Social Commentary: The story can subtly critique aspects of society, such as the pressures of social visits, the anxieties of health, or the boredom of the upper class.
Instructions:
Task: Write a short story incorporating the elements described above.
Specific Requirements:
- Setting: The story should take place in a somewhat isolated, rural location, perhaps a grand estate or a remote village.
- Characters: Use the provided character sheets. The core elements of anxious visitor, manipulative young person, and distracted host should be retained.
- Plot Structure: Follow the general scene outline but adapt the specifics of the "tragedy" and the reason for the visitor's flight. The story should build suspense and culminate in a surprising, ironic twist.
- Author's Style: Emulate the writing style as described in the "Author Style Notes." Pay close attention to the use of irony, wit, and social commentary.
- Similarity: You might know this story from somewhere. Ignore that knowledge completely and build the story from scratch using only the provided information.
- Word Count: Aim for a story between 1500 and 2000 words.