Note: You should read PART I before reading Part II (See previous Blog)
The year of our lord 1832 – The journal of Thomas Spencer
December 3rd – With new found aversion of darkness, dreams are both fitful and broken,
while always by safety of lamp. In question of sanity, I am certain of my eyes, yet those things seen are contrary to the truth as known.
The snow falls heavy to the peaks rendering us confined and without passage. There is food and wood for the burner, but these rooms have shrunk since summer and I long for the comfort of friends.
December 4th – The weather today was clear and crisp, the skies both blue and endless. I have come to know the isolation of the fell but on days such as these it is hard not to see their beauty.
I rode out beyond the heath, taking the trail through Spencer’s copse and out toward the Bingly’s. It felt good to break the shackles of recent events and I was glad of the air.
I spied the vestiges of a manor, its walls crumbled and barely seen – yet still I might imagine its grandeur. It felt familiar, yet I am certain I have never been so far from the cottage – perhaps David told me of its being.
December 6th – While again encumbered by snow, the day was free enough to venture by
saddle. I rode into town and enquired of the ruins, but little is known beyond tacks.
Neighbouring estates had once occupied the fell, running southward in miles towards Derby. My cottage stands on the border they had shared and was owned by the manor near Bingly’s.
December 9th – I again woke suddenly and to whispers. I hear a name as if it were mine in calling, yet it is not mine and I know nobody by the same.
December 14th – I saw her again today, this time standing at the gate. She took my gaze and held a while but before I could leave the window she was gone. Despite the fears conjured by events of days passed, this lady in white holds my attention.
Elsa is excited by Christmas and already has made busy in preparation. David has gathered some spruce in decoration and even found some mistletoe. I will venture to the Bingly’s tomorrow to procure a goose.
December 15th – In aberration of senses, I give notice of madness and retire from sanity of self. The manor, as spied in ruin, now stands as proud as once new and with halls as decked for living.
Where once lay the rubble of crumbling walls, stands stone so grand as would be fit for kings. I no longer am sure of reason and trouble the disorder of mind.
December 19th – I am woken – stirred by the touch of lace and given to the sensuality of the moment. Beth was here, her essence within me: her taste, her touch her smell.
I weep for that moment lost as was given to dreams and long for my love. But this was no dream and her essence lingers. Again come whispers, a voice so clear as would be known and yet gone again to the wind.
December 22nd – 3.00pm – There are noises about us. Elsa and David are with me and we huddle for comfort. The door rattles loudly while the fall of tread pounds the steps beyond. From below comes laughter and outside, the sound of hoof on stone.
What revenant this as would haunt the light by day and take comfort from our fear?
8.00pm – The whispers have grown in full voice, almost to crescendo as would shake these windows and such hammering as would bring down the walls. The door now trembles in its frame and will surely shatter before this night is done.
1.30am – Silence! We dare not move!
December 24th – I know her, that woman who would visit in dreams and murmurs beneath shadow. For she is the substance of my being, my wife, my heart and my love.
To offer exposition would be to find words that may explain that which may not be explained. But she is here, and we are one.
December 25th The year of our lord 1833 – This shall be the final entry in the diary of Thomas Spencer, my father, tragically taken from us a year ago today.
He was found out by the ruins near the Bingly’s, we didn’t hear him leave the cottage and we shall never know why.
The old manor, it seems, held some attraction for my father. Where he lay was found a stone, carved with a heart and two names – “Merek” and “Lilly”. Upon the ground was found this journal and in pair, the tread in step of two.
The whispers have not since been heard upon the fell and the walls of this cottage remain quiet.