Chapter 9 Eliza
Eliza
After seeing the ghost, I felt changed—spiritually, yes, but also in a way that was deeper…
if that was even possible, deeper than the soul itself.
I didn’t speak of what I saw to anyone—mostly because I wasn’t sure that it was in my best interest to go telling everyone that I had seen a ghost without finding out a few things first, such as: Did the rest of the house know about her?
If not, would the ghost want them knowing?
Something in my gut told me it would be a betrayal to the woman, like I would be doubting her.
I was terrified knowing that it wasn’t likely the last time that I would be seeing her, and I certainly didn’t want to infuriate her by doing something she didn’t want.
Besides, who would I tell? I was a solitary creature, without friends, and without investigating a bit further, it wasn’t something I would bring up to anyone at the manor.
I wished I had someone to talk to about the experience.
Keeping all the tension and fear that this manor and that interaction had created inside me was only making me more paranoid and tense.
In my twenty-five years of life, my controlling mother had excelled at keeping her influence the main one in my life—the only one in my life, really.
She was already furious that I’d managed to get out of her reach and into the confines of Blackwood Manor—something she would have prevented had she known before my departure.
Even in her spirit form, the ghost in the red dress radiated a gentler, more loving, maternal presence than my mother was capable of producing, though both women were terrifying—at that moment, though, I was still more afraid of my mother.
That realization dragged my emotions down and sank into my soul like an anchor plunging to the ocean floor.
The picture in the locket, the way Jasper looked up at that woman as if she hung the moon caused a whisper of jealousy to curl around my heart.
I wasn’t certain, but if the woman in the red dress was the ghost of Hester, how could he have killed her?
What I wouldn’t have given to have been hugged by my own mother like that—just once.
It was infuriating to think that someone had had that and hadn’t appreciated it.
I wouldn’t let him get away with it. Hester Blackwood deserved better than to be murdered by her own son.
As foolish and naive as it sounded, I wasn’t sure I’d ever felt so important in all of my life.
I’d been there a little over a week, and I hadn’t seen the ghost since that first day…
and night. The next morning, I had almost convinced myself that none of it was real…
until I’d felt the foreign weight of the chain around my neck.
Every time the antique locket shifted against my chest, warm from being pressed so close against my skin, I was reminded of how real that night was.
I reached up and closed my hand around it.
The locket felt oddly warm in my hand, heavier than I remembered.
The gold had obviously dulled with age, but it still cast a faint glow in the dim light that I couldn’t quite decide whether it was my imagination or something more.
I ran my fingers over the delicate engravings, tracing the soft curves of the metal.
It was clearly an heirloom, the surface worn by people long before me, each one leaving their invisible imprint—though, in some strange way, I could have sworn I could feel them all with just a touch.
There was something sacred about the way it rested in my palm, as though it held a secret far too precious to be spoken aloud.
I marveled at it, this small object that had endured for years—maybe even centuries—and still carried generations of memories.
I knew I was foolish to cherish something like this—for all I knew, the ghost could have been using it to curse me or worse, but that one look of hope I had seen in her eyes affected me more than all the fear the interactions with her had caused.
I pressed my fingernail in the crease, and the tiny latch opened with a soft click, like the heavy sigh of something hidden that had finally been allowed to stretch its wings.
Inside, the picture waited, delicate next to the red velvet lining of the other side of the locket.
I leaned in close, my breath slow, almost reverent.
The organ in my chest squeezed and stuttered at the sight before me.
The image had changed.
It was no longer a picture of the woman in a flowing red gown—but instead, a tiny painting of a single white dove, so beautifully detailed I could nearly feel the rush of its wings as if it were poised to lift off and take flight.
The dove’s feathers were delicately painted in soft, ethereal whites.
I thought it might be oil paints, though I was unsure.
All I knew was that every brushstroke conveyed something intangible: a quiet elegance, a sense that the artist tried to capture not just the bird, but the very essence of hope.
The bird’s eyes were soft, filled with a dreamy sort of optimism.
Its posture was peaceful, graceful, yet beneath it all, there was a heaviness to the image, a sadness that whispered through the delicate curves of its form.
I could almost hear the soft flutter of wings, see a brief glimpse of something untouchable, something lost, like the bird was carrying a message that could never quite be spoken, though it was understood.
How had the image changed since I’d last looked at it?
It was impossible—the entire thing was impossible.
The stress had finally gotten to me, and I’d snapped.
All rational sections of my brain urged me to gather my things and leave Blackwood Manor at once, to put all of this nonsense behind me.
Ghosts? Dead mothers? Magical hidden lockets?
It was impossible to believe any part of it—the most unbelievable thing being that anyone would choose to ask for my help when I was incapable of even helping myself.
The very real and tangible feel of the locket spoke to me, though. I couldn’t ignore what was happening. I knew this was real.
What was she trying to tell me with the locket?
I closed my eyes for a second, letting the image of the dove fill my mind.
Immediately, I understood that she was putting her hope in me.
I imagined her wearing the locket and wondered if she, too, felt the weight of its beauty, the sharp pang of its quiet melancholy.
Or was it simply a trinket that she wore and then forgot—left behind in the garden with the other discarded things, forgotten like the flowers in the conservatory had been for so long now?
I couldn’t begin to count the number of times I’d absentmindedly worn a piece of jewelry to a garden, only to have it get in the way as I dug or pruned; rings and necklaces clinking against the wood, annoyingly catching in the sleeves of my work clothes.
As with any gardener, I never wore them for long, taking them off quickly so they didn’t distract me.
How often do we carry things we forget about until they’re in the way or gone missing?
The way I related to this woman, this ghost, stirred something inside of me—something that felt too raw, too deep, to be comfortable. Already, it would have been impossible for me to abandon her. My curiosity alone was too great.
I hesitated, my fingers lingering over the closed locket, the image of the dove still vivid in my mind.
I sat up in my bed, eyes squinting against the bright morning light that poured through the windows.
I stretched, and as I did, felt the locket against my collarbone, its weight a steady, comforting presence.
Like I wasn’t really alone in the manor after all.
I knew there were other people here, but I seemed to feel alone wherever I went, no matter how many people were with me.
As I got dressed, I tucked it beneath my shirt.
There was a part of me that felt like Gollum with the ring, hoarding something precious, something too dangerous to share.
Rightfully, it belonged to Jasper—even if it wasn’t his mother’s, it was someone in his family; the child that looked like him in the original photo proved it hadn’t just belonged to someone who worked for the Blackwoods.
But what if it was evidence that could help get justice for his parents?
I was certainly not going to hand it over to the man—allegedly—responsible for killing them.
I didn’t want to hide it, not really. It was too beautiful, too meaningful.
And though I couldn’t explain why, it felt like it belonged close to me—close enough that I could always feel its presence, even if I couldn’t see it.
I touched the oval locket through the cotton of my shirt, my fingers lightly moving the fabric over the smooth metal.
I let my fingers linger for just a moment longer, wondering what else Blackwood Manor would reveal to me.
The dove, hidden now beneath my shirt, was a secret I hadn’t even begun to unravel.
Something told me this was only the beginning—whatever the locket held, whatever it symbolized, it would find its way to the surface in time if I let it.
The ghost was no longer alone. I was here to help her.
It struck me how calm I acted after seeing a ghost—about having interacted with her.
The truth was, I was still terrified. I was jumpy and filled with nervous tension.
If I saw her again while fully awake instead of in the haze of exhaustion, I was sure I’d be more frightened than ever.
Maybe I’d have a heart attack and join the list of manor victims. I was haunted by more than just the fear of her, though—I was tormented with empathy.