Chapter 18
SOPHIA
It took several minutes to bust a hole in the plasterboard with the wrench.
If I had something with a little more heft to it, I could have broken through in half the time, but the wrench eventually did the trick.
I coughed and spluttered as particles and splinters of plasterboard flew into the air and danced around me, also covering me in a thin layer of grey and white dust.
My dad was going to kill me when he found out I’d busted a hole through the wall.
My dad. How was I supposed to explain this to him? Shit.
People were arriving tomorrow to stay in the cottage. Double shit.
How was I meant to cover up this mess? Triple shit.
I cursed my recklessness and lack of thought, but there could have been someone trapped behind the wall, so I couldn’t leave them there, could I? It was too late to do anything about it now.
Once I created a hole big enough to fit my body through, I half expected a dirty head to pop out of the wall. I never had my dad down for human trafficking, but he was a member of the weird village committee who held their share of secret meetings, so I guessed anything was possible.
I used my phone and shone the beam of light through the hole, holding my breath to stop myself from inhaling the tiny dust particles. Beyond the hole was a spiderweb infested space, but further on it widened into a …
‘No way!’ I said, ducking through the tight hole.
Once I navigated the webs and dust, I crouched under a low beam and emerged into a room. An actual whole other room, complete with faded, outdated wallpaper and furniture. There was a bed, a chest of drawers and a wardrobe. The whole space looked frozen in time, like it belonged in a museum.
Shining the light around, I studied the simple decoration, the plain bedspread, the faded carpet.
What the hell was this room? Did Dad know about it?
Was he the one who boarded it up? There was even a window.
I walked over and peered through the dirty glass, expecting to look out onto the yard below, but I saw nothing but darkness.
The window must have been boarded up from the outside, or closed off somehow.
I’d never noticed an extra window before, but I’d always known there was something off about the hallway. It was a dead end and had always looked out of place, like there should have been a room attached. It was right there, as clear as day, and I’d missed it.
I wandered over to the low bed. Everything was covered in a thick blanket of dust. How long had this been boarded up?
I couldn’t explain it. I may have only discovered this secret place, but it felt as if it were a place just for me, to hide away from the world when I needed a little peace and quiet.
But why was it boarded up in the first place?
What was the reason? Did someone live in here once upon a time?
I cast my mind back. As far as I knew, my dad had always owned Rosemore Cottage. It was a family-owned farm, going back decades. In fact, John Hammel would have lived here.
That was when it hit me.
This was his old room.
I headed to the wardrobe, desperate for answers of any kind.
The double doors were stiff to open, but after a bit of brute force, they finally gave way, revealing several hanging items of clothing, including an old coat, like a farmer would wear.
Something about it drew me in, so I pulled it off the wooden hanger and checked it over, noting a rip on the left cuff and a few stains of red.
I didn’t return it, but took it with me as I walked across to the chest of drawers.
I pulled at the top drawer, which, again, stuck, so I yanked it open.
The surprises kept coming.
In the drawer were several old books. They looked more like diaries or journals than ordinary books.
Setting the coat on the floor, I picked up one of the books. It was old, bound with worn brown leather. Not all of the books were brown. Some were black or grey. The pages of the one in my hand were full of sketches. They were really, really good and were shockingly familiar.
‘Wow,’ I said, taking my time to study each one. They deserved to be looked at thoroughly. The skill and precision were exceptional. The different pencil marks of varying strength, length and size made the sketches come alive before my eyes.
Animals. Trees. People.
The only other time I’d seen similar sketches was when I sat and drew them underneath The Hanging Tree. There wasn’t anything that wasn’t sketched. On every drawing, in the bottom right corner were the initials JH and the date they were drawn.
John Hammel, my great, great, great grandfather, drew these. A huge smile beamed across my face as I realised I was indeed standing in his bedroom, a room that had been blocked off from the rest of the house, sealing it shut, locking away all his treasured possessions for the past nine decades.
Why would anyone do that?
When John died, his family must have made the decision to board up his room.
Had they been ashamed of him or were they trying to hide something?
I’d never met the man, but when his soul entered my body when I sat beneath the tree, I didn’t feel angry or sad.
I didn’t believe John had it in him to take his own life.
Holding the sketchbook close to my chest, I took a deep breath. ‘What really happened to you, John?’ I asked the empty room. ‘I promise I’ll find out the truth.’