LeRoux Manor Read online

  “Come on, then. Still plenty more boxes in the truck.”

  Camille gave another quick glance around the room, then followed her father. In her new bedroom, the wardrobe door creaked open a little farther.

  THE FULL MOON SAT LIKE an enormous floodlight in the sky, and even the grime covering the windows couldn’t prevent its light from straining into the room, bathing everything in an ethereal glow. Camille marvelled at the ghostly pallor it gave her skin as she sat in the window seat. The height of the moon in the sky told her it was late, yet she still felt too wired to try to go to sleep. She’d thought she would crash at the first opportunity, but there was just too much to take in—too much to look at and explore.

  She found the silence a little unnerving, too—stifling, like a heavy blanket wrapped around her in the summer. It made every creak and groan of the house seem all the louder, startling her every time, and she missed the background noise of endless traffic and a bustling population. In the thralls of the night, she slightly regretted choosing a room so far from her parents. Hugging her knees to her chest, she peered back down at the grounds below her.

  A red pane of glass beside her knee seemed clearer than the rest, and she leaned forward for a better look through it. Wiping the dust away, she was surprised she could see outside as clearly as if this were a brand-new pane. A light wind stirred the trees at the edge of the woods, and Camille followed its path toward the manor, sweeping through the overgrown grass and sending a shudder through the shrubbery.

  Camille gasped, pressing her hands against the window as she angled for a better look. A woman stood out in the gardens, looking up at the manor. The wind picked up, making the black skirts of the woman’s dress billow around her. Camille struggled to swallow as she and the woman stared at each other, her throat suddenly feeling like sandpaper. The high black neck of the woman’s dress topped with a white, lace collar was outdone in severity only by the woman’s strikingly white hair piled atop her head in a tight bun. Despite the hair, the woman didn’t look that old—unless the moonlight played tricks on Camille’s eyes. This stranger stood with a rare poise, her hands clasped in front of her, as though she were posing for a portrait. The red hue of the glass in Camille’s window gave made her seem all the more menacing. There was no mistaking the intensity of her gaze. She knew Camille was there.

  Unable to look away, Camille started to feel as though the room was slowly spinning around her. Thick clouds drifted across the moon, bringing an icy shudder through the girl’s neck and back. She strained to see the woman in the sudden darkness cast over the grounds, but the moon’s previous brightness had all but blinded her. By the time the clouds parted enough to let the moonlight spread across the grounds again, the woman was gone.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Y

  OU LOOK TIRED, sweetheart,” her mother commented as Camille entered the kitchen.

  “I didn’t sleep well. First night in a new house and all that.” Camille hesitated for a moment, unsure whether to share what she’d seen. “Mum, there’s no one else staying here at the manor, is there?”

  “Well, the McAllister’s were due back sometime last night, but other than them, it’s just us.”

  “The McAllister’s?”

  “Didn’t your father tell you?” Her mother wiped her hands on a tea towel. “They’re siblings. Miss McAllister is the housekeeper, and her brother is the groundsman. According to your father, their family has served the LeRoux’s before this manor was even built.”

  Camille raised her eyebrows and glanced around; clearly, the housekeeper and groundsman hadn’t done much to improve the state of the manor.

  Her mother shrugged. “I know. I think it’s more in spirit than in practise these days. They’re both well into their seventies. They’ve lived and worked here all their lives, so it’s more their home than ours. It would have been wrong to ask them to leave. Besides, it’ll probably come in handy to have someone around who knows the ins and outs of this place. It’s going to take some getting used to.”

  “Tell me about it. I got lost just trying to find my way to the kitchen.” Camille grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl and bit into it, enjoying the crisp crunch. Smiling, she told herself it must have been Miss McAllister she’d seen out on the grounds last night. Sure, she was creepy, but Camille felt much better knowing who she was. “I think I’m going to explore a little,” she announced, giving her mother a quick kiss on the cheek.

  “Don’t get lost,” her mother half joked.

  Camille held up her phone. “Don’t worry, Mum. This thing never leaves my side. If I go missing, you can always do that ‘find my phone’ thing.” With the apple still in hand, she left the kitchen and pondered where to start.

  Her gaze climbed the elegant staircase. She hadn’t really paid that much attention to it the day before, other than to curse the repeated trips up and down them. She made a mental note to ask her parents if they’d consider installing a lift as part of their renovations. The staircase had to be wider than their car was long, the stairs covered in a faded, worn blue carpet that had likely been a pretty shade once. The ornate, wooden balustrades lining either side of the staircase were thoroughly covered in dust. It didn’t take much imagination to see how the place would have looked when the house was new.

  Camille placed her hand on the wood, drawn to it. An image flooded her mind, like a memory—of shiny shoes and little legs running down the staircase, barely avoiding tripping up on the long skirts of a dress; a gleeful squeal as a child ignored the call of an authoritative voice, calling from above for her to stop running in the house.

  Camille pulled her hand back, overcome with the same sensation of déjà vu.

  “Old homes like this hold a lot of memories, Miss. Secrets, too.”

  Camille jumped and turned to find a woman standing there in the entryway. Her face was heavily wrinkled with time and unspoken burdens, making her appear much older than she likely was. The women wiped her hand on her apron and extended a hand.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss. I’m Miss McAllister, and I care for the house. Well, as best I can, these days.”

  Camille reached out to shake Miss McAllister’s hand, which trembled in her grasp. The woman held their grip for so long, it started to make Camille uncomfortable; it forced her to stare right back at the woman. There was something about her eyes—a watery, sky-blue that might once have been the colour of the ocean in her younger years. They drew Camille in, sparking something like recognition. Miss McAllister squeezed her hand lightly, breaking the spell, and Camille cleared her throat. “Nice to meet you. I was just about to take a look around the manor.”

  “Very good, Miss. Be careful, mind. The house isn’t as young as it once was. Neither of us are. Most rooms have remained untouched for a great many years. Master Charles was happy for us to tend only to the small part of the manor in which he lived. He never ventured beyond his wing.”

  Camille’s hand was finally released, and she gave a small nod before turning to head up the stairs. “It was nice to meet you.” Struck by a sudden realisation, she stopped, almost fumbling over the next step. But when she turned around, but Miss McAllister was already gone.

  She was definitely not the woman from the garden.

  DESPITE THE UNEASE settling over her like a cloak, Camille decided to start at the very top of the house—the attic. It made sense to start there and work her way down while also hopefully ridding herself of her anxiety around the preconceived notion of what a stereotypical attic would look like. Especially as her bedroom nestled directly below a portion of it.

  It took some exploring before she finally found the entrance. What she’d initially mistaken for a narrow linen closet door in one of the upstairs hallways, actually concealed the slim staircase leading up into the attic. She pulled the lightbulb string dangling before her—gently, for fear it would snap in its brittle state. The dusty globe clicked on and cast a dim yellow glow. The wooden stairs crea
ked and groaned in protest as she ascended. It was a rather steep climb, and combined with the narrowness of the space, Camille started to feel a little claustrophobic.

  Then, with a pop, the light went out. Groaning at the inconvenience, she braced herself against the walls and forced herself to take deep breaths. She would make it all the way up those stairs. She’d never had an issue with dark, confined spaces before—not that she could recall, anyway.

  At the top of the stairs, a channel of muted light swept toward her from the two small, arched windows on the attic’s far wall. Camille looked around the large, open space, peering at the random shapes looming around her. Everything was draped in heavy, dust-laden sheets.

  She carefully weaved her way toward one of the windows and wiped her sleeve across the glass, hoping to let in more light. But now her cardigan was just as dirty as the window. She took it off and tied it around her waist.

  With her hands cupped around her eyes, Camille pressed against the glass to peer out through the window as best she could. Directly below her, the sweeping driveway curved around behind the LeRoux Manor fountain before straightening outside the front of the house. Then it branched off toward either the large garage or back through the trees toward the road.

  Her father stood at the fountain, talking to an older gentleman she assumed was the groundskeeper, Mr McAllister. Even from the lofty height of the attic, Camille could tell Mr McAllister was agitated; he jerked his hands toward her father, at the two men standing in front of a handyman van, then back at her father again. Clearly, the family plans to restore the manor to its former glory were not very popular. Turning away from the window, Camille blinked and tried to focus again in the attic’s dim light.

  Then she saw a face peering at her through the draped sheets. Camille gasped, tripped over a box behind her, and fell heavily to the floor. Sitting up, she groaned and gingerly rubbed her wrist, searching the room for that face again. She squinted through the darkness, her heart thundering in her chest.

  Once she convinced herself there was nothing more menacing than dusty sheets, she turned her attention to the cardboard box on the floor. It hadn’t been there when she’d stood at the window; she was sure of it. Camille pulled the box toward her. It was so old and brittle, part of it came away in her hands. She lifted the lid and found a stack of photo albums neatly packed in a row. Assuming the album on the left would be the oldest, she lifted that one first. The binding creaked when she opened it, exaggerated in the attic’s silence, and Camille stopped. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself.

  Then she shook her head. That was a silly thought; there was no one else up here. Attics were just creepy as a rule.

  The album’s first page held a newspaper clipping. The dim lighting made it too hard to read, but there was no mistaking the photograph of the manor. Standing, Camille carried the album to the window, trying to angle it just right in the muted light from outside. That didn’t work at all.

  With a sigh, she realised she’d have to take the box downstairs if she wanted to read anything, though she didn’t think she could carry much of its weight on her still-throbbing wrist. She returned the album, replaced the box’s lid, and pushed the box toward the stairs with one hand. Her knees protested as she shuffled forward on them across the attic floor, but it would be worth it when she could examine her new discovery downstairs.

  Once she got the box to the top of the stairs, she debated carrying the albums down one at a time, but the thought of going up and down that narrow staircase made her reconsider. It was so steep, she felt like she’d just tumble down it at any moment, regardless of whether she sat or stood.

  Her skin prickled with the overwhelming sensation that someone was coming up behind her to shove her down the stairs. She spun around on her knees, but she was alone. The slight rush of air she’d just felt across her face had to be her imagination.

  She just wanted to get this box downstairs. So, she moved down the first few steps, turned around, and tried to pull the box toward her with one hand while cradling her throbbing wrist against her chest. One hand wasn’t enough. Gritting her teeth, she grabbed it with both hands now, ignoring how much her wrist protested, and dragged that box backward down the stairs one step at a time. After what felt like an eternity, she’d finally reached the bottom of the staircase, where she straightened and rubbed her wrist.

  “What have you got there?”

  Camille jumped and whirled around to see Ms McAllister standing in the doorway. “Um... I found these albums in the attic. Just wanted to take them back to my room to go through them. Ms McAllister just stared at her with tightly pursed lips. “I’ll put them right back when I’m done,” Camille volunteered.

  The woman nodded. “No mind. I suppose they’re yours now, anyway. Though I don’t see what interest these old things could hold for a young person.”

  Camille didn’t quite know what to say, but she felt herself flushing under Ms McAllister’s intense scrutiny.

  “I’ll take the box to your room, Miss.”

  “Oh, no! That’s fine. It’s really heavy.”

  “Nonsense. I’m far stronger than I look. That thing looks like it’s about to fall apart, anyway. I’m not sure you should be lifting it and trying to keep it together with that sore wrist of yours.”

  Camille blinked as the old woman stooped to pick up the box with very little effort and carried it back down the hall. For the life of her, she couldn’t figure out how Ms McAllister knew she’d hurt her wrist.

  BY THE TIME CAMILLE had arranged herself on the window seat, the album close at hand, the clouds had unleashed a torrent of rain. The view from her bedroom had no become a grey and dreary world. Camille didn’t mind. She enjoyed the rain and thought it the perfect weather for sifting through these old albums.

  Opening the first one again, she took another look at the newspaper article. The manor looked majestic and commanding in the photo—the sweeping drive and the fountain in full working order. Arcs of water spiralled up around the centre statue of the woman, water pouring from the jug she held.

  ‘LeRoux Manor Revealed’ was the article’s title, and when Camille found the date—15th March 1817—she found herself awed by how old this new house of hers really was. The article itself discussed the duration of this mansion’s build and the upcoming party the LeRoux family would throw to celebrate its completion; they planned to invite all the townsfolk to join them, regardless of their social standing.

  She turned the page to reveal another newspaper article, this one sideways and spanning across both pages.

  ‘Tragedy at LeRoux Manor’ was dated just a week after the previous article.

  ‘A day that was supposed to see a community come together to rejoice over the new beginning for the town instead became a day of fear and horror never seen before in Woodville.

  Celebration turned to tragedy for the esteemed LeRoux family, founders of the grand LeRoux Manor and estate. Witnesses stated that when the LeRoux’s daughter Mena, age 6, failed to appear at the party, her father Caleb LeRoux, age 45, went to search for her. When he also failed to return, his wife Cecile, age 36, raised the alarm.

  Attending guests and local authorities conducted an extensive search of both the manor and its grounds. The body of a mutilated cat was discovered a few metres into the woods bordering the estate. Its tag identified it as belonging to Mena LeRoux. Approximately two hundred metres farther into the woods, the body of Caleb LeRoux was found, facedown and with a knife embedded in his upper back.

  Authorities maintain there is still hope of finding Mena LeRoux alive as search efforts continue into the night.

  Cecile LeRoux and her son Pierre, age 10, reside in the manor at this time and ask for privacy and prayers as they grieve the loss of a husband and father, awaiting the return of their beloved Mena.

  Police are asking members of the public to come forward if they have any information as to the whereabouts of Mena LeRoux.’

  Turning th
e page, Camille found a family portrait of the LeRoux family. Judging by the extravagant dress Mena wore, she assumed the photo had been taken the day of the party.

  She leaned closer to the album for a better look. The whole family looked so severe with their unsmiling faces staring back at her. This was just how people posed for photos back then, but it made it difficult to feel any sort of connection. They were distant relatives—complete strangers. Camille stared at Mena, who stood in front of her mother and beside her brother, a posy of flowers in her little hands. There was definitely a glint in the girl’s eye—perhaps just the mischievous nature of a six-year-old.

  Camille smiled. Then, as she flipped through the albums, her smile slowly melted into a frown; one article after the next documented the ongoing search and the dwindling hope that Mena LeRoux would be found alive.

  Finally, she had to take a break and turned to stare out at the dismal weather. It seemed so cruel that a day that started with such joy and celebration for her ancestors would turn into a family’s worst nightmare.

  A loud creak startled her from her thoughts, and she turned away from the window and carefully looked first at the closed doors of the wardrobe and then the open bedroom door. The album fell from her lap to the floor with a thump.

  Camille could have sworn it sounded like someone stood on a creaky floorboard right beside her, though she was well aware of the fact that old houses like this shifted and made their own sounds. Then she realised the wardrobe door was ajar. She stared at it; certain it had been closed only a moment ago. She remembered specifically that she’d closed it after getting dressed and double-checked the latch before releasing the handle.

  With a shaky breath, she got up from the window seat and approached the wardrobe. Aside from haphazardly pulling her clothes out of the boxes and shoving them onto the shelves and racks, Camille hadn’t paid much more attention to it than that. When she opened the doors, the left hinge definitely creaked, but she couldn’t tell if it was the same sound that had startled her. But everything looked just fine. She ran her fingers across all her clothes hanging there, then noticed one of her sweaters had slipped halfway off the hanger. Camille reached back to feel for the other end of the hanger, then stopped. Was there a cold draft coming through the wardrobe?