IMAGINES: Celebrity Encounters Starring You

by Anna Todd

  As the rainy gloom deepened into darkness outside, you turned away from the window, feeling confident that you could face the enigma that is Ashwood Manor. The parlor was dark save for the glow of the fireplace. Still, a chill was creeping through the cracks in the window frame that made the flames shudder and dance.

  You drew your coat more closely about you, sighing wearily as you sat beside the three other anxious invitees on a well-worn settee covered in crimson upholstery. One girl excitedly whispered to another in a heavy French accent that there was going to be a special guest appearance during the game, but neither of them knew the identity of the stranger or what the stranger’s role would be. As you eagerly eavesdropped on the conversation, a boy with a cheeky grin laughed loudly and stated that he knew who it would be.

  He fluffed the top of his short hair and gave the girls a big smile. “Why, it’s the Detective, of course,” Cheeky Boy said knowingly. His accent was thick and strange. “I heard he’s still kicking around this old place.”

  You nearly chuckled when the girls gasped on cue. Typical. By the sounds of it, they weren’t really as concerned about the puzzles or riddles as you were; rather, their worries seemed a bit more outlandish. You yourself had never believed in ghost stories, especially the one about the manor’s previous owners and their involvement with a madman named Damian Walker, known as the Detective.

  “I heard he went cuckoo”—Cheeky Boy’s voice rose to a chirp—“over the mystery surrounding the Ashwoods’ case in the 1950s. That’s what makes this escape house so legendary—it’s all real!”

  You couldn’t help clamping a hand to your mouth to keep from giggling. Cheeky Boy was fun to listen to, and watching the gullible French Twins squirm brought a much-needed moment of levity.

  It was exactly midnight when you heard an old PA system crackle alive with a rusty screech. Looking around for the source, you realized that the speakers were tucked up in the corners of the ceiling.

  “Testing, testing . . .” It was a man’s voice, deep and rich, like a cello, its low strings plucked to produce the most endearing sound. “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the infamous Ashwood Manor. Let me deduce that a glorious evening awaits you—don’t you agree?”

  A slow chant started to build, gathering the voices as it trickled from one twin, to the other, to Cheeky Boy: “Ash-wood! Ash-wood! Ash-wood!”

  Then, rapid thumps in the hall above sent your heart into a frenzy. The others laughed, but you knew better. The whole room quivered with mysterious significance. The air was laden with a strange energy that filled your core with a mix of excitement and dread. You couldn’t stand the wait any longer. Everyone stood from their seats like children, aglow in joy. You smiled.

  The game was finally about to begin!

  Urgent footsteps came down the stairs, and moments later the parlor doors flew open. A tall man stood facing your group. His sudden halt after his intense momentum blew back his dark overcoat, revealing a smart, plaid suit with pencil lines of crimson and a matching tie. Beside him, lumbering along on a leash, was a big, chocolate-colored bloodhound with a sad face. The dog cocked its head, jingling its old collar. You noticed his tag bore the name CLUE.

  The man looked up, straightened his jacket, and fixed his tie. After collecting himself, his eyes found you.

  Immediately struck by his appearance, your eyes widened. His features were so distinct as to be strikingly unforgettable: strong jaw, prominent chin, high and defined cheekbones like knife blades, with skin as pale as a full moon on a clear night. Beneath his hat, thickly lashed, blue-green eyes peered from deep-set lids. Having watched Sherlock, you recognized him.

  “Benedict Cumberbatch!” the French Twins exclaimed in an annoyingly synchronized squeal.

  “No,” you said, almost whispering the objection at first, overcome by your usual rosy-cheeked reserve. You had never dreamed of meeting in the flesh a celebrity you so greatly admired, never mind spending an entire evening with them. “He’s the Detective.”

  “Someone has to be,” Benedict replied playfully, though you were too stunned to take it as such. “Who’s ready to play a game?”

  Flushed from the excitement of the game and your host, you joined the others in a resounding cheer that was, under normal circumstances, quite against your nature.

  Benedict held a boxy and corded microphone in his hand, a relic of a long-forgotten era. The parlor was small so no microphone was needed at all, but his mouth slid into a grin. It was all a part of the thrill.

  “That’s what I like to hear.” His voice rang in your ears and echoed down the hall outside the parlor doors. The sound not only filled the room, but nearly overwhelmed you.

  Removing his hat and overcoat, Benedict took a black comb from his pocket and slicked his hair back to his liking. “I imagine there’s no need for introductions.” He tucked the comb back into his pocket when the room fell silent.

  Benedict, taking a soft, calming breath, effortlessly slipped into character. “They say I’m mad.” It sounded as if the words were too bitter for his liking. “I’m mad! Do you agree?” he bellowed into the microphone, nearly scaring you out of your skin. Clue whined; he either sensed your fear or had some kind of dog magic that told him something was about to happen. “They say I’m mad and that people like you shouldn’t hear me speak—that I shouldn’t be heard. Well, I suppose I am mad—and I’ve got good cause to be.”

  Benedict crept toward you slowly. His eyes held a profound sorrow that you had never before seen in anyone. “For years I’ve barely slept—the nightmares chase me, you see. That is why I’ve brought you here today. You must set me free.”

  Looking down, you realized that your hands were trembling, finding yourself moved by Benedict’s words and the tears welling in his eyes. What a compelling performance, you thought, shelving the praise as you glanced around the room—at the mahogany side tables, the ominous ticking of an old grandfather clock, and butterflies trapped behind clear glass frames. Are we being filmed? Absentmindedly, you reached up and fixed your hair.

  Benedict returned his glance to the floor, composure reclaimed. “Remember, the rules are simple, but the game is not easy. Each of you were sent a clue to my case by post.”

  You grew silent, feeling as if your heart were pulled to a sudden stop. Slowly, you slipped a hand in your coat pocket and felt the curious little key.

  “You have forty-five minutes to solve the mystery or be forever locked away with me in the halls of Ashwood Manor!”

  Suddenly, the fire in the fireplace went out and the parlor was pitch-black. The silence was so intense that you could hear yourself breathing. You could hear your heart beating. And now you knew you were being watched.

  The lights flickered on, the stark yellow of old bulbs this time, but Benedict and Clue were gone. Then the lights went off again.

  “Where’d he go?” Cheeky Boy whispered, uttering an oath.

  “We were so close to him,” one of the French Twins said, nearly swooning with teenage admiration, “then the bloody lights went out!”

  “What’d you ninnies fancy? An autograph?” Cheeky Boy asked. You could almost hear his eyes rolling in the darkness. “I’m sure you’d love to get locked away forever with him.”

  “Quiet! He’s here,” you replied. “We just can’t see him.”

  The sound of a door opening in the distance, followed by a shuffling sound, quelled the group. You held your breath and willed yourself to stand as still as possible.

  The lights went back on, revealing a message written in chalk beside the old grandfather clock.

  Until I’m measured, I am unknown.

  But, oh, how you’ll miss me, once I have flown.

  “Time,” you said almost too quickly. While you’d always loved riddles and puzzles, this one seemed a bit too obvious. Benedict had made it clear that you had only forty-five minutes to solve the case. The others had successfully wasted two of those precious minutes already. “We all have a piec
e of the puzzle! Come on!”

  You dashed into the main hallway just outside the parlor. Cheeky Boy followed quickly, and the French Twins continued along behind him. Stopping at a red buffet table, you flicked on a small lamp, pushed aside a rather large jar of dog treats, and took a deep breath. Laying the clues down, you began the task of making sense of this mess.

  Cheeky Boy’s clue seemed to be the first in the sequence. You read it aloud to the others:

  The first clue can be found,

  Where the forest has no sound,

  Mountains without rocks, rivers without docks,

  Towns without homes, words without tomes.

  The group stood there for a few moments contemplating the clue. This was one of those rare occasions when you were completely puzzled. “ ‘Mountains without rocks,’ ” you repeated. “That doesn’t make sense to me.”

  “Great, we’re following someone who doesn’t know anything,” one of the French Twins said, crossing her arms tightly. In the light, you could see that she was a pale, hazel-eyed redhead, with an attitude. “I don’t know about you, but we want to find Benedict.”

  The second, more timid French Twin laughed as she removed her pink raincoat before starting up the stairs. You heard the wood creaking with each booted step she took. She paused and turned back for a moment. “I say we go check the rest of this place out. What do you think?” She winked at Cheeky Boy. How could he possibly resist?

  “I know this is hard, but we need to work together on this in order to get out on time,” you explained, tilting your head. “The riddles are no joke.”

  The Twins scoffed at this and rolled their eyes in unison. You were starting to find it hard to believe that these two were human.

  “I’m sure we can handle it,” Cheeky Boy said, following the girls up the steps. You knew he was trying to reassure you, but it felt more like a ploy so that all three of them could get out of doing the work. “We’ll be right back down. It’ll give us some time to, you know, think.”

  Think. Sure, you thought, grumbling. What if this was a trick? A prickle traveled down the back of your neck accompanied by a strong feeling of foreboding. You were clearly starting to lose your focus and almost considered dashing up the stairs to take your chances with the Terrible Threesome.

  But after that moment of doubt, you thought better of it. You had to take advantage of your glorious night away from your cookie-cutter life. Alone in the main hallway, you stood still, deep in thought.

  “You’re thinking too hard,” came a voice through the PA system. You turned at once to look for the speaker, but saw Benedict and Clue coming down the hallway. The Detective’s cheeks were flushed with the energetic look of being in a hurry.

  Benedict winked at you as he approached. “Detectives are calm, unemotional,” he whispered. “Trust your intuition.”

  Your breath stuck in your throat, leaving you wide-eyed and blushing. You were waiting for him to comment on the whereabouts of the others, but he and Clue walked by without another word. With purposeful strides, they both disappeared through a tall door across the hallway from the parlor.

  “Um . . . thank you,” you said, feeling both confused and thankful for the intrusion. Crumpling up the first letter, you gathered the remaining clues together, along with a handful of dog treats from the jar you’d spotted, and stuffed them into your pocket. It was time to make a new friend.

  Your intuition compelled you forward, following the pair through the door and into a room that appeared to be a library, equipped as it was with a handful of comfortable leather chairs situated for reading. Like the parlor, it was painted a rich crimson, but also contained a splash of other colors thanks to a massive Victorian floral rug underfoot. The soft light of the library chandelier revealed Clue sitting on one of the chairs, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Who would, if they were co-starring alongside Benedict Cumberbatch?

  Your eyes glanced around the library, expecting to see Benedict appear at any moment. Where had he gone off to so quickly? You dug into your pocket and pulled out a bone-shaped biscuit. You held it out, risking fingers, and Clue snapped it up, licked his lips, and waited for more.

  “Not yet, handsome,” you chided. You skirted around Clue’s chair and lifted your eyes to the far end of the library. Your eyes lifted to the map on the wall.

  After a careful study you turned away, mind racing. “ ‘Mountains without rocks, rivers without docks,’ ” you recounted excitedly. “It makes sense to me now!”

  But before you could say anything else, you were interrupted by the loud crackle of a PA speaker buried within the shelves. But Benedict’s announcement came after a lengthy pause filled with static, no doubt to increase your anxiety.

  Finally, his voice came, cold and haunting: “Maps are funny things, don’t you agree? They pay no mind to the twists or turns one’s life might take. They’re all-knowing, routing your course with the remnants of where you’ve been. Lady Margaret Ashwood’s course was a whirlwind. She took a lover almost as soon as she arrived from London in the spring of 1951. A love she would write to, in her own way, of course.”

  As he spoke, you instinctively slipped a hand into the inner lining of your coat and pulled out the jumbled pile of clues, scanning the French Twins’ parcel silently before placing it on a nearby table.

  The second clue can be found,

  Between the pages of a book leatherbound.

  Be wary of the Prince—so lost is he,

  Perchance in a dream he’ll find his place to be.

  The lost Prince . . . here in the library. It had to mean a leatherbound book. With your mind now wide-awake, you darted to the shelves across from the map where you saw a handsome set of books set in leather. But there were so many! Now you knew exactly which book you had to find, and you left the library nearly ransacked in your wake. Had anyone else seen you tossing books in such a manner, they would surely have thought you mad.

  “The time is now quarter past twelve,” the PA speaker sounded.

  “It has to be one of these,” you muttered. Only thirty minutes left. With each passing moment, your face grew darker. You were starting to look like a fool and you knew it. “Why can’t I find it?”

  Time halted when you turned away from the shelves and noticed an old, leatherbound copy of Hamlet on the reading table beside Clue. Just how long you stood there after seeing the text, you couldn’t guess. Clue’s whine broke the spell.

  “You handsome thing! You’re a gem!” you squealed, hugging the noble bloodhound, who laid slobbery kisses on your neck. Your fingers trembled as you began flipping through acts 1 through 5, feeling your adrenaline spike. At last you felt like you were making headway with this case. And that was when reality came crashing down on you. No letter was in the book; in fact, nothing was terribly out of the ordinary, save for a handful of small markings in the margins. Looking closely, you realized they were sketches: branches penned with long, daring strokes, paired with meticulous swoops, gave the scribbles the appearance of plants—herbs, namely.

  “Clues are never what they seem.”

  You looked up to find Benedict leaning against the frame of a rear doorway. He stepped in and straightened an apron over his sleek, white button-down shirt, then hooked his thumbs through his suspenders. His dark hair was tousled and his skin slightly flushed, giving him a wildly romantic look.

  You had often marveled at the man who seemed to rise above the nightmarish fray of modern Hollywood, skimming above the waves of life, never crashing down into the deep. Benedict wasn’t just the characters he played—and maybe, you suddenly realized, that was why you were so drawn to him, in spite of your determination to avoid the celebrity craze.

  Benedict whistled to Clue, and the behemoth obediently trotted toward him and over the threshold. Benedict motioned for you to join them. “Shall we?”

  You stepped cautiously into the darkened room, following Benedict through to a cobweb-lined dining room and into the kit
chen. His legs were longer than yours, and although he didn’t seem to be moving any more quickly than you, you were gasping with the effort of keeping up with his strides by the time you had reached the kitchen.

  The air felt cooler, damper. The cupboards were empty, and half the furniture was covered in sheets, and the counter—the only thing that had not been covered—stood bleak and cold save for a solitary box. Clue sprawled across the floor, his belly pressed against the tile. You stepped over the lazy dog with a smile and joined Benedict at the counter.

  “This is all that’s left.” He opened the box and retrieved something from behind a set of index cards. “See this photograph? It’s Lord and Lady Ashwood sixty-five years ago, just before things went bad.” He handed you the photograph. Though damaged along the edges, the center, where the couple stood side by side, remained intact.

  “They looked very happy,” you said, staring at the image, but you felt his eyes on you the entire time. You turned the photograph over and noticed the year written in ink: 1951. “I just don’t know how . . .” You paused.

  “It’s our business to know what others don’t. ‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth,’ ” Benedict said, reciting one of the most famous Sherlockian quotes from memory. “They were happy, for a time. It’s not unusual for people from two different worlds to grow apart, and they have no one to blame but each other.”

  “Are you implying that Margaret had something to do with her husband’s death?”

  “I’m not implying anything; in fact, I’m saying it plainly. And perhaps with a little help”—he gestured to the copy of Hamlet in your hands—“from her lover.”

  You took a leap. “What evidence do you have?”

  “None. They never left any behind.” Benedict closed his eyes, and his voice was hoarse. “Two months later, Margaret went missing. I’d imagined she couldn’t bear the pain of it all and decided to take matters into her own hands.”

  Last time he mentioned her name, it was cool and distant, but this time, he seemed far more invested. After sixty-five years, Margaret was still in control—control of her husband, of the relationships she’d been in, for the most part, so what was Benedict trying to tell you? Why would such a woman leave her lover behind?