LeRoux Manor

by Liz Butcher

  “Of course. Don’t even worry about it. I just needed to tell someone.”

  “I’m glad I was the one you wanted to share it with,” he replied, his voice softening. “Just promise me something.”

  “Sure.”

  “Promise me you won’t look into it by yourself. Wait until someone else is with you. Preferably me. After everything that happened last night, we have no idea what you’ll walk into.”

  “Something’s still bothering me about all this.”

  “You mean aside from the fact that you found a secret tunnel leading from your bedroom wardrobe?” he asked dryly.

  Camille smiled. “Yeah, aside from that. Everything I’ve seen or experienced since moving into the manor makes me think this is some kind of ghost.”

  “Right.”

  “So why would a ghost need a tunnel?”

  Lachlan let the question sink in a little longer before giving her any response. “Please be careful.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  C

  AMILLE SAT ON the window seat, alternating her attention between the beckoning wardrobe and the fresh wave of people below in the manor grounds. Her mother stood in front of the crime-scene tape, helping to direct authorities as they arrived periodically. Mr McAllister stood in one of the garden beds, a pair of shears held open in front of a branch that he hadn’t actually cut in the ten minutes he’d been there. Camille strained to see directly beneath her window, where Miss McAllister stood at the base of the stairs leading from the back veranda to the grounds, her back rigid and her hands clasped tightly in front of her. As though feeling Camille’s gaze, she turned and looked up. Camille instinctively pulled back from the window, unsure why she felt the necessity to hide. So, she glanced at the wardrobe instead.

  The longer she gazed at it, the more she felt her resolve crumbling beneath her curiosity. She took the blueprint to her bed and spread it out atop her bedcovers.

  Due to the sheer size of the manor, the section of the blueprint that made up her bedroom was tiny. She leaned closer, trying to find any clue as to accessing the hidden tunnel from her side of the wardrobe. Nothing stood out. With a sigh, Camille paced her room, her hands clasped on her forehead. Her gaze fell on the album, and she rushed toward the window seat to pick it up. Finding the back pocket again, she carefully slipped her fingers inside and tried to feel around without tearing it. There it was—the edges of another piece of paper at the bottom. It took some careful tugging, but she finally slipped it out held it up to the window. The seemingly random lines there made her frown, but she had to keep looking.

  Walking to the wardrobe, she held the slip of paper up in front of her, hoping to make sense of it. When that didn’t work, she folded the wardrobe doors open and tried again. Camille’s hope increased as the lines seemed to coincide with the shelves and racks. Feeling like she was onto something, she took a step closer, trying to link the two together. While her father had tried pushing and tapping on the rear of the wardrobe, the drawing in her hand seemed to indicate that, while the tunnel was behind the back of the wardrobe, one of the shelves acted as the means to open it.

  Camille ran her hands over the shelves lining the left side. A scuffmark marred the shelf third from the bottom, but as she leaned down, she could see it was actually multiple marks, as if that shelf had been scraped repeatedly. Running her finger over them, she tried to determine how they were caused. Camille pressed against the side of the shelf, but nothing happened. Still, she was sure this was her way in. Stepping back out of the wardrobe, she studied the front of the shelf for any other clues, pushed some of her clothes aside, and slid her arm along the inside of the shelf. When she pushed it toward the outside, something let out an audible click. The shelf had moved only a centimetre or so—hardly noticeable if she hadn’t been aware of it. Right before she stood, wondering if she’d merely broken it, the siding slowly withdrew into the wardrobe. Camille stared at it in awe, and with another click, the back of the wardrobe slid aside. She’d expected the thing to creak or groan with lack of use; instead, it was completely silent.

  Camille scurried out of the wardrobe, unsure what to expect.

  She stared at the gaping black hole in the back of the wardrobe, waiting for something to happen and feeling silly when nothing did. Lachlan’s voice echoed in her head, telling her not to go in there alone. Still, she knew she wasn’t patient enough to wait for him to return to the manor. This was the perfect opportunity to explore while her parents and the McAllister’s were preoccupied by what was happening in the woods. She certainly didn’t want Miss McAllister lurking around to find her out.

  With her decision made, Camille snatched her phone off the window seat, shoved it in her jacket pocket, and armed herself with one of the torches her mum had provided during the storm. She took a moment to stare at the wardrobe and took a deep breath. Then she stepped quickly toward it before she could talk herself out of this.

  Stepping into the wardrobe, she turned on the flashlight and reluctantly opened the camera on her phone to record whatever she encountered. She felt she owed Lachlan that much for not waiting for him. Camille directed the beam into the opening and was relieved to see the light bounce off the wall only a couple metres away. Taking a deep breath, she lifted her phone and stepped inside. On her right, she found the end of the tunnel. That left only one way to go.

  It took all her focus to put one foot in front of the other, her bravado evaporating with each step. The darkness felt old and thick, like she was blanketed in a velvety ink. Even the torchlight struggled to penetrate it. It felt unnatural somehow, as though the darkness was an entity in itself, pushing back with every step she took. The ground felt smooth, perhaps angling downward slightly, yet she couldn’t be completely certain. She felt her bearings slipping away. Just like in the woods, the nausea returned, cinching her stomach in a barbed grasp. Camille swallowed thickly, willing it to pass. Instead, it only worsened the farther she descended. More than once, she had to stop and brace herself against the wall.

  Camille was about to give up and turn around, thinking she’d be sick at any moment—but then the torchlight caught something up ahead. Her heart skipped a beat as she stumbled forward, then she found an old wooden trunk placed against the wall. She almost forgot her sickly unease as she shone the light over the lid, making sure her phone captured everything. Looking down at the intricate carvings decorating the lid, she realised she had seen it before—in her dream about the attic.

  Her breathing felt shallow as she stared at the faded surface, unsure whether she was really seeing it or if it was just another dream. It looked older now, aged, with a crack running up the side before disappearing under the lid. There was also a chip in the bottom right corner. Camille forced herself to walk beside it. Placing the butt of the torch in her mouth, she used her free hand to release the twin latches of the lid. It was a struggle to heave open the heavy top with one hand, and the wood groaned in resistance. When she was sure the thing would stay open, she took the torch out of her mouth and focused it on the contents of the trunk. From where she set her phone against the inside of the lid, it could record everything.

  The top layer appeared to be blankets knitted in dull shades and neatly folded. Camille rested the torch on the side of the trunk and carefully lifted the blankets before placing them on the floor beside her. The next layer was a fine tissue paper that came apart in her hands as she tried to lift it. Beneath the paper, atop folded clothes, was the silver hairbrush and the mirror she recalled from her dream.

  Camille doubled over as another wave of nausea overcame her. She forced herself to breathe slowly, exhaling through her mouth while willing it to pass. It lessened enough that she thought she could lift her head, and with a shaking hand, she grabbed the hairbrush and mirror and pulled them out of the trunk. Then she reached back inside to pull out the first item of clothing. She didn’t need to let it unfold; she’d recognise a leather jacket anywhere. Camille was happy to see it appear
ed to be in good condition. She set it atop the blankets on the ground beside her.

  The next item was a grey t-shirt, nothing special, until she turned it around to see the front. There was a large white star in the centre of the shirt, partially obscured by a splatter. Camille lowered the shirt into the trunk and picked up the torch for a better look. The stain was dark, but Camille was certain it was dry blood. She grabbed the phone to document the finding. There was something about the shirt, but before she could study it more, she suffered another wave of nausea even more powerful than the last. Bile rose into her mouth. She forced herself to swallow it, and her eyes watered.

  Placing the camera and torch back in place, she dumped the shirt alongside the jacket without a second glance. As she grabbed the next item of clothing, she knew immediately that it was a pair of jeans. Camille unfolded them, laying them out across the length of the trunk. They were dirty with what looked like dry mud, especially around the knees, which had also started to tear on the left leg.

  Camille lowered her head, forcing herself to take deep breaths. She was so overcome with nausea that all she wanted to do was curl up and rest her head on the cool ground. Instead, she forced herself to push on. She dropped the jeans and grabbed a pair of boots. She heard a slight tinkle and turned them on their side to see two small charms hanging from the zipper—a tiny kangaroo and an emu. She dropped the boots back into the trunk as though they were on fire.

  A sudden chill gripped her, and she tentatively wiped at the sweat beading across her forehead. Looking at her recording phone, she opened and closed her mouth, unsure of her ability to speak. Pawing over the shirt and jacket, she tried to refute her theory, but there was no mistaking it. The clothes were hers.

  This time, the nausea won. Camille lurched sideways and vomited across the tunnel floor. When she finished, she sat up and wiped her mouth with her sleeve. Staring at the offending clothes, she felt a chill run up her spine. Without a second thought, she shoved them back into the trunk, then grabbed her phone and torch. The trunk’s lid fell with a loud bang that reverberated up and down the tunnel.

  Camille headed back up the tunnel at a run, stumbling as she exited the wardrobe. The torch and her phone flew from her hands and skidded across the floor. She got to her feet and rummaged through her own clothes in the wardrobe. When she found what she wanted, she hurried to her bed and laid the outfit across the covers—her favourite pair of jeans that had slightly worn through on the left knee, her favourite leather jacket, her grey t-shirt with the white star, and her favourite pair of boots with the charms on the zipper. But these clothes were clean and devoid of any stains. In fact, the shirt was new; she’d bought it before the move and hadn’t even worn it yet.

  Camille paced around the room, trying to make sense of it. Her mouth felt dry, and she couldn’t swallow as butterflies flew viciously around her stomach. She did, with some gratitude, realise that the nausea had for the most part left her. Then she looked back toward the wardrobe.

  She rushed back to it and quickly pressed against the third shelf from the bottom before standing back. The rear wall of the wardrobe returned. After closing the doors, she stooped to retrieve the torch and her phone to stop the recovering. Her thumb hovered over the screen, and she wondered who she needed to call first, Grace or Lachlan.

  Instead, her phone rang. She nearly dropped it in surprise. Grace’s name appeared on the screen and Camille quickly answered the call. “Hey. I was just about to call you.”

  “Well, that was good timing! I was just calling to see how everything’s going.” Grace’s voice was full of concern.

  Camille glanced up at the wardrobe for a moment before replying. “It’s been an interesting afternoon...”

  “I bet. It’s not every day you find the body of your boyfriend’s missing uncle in your own private forest—I’m sorry. That came out wrong. I hope that didn’t sound completely insensitive.”

  “It’s fine,” Camille replied dismissively. “It’s about something else, actually. I found something...” She proceeded to fill Grace in on her discovery of the blueprints and the secret passage.

  “Holy shit! An actual secret passage? That’s amazing! Please tell me you didn’t go in there on your own. Wait, of course you did...”

  Camille smiled at the fact that Grace already knew her so well.

  “Well, come on, then. Don’t leave me hanging. What did you find in there?”

  “That’s where it got really weird...”

  “Because it hadn’t been weird at all before then,” Grace joked.

  “Okay, weirder. I found the trunk. You know, the one from my dream in the attic?”

  “No way... are you serious? What was it doing in the middle of a tunnel? What was inside it?”

  “I have no idea why it was in the tunnel, but when I opened it, I found some clothes. My clothes. Only they can’t be my clothes, because my clothes are on my bed.”

  “Hang on, wait. What? You’ve lost me...”

  “I found clothes in the trunk that match mine exactly, only the ones in the trunk were dirty. I think the shirt was even bloody.”

  “Woah.” Grace paused. “Are you sure?”

  “Pretty sure. I don’t understand how—I mean, they’re exactly the same as my clothes, right down to tiny details, like the charms on my boots. But my clothes aren’t missing. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “No, it doesn’t...”

  “I’ll send you the video if you don’t believe me.”

  “Of course I believe you! I’m sure you can appreciate it’s a little hard to take in, though.”

  “Tell me about it. I thought I’d film it for the blog, but now I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.”

  “I don’t think so. I mean, I think we should maybe keep the discovery to ourselves until we can work out what’s going on. If that’s even possible.”

  “Yeah, exactly.” Camille walked to the window seat and, placing one knee on the cushion, leaned forward to see her parents walking across the grounds toward the house. The McAllister’s were nowhere in sight.

  “Have you told the others yet?” Grace asked.

  “No. You called right while I was trying to decide what to do.”

  “I can call them for you if you want. What are you going to do?”

  Camille pulled away from the window with a sudden idea. “I think I’m going to track down Miss McAllister and get some answers. I know they have way more of an idea about what’s going on here than they’re letting on.”

  “Okay, sounds good. Text me when you’re done, and the four of us can Facetime so you can fill us in.”

  “Right. I’ll talk to you soon.” Camille ended the call. Taking one last look at the clothes on her bed, she quickly walked out of the room and closed the door behind her.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  C

  AMILLE HURRIED ALONG the landing, checking the time on her phone as she tried to think where in the manor Miss McAllister would be lurking. She heard voices at the bottom of the staircase, and she followed them around to the sitting room. Her parents stood on opposite sides of the lounge, facing each other while nursing hot cups of tea. They almost looked like a mirror image.

  “Hi, sweetheart,” her mother said, her voice heavy with fatigue as Camille entered the room.

  “Hey. Did Jayne get home okay?”

  Her mother smiled wryly at her. “Yes, though she was most upset. I can’t say I blame her. It wasn’t a pretty sight, seeing that body out there. I don’t think her mother was too impressed with the state I bought her home in, either.”

  “That’s not your fault, Mum. I think only a small part of the reason why Jayne was so upset had to do with the woods.”

  “Oh?” her father asked.

  Camille felt herself turn red as a flush of heat rushed from her neck up into her face. “Uh, yeah. Jayne’s liked Lachlan for a long time, and, uh... he kind of likes me...” She caught the smile on her father’s face, though he tried
to hide it by taking another sip of tea.

  “Ahh, well that certainly explains why she was so much more upset than the rest of you,” Allysha replied kindly.

  “So, what’s going on out there, anyway?” Camille asked, wanting to change the subject.

  “Quite a bit, actually.” Phillipe placed his teacup on the coffee table. “There’s a whole team of criminal and forensic specialists milling around out there. The detective said it was most unusual, which we could see for ourselves, but there’s lots of photo-taking and ‘evidence’-collecting. They were pretty unhappy that Lachlan disturbed the body when he searched for the wallet.”

  “Yeah, I guess we weren’t really thinking about that,” Camille admitted.

  “It doesn’t matter now,” Phillipe continued. “They were removing the body and taking it back to the morgue for further investigation when we left them. I imagine poor Lachlan’s father will be asked to head down there at some point.”

  “Yes, it must be so awful for them,” Allysha added. “Especially for Lachlan to have found him.”

  “What do they think happened to him?” Camille asked, thinking of the symbol they’d found etched in the man’s skull.

  “No idea. They wouldn’t say much to us. I asked if it was a case of exposure. You know, getting lost in the woods. But the detective said they were confident that wasn’t the case. I’m sure we’ll find out eventually.”

  “Do they know how long he’s been out there?” Camille asked.

  “They’ll work that out too. Probably years, if I had to guess. It would have to be.” Phillipe shrugged.

  “So, they would have to question the McAllister’s, then? Since they’ve lived here the whole time?”

  Phillipe nodded. “I suppose they will. I don’t think they have yet.”

  “Speaking of, have you seen either of them since you came in?” Camille asked, trying to be subtle.