LeRoux Manor

by Liz Butcher

When her outstretched hands brushed against something soft in the darkness, she yelped and jerked her hands back against her chest. She tried to calm her breathing and her racing heart again, listening intently for any sounds to prove she wasn’t alone. But she was. After a few more seconds, she tentatively reached out again and touched the item before her. It didn’t move or withdraw, and she grabbed a better hold to determine what it was. A growing panic crept over her as she realised these were clothes in her hands. She ran her fingers down the length of what felt like a jacket sleeve, and her panic eased when there was no hand protruding from the end of it. Then she felt for the collar and the coat hanger beneath it.

  A smile spread across Camille’s face as she realised how silly it was to let the darkness get the better of her. She stepped forward through the clothes until she felt the hard, wooden door to the wardrobe in front of her. No light seeped through from the other side, but Camille pressed her ear against the door to listen again. Confident that there was no one there, she slowly opened the door and stepped out. Tears stung her eyes, surprising her with how relieved she was to be free of the tunnel again. Making the most of it, she stretched out her limbs, grateful to freely move around again.

  She was here for a reason, though, and she studied the new room. It was a bedroom, small but neat. There was a double bed on an old-fashioned brass frame, neatly made up with crisp white pillows and an intricate quilt of mottled greens reminding her of the woods. Beside the bed on the left was a brass nightstand—glass-topped with a candle in a stand, the wax perfectly in place in varying stages of drip before pooling in a dried puddle at the base. Camille went to the table and touched the wax, finding it cool and hard. Beside the nightstand was a chair that also looked old, its dark-green, velvet upholstery worn in places. One of the round buttons sewn into the seat was loose, its frayed thread visible. She ran her fingers along the edge of the armrest as she walked to the window a bit farther down from the wardrobe. It was a modest window, only about a metre wide and half a metre high, and Camille had to stand on her tiptoes to see out of it. There was nothing to see except a clearing lined by a wall of trees so thick, reaching so high, that she could hardly tell if the sky was darkening or if the trees just cast too large a shadow.

  Camille frowned. She knew the woods were part of the estate, but she’d found no mention of another property on the grounds. She doubted her parents knew of its existence; if the police had found it while investigating the body of Lachlan’s uncle, they would have told her. She wondered if this was where the McAllister’s had come during the storm, but that didn’t quite make sense. Why would they come all the way out here when they had their own residence in the manor?

  She tiptoed across the room and stood at the open door, listening for anyone else’s presence before she ventured out to explore further. She’d expected so see a hallway, but instead, the rest of the living area opened up before her. It wasn’t a large space—more like a cosy cottage. Feeling exposed, she quickly scanned the room but confirmed that she was alone.

  Slowly, she walked around the room, taking in as many details as she could. To the far right was a small kitchen, the benches and sink spotless, devoid of any crockery or appliances. Farther along the wall was the front door with a small peek-hole but no other windows. The other side of the room held two more windows like the one in the bedroom. To her left was a closed door, which Camille assumed to be the bathroom. She walked carefully toward it, wary of making the wooden floor creak beneath her. When she neared the bathroom, she didn’t hear any movement or running water there, either. So, she really was alone.

  Turning her attention to the centre of the room, she walked toward the small couch and a side chair that matched the one in the bedroom. A crocheted blanket draped over the back of the couch, made from wool and also in numerous shades of green. A single cushion nestled against the armrest. The couch faced a fireplace, and Camille wondered why she had never seen smoke rising through the trees in all the time she’d spent gazing out at the woods. After studying it more closely, she realised it was electric and made to look like a traditional fireplace. It seemed out of place in the cottage—modern and the only electrical item Camille could see. A matching side table sat beside a small wooden coffee table, both boasting half-used candles.

  A very old-looking book with its cover worn and the spine cracked was the only other thing on the coffee table. Camille picked it up, trying to make out the faded writing of the title: Through the Looking Glass. She carefully placed it back on the table and realised there were no light fittings in the cottage, and she didn’t see any power points in the walls.

  She walked toward the kitchen, running her fingers along the cool white benchtop. The small stovetop seemed to be gas, and a metal kettle rested atop one of the hotplates. Camille carefully touched the kettle and found it cold as well. She frowned, turning around, and stared at the room. Despite the immaculate cleanliness, it was clearly lived in. But by whom?

  Her gaze fell upon a single photo frame half-obscured by a candelabra on the mantel. Crossing the room once more, she removed the frame for a better look, noting the lack of dust. Then she saw the photo, dropped the frame, and stepped back. The photo’s shattering glass seemed excessively loud in the silent cottage, but Camille hardly noticed. Her breath came in short, host bursts as she stared at the photo, struggling to comprehend the image while feeling as though the ground were opening up beneath her to swallow her whole. It couldn’t be real. She knew that. It just wasn’t possible.

  On shaky legs, Camille knelt and barely registered the sharp pricks of broken glass piercing through her jeans and her skin. She plucked the photo from the broken frame and lifted it up for a better look, telling herself over and over that she was mistaken. The photo was old, sepia-toned, not unlike those she’d found in the attic. On the left stood the old woman she’d seen at the manor. Though the woman looked slightly younger, perhaps in her forties, her hair was still white and fastened in a severe bun. The collar of her dress sat high, topped with a flourish of white ruffle. Her hands were clasped before her above the skirts of her black dress billowing down to the floor and revealing only the tips of her pointy-toed boots. Despite her solemn expression, there was a twinkle in her eye Camille knew was Mena’s. The truth dawned on her, and her mouth fell open. Mena was the woman in her forties now—the same old woman Camille had seen roaming the estate grounds.

  How? She’d have to be over a hundred years old. That’s not even possible?

  What troubled her further was the woman standing beside Mena. In a dress almost identical though with a more modest collar stood an elderly woman. Her hair was also white, and while it was also fastened in a bun, it was softer than her companion’s, loose tendrils of hair framing her face. A black shawl draped across her shoulders, with a hole in the shoulder that she’d tried to hide. If Camille hadn’t known where to look for it, she would never have noticed it, but she knew it was the same black shawl stashed in her wardrobe at the manor. Her heart thundered against her chest as she forced herself to look at the face of this second woman staring back at her.

  It was her own.

  Her hands were trembling now. There was no mistaking it. She was there, in the photo, with Mena. Despite the difference in age, those were definitely her eyes staring back at her. When she turned the photo over, she found the words Alice and Catherine, 1910 written in elegant cursive. Letting the photo drop to the floor again, she forced herself to her feet and half ran, half stumbled toward the door. She didn’t even think about the tunnel that had brought her here as she yanked open the door and dashed into the woods, guided only by her fear and the desire to get as far away from the cottage—and the photo—as she could.

  The trees grasped and tugged at her, catching on her clothes and her hair. She stumbled and lurched through the last of the trees and into the manor gardens, sprawling across the ground. A group of people had gathered at the entry point for the investigation farther along the tree line, but her v
ision blurred with tears and she couldn’t make out their faces. Picking herself up, she ignored their calls, sobbing and gasping and running at full speed toward the manor.

  As she took the stairs two at a time, her mother walked out of the kitchen, holding a tray of snacks. Camille barrelled into her, sending the tray crashing to the floor as she collapsed at her mother’s feet.

  “Camille! What’s wrong?” Allysha helped her daughter to her feet again, and Camille clung to her, sobbing. “Camille?” Allysha’s concern only heightened as she repeatedly tried to coax from her daughter what had happened.

  When Camille finally caught her breath, she stepped back, still gripping her mother. “I think I’m losing my mind.”

  Allysha’s mouth fell open, and she scanned her daughter’s face in confusion. “Why would you say that?”

  “The manor... this place... I don’t know. I think it’s haunted. Or I’m haunted. I’ve seen things, Mum. Things that... aren’t possible. None of it makes sense. I feel like something’s after me.”

  Allysha said nothing as she embraced her daughter, rubbing her child’s back. It comforted them both, and when the woman finally spoke again, the slight edge in her voice surprised Camille. “I think finding Lachlan’s uncle in the woods took a greater toll on you than we thought. That, and I think all the research you’ve been doing on the manor... Don’t bother denying it. I’m not silly. I think all that has your imagination running wild. I know it’s been a massive change for you, picking up your life and moving halfway around the world. Your father and I should have done a better job at making sure you were settling in instead of getting so caught up in our renovations. We just thought, since you made friends so quickly, that you were adjusting well...”

  “That’s not it, Mum. There’s more to it—”

  “No. I don’t think there is. I think enough is enough. No more research and ghost stories. You need a good night’s sleep.” Allysha grabbed her daughter’s hand and led her into the house.

  A new heaviness weighed on Camille when she realised her mother didn’t believe her. She let Allysha guide her upstairs to her room, then she climbed willingly up on her bed and rubbed her eyes. They now felt dry and sore after crying.

  Allysha turned toward the door, and her mouth popped open when she saw Miss McAllister lurking in the doorway. “Oh, I was just going to come to you. I’d like you to please make some tea and bring it up.”

  “Tea isn’t going to help matters much—”

  “Excuse me?” Allysha snapped.

  Camille almost felt bad for Miss McAllister and the fierce glare she received from Allysha. But she looked away, feeling awful for stressing her mother out even more after an already stressful day. She wished she’d never said anything. Now that she was out of the woods and across the grounds, it was easier to convince herself she might have been mistaken.

  “I’ll bring it straight up, ma’am,” Miss McAllister replied, her lips pursed tightly as she left.

  Allysha turned to her daughter, her anger slowly dissipating into a worried frown. “Now I want you to get some rest. I promise everything will seem better after you catch up on a little sleep. I’ll wait with you until your tea arrives, or even until you’re asleep, if you like.”

  The thought instantly comforted Camille. “That would be nice, Mum.” While the prospect of a hot cup of tea was wonderful, her simmering emotions left her exhausted. The minute she closed her eyes, she fell asleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  T

  HE SOUND OF hushed whispers tugged away at her slumber, and Camille felt sluggish and foggy as she strained to both listen and hold onto the deep sleep she’d been thoroughly enjoying.

  “Surely you cannot tell me you haven’t noticed...” came the slightly high-pitched voice of a woman.

  “You’re being ridiculous, Sybil. What you speak of is not possible.” The voice of the second woman sounded familiar, and, putting two and two together, Camille realised it was Caroline talking to her daughter.

  “Don’t you think I know that, Mother? Of course it’s ridiculous. It’s downright absurd! Yet here we are. They’re unnatural. The pair of them.”

  “Nonsense. You’ve never been fond of either of them. You never warmed up to Catherine when she joined the staff, and you certainly disliked the fact that we adopted Alice. You were far too accustomed to being an only child, though I would have expected better from a grown woman.”

  “That has nothing to do with it. There’s just so much about them that doesn’t add up. They are all but inseparable, as if they’ve known each other for years...”

  “They have known each other for years.”

  “You know what I mean, Mother.” Sybil sighed, unable to hide her frustration. “They always look so secretive, like they know something I don’t. Catherine has never spoken a word in all the time we’ve known her, not to mention the fact she’s in her eighties and doesn’t yet look a day over fifty. How is that possible? And as for Alice, with her white hair, always lurking around, appearing out of nowhere. She’s utterly unnerving. It’s not right for a girl that age to behave the way she does.”

  “That’s enough, Sybil!” Caroline interjected, her voice raising. “My goodness. Who raised you to be such an uncharitable soul? It certainly wasn’t your father and me.”

  “I just don’t understand how the mistress can welcome people into her staff when she knows absolutely nothing about them. Has everyone forgotten what happened to the poor LeRoux girl? It’s dangerous!”

  “That’s quite enough!” Caroline shouted. “What happened with the LeRoux child was a long time ago. When has Catherine—or even Alice, for that matter—ever given you cause to question their loyalty to the manor or to the LeRoux family? They both work hard and deserve the same amount of respect that you would expect for yourself. The fact that they may be a little different is all the more reason to welcome them, not to conjure reasons for ostracising them. Honestly, Sybil, I don’t know what has gotten into you...”

  As Camille heard the brisk clip of shoes striding angrily off along the wooden floor, she found herself sinking back into a deep, feverish sleep.

  “CAMILLE? SWEETHEART?” CAMILLE groaned as she tried to wriggle out from beneath the hands gently shaking her by the shoulders. “Oh, you’re drenched in sweat. You must have a fever.” Allysha pulled back the covers.

  “I’m fine...” Camille tried to assure her mother without opening her eyes, but her tongue felt think and her mouth dry. “How long was I asleep?”

  “You slept straight through from late yesterday afternoon. And you’re staying home from school today—”

  “Mum!”

  “No arguments. Why don’t you go have a shower, and I’ll put fresh sheets on the bed for you?”

  Camille opened her eyes and saw the look in her mother’s—a combination of concern and guilt. She sighed and forced herself up onto her elbows, trying to hide how much it made her head spin and her stomach heave.

  “Do you need a hand?” Allysha stepped forward, but Camille shook her head.

  “I told you I’m fine, Mum. I can get to the bathroom myself.”

  Allysha stepped aside, looking unconvinced as Camille slid herself off the bed and hobbled toward the bedroom door. She didn’t want to admit it to her mother, but she really did feel awful. Her legs were shaky, and she felt completely drained. Once in the hallway and beyond the watchful stare of her mother, Camille braced herself against the wall, hoping she would feel better after a shower.

  The hot spray of the water provided relief, but her muscles and even her skin ached where the shower hit her. She wondered if she’d caught the flu running through the woods in the cold. The night’s escapade rushed back to her, and the photo of herself as an old woman pushed through first and foremost. Camille gasped as a wave of anxiety swept over her, and she ducked her head under the water, wanting to wash it all away as a bad dream. Yet she knew it wasn’t.

  Feeling slightly less feeble af
ter the shower, she walked back to her room slowly albeit unaided and was grateful to see her mother had changed the sheets for her. The thought of going back to sleep and ignoring the day appealed to her more and more. Part of her wanted to forget what she’d found, while the other part of her wanted time to process it.

  Camille had just climbed into bed again and pulled the covers over herself when her phone vibrated on the bedside table. Picking it up, she was surprised by the number of missed calls and messages from both Lachlan and Grace; she even had one from Jayne. She felt guilty for making them worry but didn’t feel up to talking or updating them, either. She knew them both well enough to know they wouldn’t believe her if she said she was fine, and they’d want to know exactly what happened. Instead, she sent them each a simple text. ‘I’m fine, just a bit under the weather and slept straight through from yesterday. Mum’s making me stay home from school, but I’ll message you later.’

  Switching her phone from vibrate to silent, she placed it back on the bedside table as her mother entered the room, carrying a tray.

  “You didn’t have to do that, Mum.” Camille gave her mother a weak smile of gratitude as she hoisted herself upright against the pillows.

  “Well you rarely get sick, and honestly, I was a bit hard on you yesterday,” Allysha admitted as she rested the tray across Camille’s lap.

  “Oh, my god. Is that vegemite?” Camille pointed excitedly at the toast.

  “It sure is.” Allysha took a seat on the edge of the bed.

  “Yum! Where did you find it?” Camille picked up the hot toast and took the biggest bite she could manage.

  “I didn’t. Your Aunty Jen sent it over from back home.”

  “I’ll text her later and tell her she’s my favourite aunty.” Camille smiled again.

  Allysha patted her leg. “There’s tea and orange juice there too. I want everything gone by the time I get back.”

  “Where are you going?” Camille asked.