From Away - Chapter 2: Inheritance
He told himself it was nothing. Just the weight of grief. And the strangeness of returning to a place he barely knew.
Did you miss Chapter One? You can find it HERE in The Archive.
The guest room was colder than the rest of the house. Elliot shivered as he crossed the floor, retrieving a log from a wicker basket. And tossed it into the low embers. The wood hissed as the cold bark met the fire.
He still wasn’t sure what to make of the man. Or his words.
They felt kind on the surface. But were carrying more beneath. The house itself felt that way too. Heavy. But he told himself it was nothing. Just the weight of grief. And the strangeness of returning to a place he barely knew.
Setting his suitcase on the dresser, he brushed the surface with his fingers. And it left clean stripes in the dust. They’d known he was coming. The unmade bed. The smell of mildew. Perhaps Katrina had too much to manage alone. Caring for Clancy and the house all at once.
He sat in the room for a long while. Listening.
He needed the toilet. He had no patience for more talk. Or the awkwardness of words. He felt completely exhausted. So when he was sure he had the house to himself, he opened the door and stepped into the hallway.
It was absolutely dark. No lanterns or candles still burned. He moved in short, blind steps. His hand trailing along the wall as he went.
He was searching for the water closet. A slight creak sounded from the floor above. He froze. Quick footsteps approached the stairwell. And then he saw her. Katrina. The shadows did little to mask the shape of her body in the thin, pale fabric.
Her nightgown was cut high. Not the typical dress of a caretaker.
She moved up the steps. The form of her silhouette vanished into the gloom. Elliot waited. Hidden in the dark until he heard a door squeak closed upstairs.
Elliot thought if he moved she might still hear him. So he waited longer, His eyes adjusting to the dimness. He was only aimless in his search for a few minutes longer before he spotted the room.
“WC” was etched above a doorframe just off the kitchen.
Inside he was pleasantly surprised. Clean and orderly. Unlike the guestroom. The basin and large clawfoot tub gleamed starkly against the cedar of the walls. And the air held the scent of milled perfume.
He washed up. And made the trek back. No quieter than a mouse.
Back in his room, he undressed by the flickering lamplight. Taking time to fold his clothes neatly on the chair. And slid himself beneath the musty covers.
The mattress was uneven. Swallowing him in soft pockets. And the frame gave a slight crack beneath his weight. It wasn’t comfortable. But it was warm.
And that was enough.
Sleep came quickly. And he dreamed of water.
At first, it was only sound. The hollow pulse of waves. Like a heartbeat in the dark. Then came the cold. It clung to him. Pressing against his skin until he could no longer tell where his body ended and the water began.
He was drifting downward. Sinking. As though something unseen had taken hold of him. And was drawing him gently into the depths. The light above dimmed to a faint smear. The water grew heavier. Darker. From blue to violet. To black.
He could see nothing below him. Only the void stretching endlessly. Yet he knew something was there.
A faint shimmer passed through the dark. Vast and far below. And something immense shifted in the cold. The water trembled, and a vibration rumbled the waters all around him.
Elliot tried to move. Flailing his limbs uselessly. The pressure crushed in around his chest. And his breath burst out in a stream of bubbles that fled upward. Flickering in the light. He opened his mouth to cry out, but no sound came. Only the hollow rush of water filling his lungs.
Below him, the darkness stirred. He felt it watching him.
The panic built until it was all he could feel. His chest burned. His pulse roared in his ears. And the weight of the deep pressed ever closer. Then, from far below, something moved. Rising quickly. A mass reaching out toward him. Threatening to rip him even deeper into the dark.
He screamed and the sound tore him awake.
He sat upright in the dark. Gasping. The sheets tangled around his legs.
For a long moment, he listened for the water. For the pulse of that unseen thing. But there was only the creak of the old house. And the ragged sound of his own breath. He remained. Heart hammering. Until the fear receded into unease.
He eventually lowered himself back onto the pillows. Pulling the heavy coverlet up to his chin. But the room offered no comfort.
The rest of the night passed in fitful, strange spells. Moments of shallow, anxious sleep. Broken by the reality of the house. By the sounds of branches pressing against the windows. He tossed and turned. Fighting the edges of dreams. And finding no comfortable harbor.
When he finally woke, his chest hurt. The room was grey with morning. The fire long gone cold. For a moment he couldn’t tell if the faint ringing in his ears came from the dream. Or from the wind outside.
He sat up, rubbing at his face. Trying to shake the feeling off.
He threw the covers back. And swung his legs over the side. He washed at the basin with a rough cloth. And a sliver of soap. The water was frigid. It stung his skin, leaving it tight and aching.
He unfolded his neatly pressed clothes. Opening his traveling kit. And carefully smoothed pomade through his hair. The scent of the wax was the only thing in the room that smelled of the present.
He cinched his wool tie at the throat. Precise. An old habit from his days in the service. He stood straight and settled in his boots. He needed the warmth of the main house.
He took some time to familiarize himself with the lower floor. Locating the water closet, in the light of day. For a quick shave. And then followed the scent of roasting coffee to the kitchen.
Katrina was already there. Composed and dressed.
She served him a small meal of dry toast and porridge. In a smaller dining room near the hearth. They spoke only briefly of the day’s plan. And the time allotted for the reading.
After some time, Katrina stood without a word. She left the room and returned a moment later, pushing Clancy. His face was pale and set. He glanced sharply at Elliot. Taking a shaky handed bite of toast.
The all too familiar silence had grown heavy again.
“Silas is waiting, Mr. Wickham. The Packard is warmed.” Clancy gave a nod of approval. His eyes still fixed on Elliot.
They rose. Katrina managed Clancy’s chair. Guiding him toward the front doors. When Elliot stepped onto the porch, the air was crisp and wet. A light rain was falling now. Coating the hills in a sheen.
Beyond the fence of the yard, the long, heavy body of a green Packard limousine was parked. A stout man in a chauffeur’s cap stood beside it. Holding a wide black umbrella.
With the help of Katrina and Silas, Clancy was settled carefully on the rear bench. Silas folded the wheeled chair and stowed it away at the car’s rear. Katrina took the front seat. Elliot opened the rear door and slipped in beside Clancy. Pulling the door shut. The car’s engine idled low. A constant muffled thrum.
The Packard turned slowly. Tires crunching on wet gravel. And began the long descent down Cedar Hill. They drove in silence for some time. The rain tapping on the roof. And the trees leaned in close on both sides.
They slowed. Ahead, half sunk and still in the ditch, was the pale blue shape of Elliot’s truck. It looked so very small against the dark woods. As they passed, Katrina turned in her seat. Looking back.
“Good heavens, that was a long way,” Katrina said. “I truly didn’t realize how far you had to walk.”
Shortly, Stagwell came into view below. Clancy’s face turned toward Elliot. And lifted a gnarled hand. Beckoning. Frail and shaking. Elliot leaned in. Bringing his ear near the old man’s mouth.
“Look at it.” A dry, uneven whisper. “Not a finer place to call home.”
Elliot nodded and did not smile. “It’s certainly a unique place,” he said. His voice level. “I haven’t forgotten the view.”
The Packard slowed as they reached the edge of Stagwell’s square. Silas steered, pulling it beneath a covered awning beside Saint Mary’s. Rain drilled the stone steps of the church. And he cut the engine. A sharp, clean sound.
Elliot quickly escaped the old man as he exited. Lifting his hand against the rain. Once Clancy was outside and settled, Elliot gripped the large brass handle and pulled it open. Letting him roll inside.
The main hall was vast. Far bigger than the front of the church had suggested. Vaulted wooden beams disappeared into a black ceiling. Grime-coated stained glass windows. Elliot knew this place. But the memory would not settle in his mind.
A large man in a black suit stood near the first pew. His curly, dark hair damp from the rain. His suit was rumpled. And he wore a thin tie. He was greeting the few people who trickled inside.
“Please take a seat. The reading will begin momentarily,” he said. “I appreciate you all coming.” The man motioned with kind eyes. His accent was not from here. And his appearance was certainly out of town.
Elliot moved to the end of a pew. And sat beside Katrina. He looked around. A scattering of people sat strangely spaced apart. Who were these faces? He wondered if these people had known his mother. Were they friends? Other distant relatives? He counted the figures. Searching for a familiar set of eyes.
He found none.
He noticed several children. They looked uncomfortable and stiff among the adults they accompanied. Elliot noted several families with three or four young faces mixed into the pews.
He caught the eye of a young, pregnant woman and her husband. Elliot gave a nod and a quick smile. It was meant to be a greeting. They gave no such warm reply. Their faces were blank. They simply held his gaze. Staring. And Elliot’s eyes quickly darted away. Focusing on the woodgrain of the pew in front of him. He leaned toward Katrina.
“Who are they?” he murmured. “Did my mother know anyone here?”
“Oh yes,” she whispered back. “They attend church with us. And I believe she knew your mother when they were young. I’m sure they’re here to show their support during this difficult time.” She gently brushed Elliot’s knee.
The man at the front of the room began to speak. His voice cut the quiet. And Katrina instantly pulled her hand away.
“Good afternoon. My name is August Hancock. I was Evelyn’s counsel, and this morning, I have been tasked with the reading of her will.”
The attorney smoothed a long piece of heavy parchment against the pulpit. As he read he did not look up at the scattered eyes among the pews.
“I, Evelyn Lisa Wickham,” he spoke clearly. “Being of sound mind and memory, do hereby make, publish, and declare this to be my Last Will and Testament.”
Rain drummed against the roof above. And Elliot shifted his weight. The oak bench was unforgiving and dug into his spine. He longed for his time here to be done so he could head home.
The flowery intricacies of the legal document droned on and on.
Names Elliot had never heard were called out. But no money or trinkets were promised. Instead, Hancock recited brief, specific notes of gratitude.
An acknowledgment of a childhood kindness. Or a hope for an abundant future. Evelyn had not visited here in decades, yet she had clearly carried the memory of these people with her. Until the end.
The pews remained still. No one moved. They sat silent under the weight of her words. Their faces were hard. Unreadable.
As it continued, a few people began to trickle outside. Boots scuffing against the floor as they went. It felt like the attorney was approaching an end.
That’s when his tone changed. All at once. As Evelyn’s words poured from Hancock’s mouth, his eyes tilted up. And rested on the old man.
“To Clancy Wickham,” Hancock read. His voice became sharper. “I leave you only the silence that you always demanded of me.”
The shuffling at the back of the church stopped.
“You claim to be the protector of this family. But you are a thief. You took the one thing that was truly mine. You tore it away in the dark. You said it was done to keep our family strong. A tithe. But I know truly what you are. I left because I could not look at your hands anymore. Knowing what they did. You silenced me when I cried out. And you buried my shame.”
He paused. The paper rustled in the quiet. He did not look away.
“I leave you nothing. Nothing but the memory of what you sacrificed.”
The air left the room. And a hushed gasp could be heard somewhere in the back. Followed by coats being gathered in haste. And the shuffling of boots grew more frantic.
Katrina turned and did not speak. She threw a cutting look over her shoulder at the few attendees still lingering in the pews. They stood at once. Heads down. And hurried for the light of the open doors. Then it slammed shut.
They were alone.
Elliot remained fixed to the bench. He stared at the back of the pew in front of him. The grain blurring. His mouth was dry.
The words of his mother refused to settle in his mind. He looked at Hancock. And then back at Clancy. Waiting for the joke. For the correction.
August Hancock only cleared his throat.
He folded the top sheet of parchment. And set it aside. The disdain in his voice evaporated. Replaced instantly by his former tone of legality.
“Regarding the remainder of the estate,” he continued. “I hereby bequeath to my son, Elliot Wickham, the entirety of the property known as Cedar Hill. Including the primary residence. The outbuildings. And all timber and mineral rights attached to the deed. To hold absolute. Free of any prior claim.” He set the paper down. Flattening it with the palm of his hand.
“The transfer is immediate.”
A choked sound escaped Katrina. Elliot watched Clancy’s face. It twisted. Every muscle tightening into a snarl. And the old man leaned. Mumbling furiously into Katrina’s ear.
She opened her mouth to speak. But August raised his hand. And did not even look up.
The attorney then picked up a final sheet.
“And lastly. My son. Elliot. My dearest boy. I am so proud of the man you grew into. I wish we had more time. So many little things were left unsaid. And so many small regrets. Please know that my love is what I leave for you. Most of all. And regarding the house on Cedar Hill. Do what you think is right. What you think is best.”
Hancock looked up, his eyes holding Elliot’s own.
“But promise me. Never allow my father or his ilk to set foot on the hill again. Never. Better to see its timbers burn. It is what I should have done myself. Years ago.”
Clancy’s head snapped up. Eyes, fixed on Hancock, with rage. Elliot could only watch. His mother’s final words echoed in the quiet of the church. And his tears came unbidden. He did not blink them away.
Too much was happening. Too fast. And Elliot had no words. No language prepared. He looked at the old man. Then at the lawyer. Unsure.
August lowered the papers and stepped aside the pulpit.
“That concludes the reading. Is there anything else I can help with? Any questions.”
Clancy lunged over the pew. His voice was loud. A desperate snarl. And his hands gripped the wood so hard his knuckles had turned white. Katrina flinched, then quickly translated.
“This cannot be right! This is a mistake. Evelyn’s mind was clearly fading. It must have been her illness speaking.” She paused for only a breath. “Clancy insists he has held the deed. Sole ownership. Long before his wife passed away. That is the truth.”
August did not raise his voice. “I am simply the messenger, carrying out the final wishes of Evelyn. I have no ability to settle or make arrangements regarding this further. My duty is only to execute the will as it is written. The documents are final.”
The church felt so very still.
“Regarding the property, the official records are quite clear, Mr. Wickham. Whatever arrangements you believed you had for sole ownership. Those records were never finalized at the proper offices. The house legally passed from your wife to Evelyn years ago. It now passes to Elliot.”
He let the statement hang.
“The transfer is complete. And I will file the final documentation tomorrow morning when I return to Rockport.”
Elliot’s mind slipped away from the heat of the argument. He wasn’t in the church anymore. He was back in the sunlit room. Holding his mother’s hand. She was so thin then. And fragile. But her grip was steady. And the words she gave him were certain.
Elliot knew his mother. And that was enough.
The sound in Katrina’s voice was too sharp now. Too defensive. The raw anger on Clancy’s face was too real. The old man. The farthest thing from who his daughter became.
It was a terrible confusion. An ache in his gut. But the matter was simple. He stood now as his mother’s last defense. Elliot didn’t have all the answers. He didn’t understand the history they were fighting over. But he knew honor. It was his duty now.
Clancy and Katrina had abandoned the attorney. Swinging their attention to Elliot. And they did not beg.
“It would be no trouble at all, Elliot,” Katrina said with tight eyes. “Just a small correction. A simple formality. While this man is still here. We can just have you sign a paper.”
Clancy grunted.
“The house would go to waste. You have no need for it.” she pressed. Translating. “You’re planning on leaving aren’t you? Let the taxes pile up? Make things right before you go home.”
Elliot stood. Pushing himself back from the pew. And took several steps away.
Clancy’s voice rose. It was the first time Elliot had really heard him speak aloud. “I will buy you out!” he croaked. Lunging. “Name your price!”
Katrina moved to speak for him. But Clancy cut her off.
The offer was an unholy sum. Dizzying. More money than Elliot would ever see.
Clancy forced his words out again. And again. Spitting. “You’re from away. You don’t understand. How things are here.”
Elliot held his ground. And when he finally spoke, his voice came out too loud. “I am sorry!” He forced his eyes to meet the old man’s. “But my mother was clear. And I will honor what she wanted.”
Clancy let out a terrible sound. And his face went purple. Katrina seized his arm. She could no longer look at Elliot. So she dragged the old man backwards in his chair. Stumbling down the aisle. Clancy thrashed and cursed. And threw his weight against her.
Then they were gone.
The heavy oak door slamming shut behind them. The sound left Elliot standing there. Alone.
And he realized his hands were shaking. He had honored her. It was the first time since he was a child that he felt like her son again.
“Well,” August rubbed the bridge of his nose. “That was something. Can’t say I blame the man for being upset.” He didn’t sound like a lawyer now.
Elliot watched the door with a stiff neck. “I need to get out of here.”
“I know you do,” August said. “But I need you to wait.” He leaned against a pew. “The will puts the house squarely in your name. But I need a few days, at least, to finalize things with the County.”
He picked at the leather of his briefcase. “Until then, the law tends to favor whoever holds the ground. If Clancy forces his way back in, he could throw a cloud over your title. It’s an old trick. But folks still use it. Especially around here.”
“So I have to go back there.”
“Just temporarily. It guarantees a clean break. Then you can decide what to do. If you want to sell it. Or burn it.”
The whole world had been simpler just an hour ago. Now, it was all too much. And any aid from Clancy Wickham was not something he could rely on anymore.
August went on to explain. Leaving tonight would look like he was abandoning the property. A part of Elliot didn’t even care. Let the old man have it. But his mother’s wish held him. He had to do something. But he wasn’t sure what a solution even looked like.
Maybe she was right. Maybe he should just burn it down.
The conversation stretched out. Elliot went on to explain his situation with the hired truck. And the ditch. August, who drove his own, agreed to take Elliot directly to Cedar Hill himself right away. And promised to arrange the truck’s recovery at once.
“I’ll need a reliable way to contact you quickly. Once things are set.” August said.
Shortly, the two men were heading back up the muddy road to Cedar Hill. Elliot did not relish the idea of being back in that house. Much less alone. But he kept the thought of his mother close.
He repeated her words to himself. And the rain from the morning was powerful now. Falling in thick sheets.
When the Ford finally came into sight, still tilted awkwardly, Elliot sighed. And August commented that he would know exactly where to send the tow truck. Before long the looming silhouette of the house came into view. And the dark water of the lake stretching behind it.
The men ran up onto the porch. It was quiet. Empty. And the door was unlocked.
“Let’s make sure they have a phone.” August was already moving down the hallway.
But Elliot knew. Clancy would have it upstairs. He looked up the curved bannisters. They looked like the horns of a ram.
“I’ll check upstairs.”
The wood groaned under his weight. The second floor was a long, dark hall. And the air was stagnant. Walls vacant of any decor. Each closed door looked exactly the same. The only light came from a single, grimy window at the end.
“Elliot!” August called up. His voice was muffled. “Listen. If they show up. You need to let Katrina in. Just her. She can collect clothing or personal effects. Do not stop her.”
Elliot paused in the middle of the hall. “Why?”
“It looks bad if we accidentally seize any personal items. Anything Clancy owns. Clothes. Tools. Anything he can legally prove. It makes the whole thing messy. Especially if any police reports are filed. And it gives him an argument against your mother’s deed.”
“I understand.”
Elliot pushed open each door. And wood whined on squeaky hinges. Most were vacant. Just dust and old plaster. He found Clancy’s room three doors down. It was cluttered with worn books stacked on the bedside table. And overflowing a wooden case. Several small, intricate stone statues were perched along the top of the bookshelf. A single suitcase lay open on a regal-looking mattress.
Katrina’s room was directly across the hall. The air was entirely different. Clean. Tidy. The sharp smell of her perfume. It held only a few brightly colored dresses hung on a hook. And a wooden chest. Neither room held the phone.
Every new door revealed the same. No wires. No phone. He stopped in the hallway, glancing up toward the ceiling. And finally noticed it. Just beside the doorway to the last room. A narrow door leading to a cramped, twisting stairwell.
The attic.
Elliot’s shoulders brushed the peeling plaster on both sides. The stairwell ended in an A-framed space at the peak of the roof. An office. A desk was littered with thick paperwork. Telegram forms. And sitting squarely in the middle was a tall, black telephone. With an iron base.
He lifted the earpiece from its cradle. And a sudden hum sounded in the receiver.
The line was active.
He did not waste a second. Shooting back down the twisting stairs. And calling for August before his feet hit the landing.
The attorney snapped his briefcase shut. And looked out the window. The rain hitting the glass blurred the afternoon light.
“Right,” August pulled on his coat. “I need to get on the road. If I rush, I can make it before the offices close for the evening. We can start the filing tonight.”
“And what about my truck?”
“I’ll handle it first thing tomorrow,” August paused at the door. “Two nights at most, Elliot. I know you need to get back to your life. Lord knows it isn’t here.”
“I’ll make it work.”
With any amount of luck, he could be on the road to Boston before tomorrow evening. August gave Elliot one final look. Then he was gone. The sound of the engine faded quickly.
Elliot was exhausted. Emptied out completely.
He found a small, attached shed just off the kitchen. Inside was a neatly stacked cord of wood. He gathered an armload. And dropped the stack. The logs clacked loudly against the stone. He threw several into the fireplace.
Elliot locked the doors leading outside. And every window on the ground floor. He even wedged a dining chair under the knob of the front door.
When he returned, he noticed that the light from the hearth failed to reach the parlor’s furthest corners. He needed kerosene. And he’d be damned if he spent the entire night in pitch blackness.
The cellar.
He found an old candlestick from the mantel. And held it to the logs until the tallow wick caught the flame. The light was weak and yellow.
The basement door was not where he expected it to be. Set into a smaller hallway at the rear of the house. It was unlike other doors. And he noted ornate carvings across the top of the doorframe. Symbols he did not recognize.
He pulled the door open. Peered down. The wooden steps vanished into absolute black. And damp air rushed up the stairwell. A foul scent of age. And mold.
The first step down and the wood creaked immediately under his weight. He held the candle out. Its light barely pierced the dark. But it was enough to see his way. The steps transitioned to stone further down. Slick with condensation. The railing felt gritty. Like salt against his fingers.
The final step gave way to a rough floor of packed earth. It was an open room. Cold and utterly black beyond the small halo of the candle. Massive, heavy timber pillars rose up. Holding the weight of the house. He could not see the walls beyond. And a steady dripping echoed in the quiet.
He hurried. Ignoring a rush of air that seemed to blow from somewhere deeper. Behind the dark. There, on a cluttered shelf, rested a tin can marked “Kerosene Oil” on the side. He gripped the handle. It was thick with webs and dust. And turned immediately to start back up the stairs.
Elliot slammed the door. And threw the lock shut.
He carried the heavy can back to the parlor. And spent the next hour working by the growing firelight. Filling and arranging several lamps throughout the house.
He watched the daylight fade outside the window. By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in a bruised purple, he felt suffocated. He unlocked the back door of the house. And stepped out onto a small covered patio.
The air felt cool. Clean. From here, the land sloped down to the dark lake. And beyond that, the endless, rolling hills. He stood there for a long time. Drawing in deep breaths. Letting his panic ease. Panic that had been building since morning.
The colors of the horizon triggered a memory. The burn of red and gold against a grey sky. He was four. Maybe five. She walked fast through these same woods. Down the slope where the earth got soft. He had to run to keep up. And his boots were too big.
Just a walk. A wasted afternoon in the fall. But standing here. Now. He felt a wish to be back there. To smell the damp leaves again. To see her smile. She looked so young. And so alive.
The memory was a sharp stone in his throat. He swallowed it down.
The blur of her faded. And Elliot saw something in the distance. A single, dark figure standing at the edge of the shoreline. Motionless. Watching the house. He blinked. But when he looked again, the figure was gone. And the lake edge was nothing but pines and rock. He stared out for a long time. Hoping to see a neighbor walking the trail.
But no one appeared again.
Back inside, the guestroom waited down the hall. And the door stood open like a mouth.
He couldn’t do it.
So he moved his things into the parlor.
The fire was roaring now. And it cast a flickering orange light. This room was at the center of the house. Sightlines to the kitchen. The front door. The stairs. He found a wingbacked chair near the far wall. Dragged it by the arm across the rug. And spun it to face the front door.
The dusty blanket from last night would have to do again. He settled back. The lamps and fire allowed light to finally fill the space. And the header of the basement door was illuminated. He hadn’t looked very closely before.
Now he couldn’t look away.
The wood was gouged. Deep cuts ran across the beam. There were no curves in the shapes. Only straight lines. Hard angles and vertical strokes crossed by diagonal slashes. They looked primitive. And terrible.
Night came fast. One minute the windows were blue. Next, they were black mirrors. He sat like a boulder. The day had finally drained completely out of him. Like a sieve. He pulled the scratchy wool up to his chin and watched the fire from his chair.
He didn’t even realize he had fallen asleep. Until he jolted awake. He was stiff and cold. Hours had passed. And the logs were now just a small heap of embers. The lamps alone cast their pale light.
Then came the noise.
The sharp snap of a twig breaking. Elliot froze. Every muscle in his back locked up. And he could hear it clearly. The soft rustling of footsteps in dead leaves.
Someone was outside.
Elliot’s story in Stagwell continues in Chapter 3. Coming soon. Want to know what happens next? Subscribe to get the rest delivered straight to your inbox.
And thank you so much for reading.