He inherited a house standing in the middle of a lake Yet what lay inside would alter the course of his life forever.
The phones shrill ring interrupted Edmund Whitmore as he stood by the stove, frying an omelette that filled the kitchen with the scent of garlic and butter. Wiping his hands on a tea towel, he frowned at the unknown number flashing on the screen.
Hello? he answered briskly, keeping one eye on the pan.
Mr. Whitmore, this is your family solicitor. You must come to my office tomorrow morning. Theres a matter of inheritancedocuments requiring your signature.
Edmund hesitated. His parents were alive and wellwho could have left him anything? He didnt ask questions, merely nodding as if the caller could see him, then hung up.
The next morning was grey and damp, the kind of English weather that clung to the skin. As Edmund drove through the winding lanes of Surrey, his mild puzzlement turned to irritation. The solicitor stood waiting at the door of his office, an old-fashioned building with creaking floorboards.
Come in, Edmund. I know this must seem peculiar, but if it were trivial, I wouldnt have called you in on a Sunday.
The office was eerily silent, the usual bustle absent. Edmund sat across the heavy oak desk, arms folded.
This concerns your uncleAlistair Hargrove.
I dont have an uncle by that name, Edmund countered at once.
Nevertheless, hes left you his entire estate. The solicitor laid before him an antique key, a faded map, and a slip of paper bearing an address. A house upon the water. Its yours now.
Youre serious?
It stands in the heart of Lake Aylesmere, in the Lake District.
Edmund turned the key in his palm. It was weighty, its intricate design worn with age. Hed never heard of the man or the place. Yet something stirred within hima curiosity too insistent to ignore.
Within the hour, his rucksack held a change of clothes, a flask of tea, and a few provisions. The GPS showed the lake less than an hours drive from his home. How had he never known of it?
When the road ended, the lake stretched before himstill, glassy, almost ominous. At its centre stood the housetall, dark, as if it had risen from the depths.
A handful of old men sat outside a lakeside pub, nursing pints. Edmund approached them.
Pardon me, he began, that house in the lakedo you know who lived there?
One of them set down his drink slowly.
We dont speak of that place. Dont go near it. Shouldve been gone years ago.
But someone mustve lived there?
Never saw a soul on the shore. Only heard boats at night. Supplies deliverednever knew by who. And dont care to.
At the jetty, a peeling sign read: Maggies Boats. Inside, a weary-eyed woman regarded him.
I need a boat to that house, Edmund said, holding up the key. Ive inherited it.
No one goes there, she said flatly. Its cursed, they say. Even I wont stay long.
But Edmund pressed until she relented.
Fine. Ill take you. But I wont wait. Back tomorrow, if youre still there.
The house loomed over the water like a relic. The jetty groaned beneath his boots. Maggie tied the boat with practised hands.
Here we are, she muttered.
Edmund stepped onto the rotting planks, but before he could thank her, the boat was already retreating into the mist.
Good luck. Hope I see you tomorrow, she called, then vanished.
Now he was alone.
The key turned smoothly. A click, and the door swung inward.
Inside, the air was musty yet oddly fresh. Tall windows draped with heavy curtains, walls lined with portraits. One stood outa man by the lakeshore, the house behind him. The inscription read: Alistair Hargrove, 1964.
The study was a trove of books, each annotated in precise handwriting. A telescope stood by the window, beside stacks of journalsweather records, observations, the last entry dated mere weeks ago.
What was he watching? Edmund murmured.
The bedroom held a dozen stopped clocks. On the dresser, a locketinside, a babys photo labelled: Whitmore.
Was he watching me? My family?
A note on the mirror read: Time uncovers what was meant to stay hidden.
The attic yielded boxes of yellowed clippings. One, circled in red: Boy from Winchester vanishes, found unharmed days later. The year1997. Edmunds blood ran cold. That was him.
In the dining room, a single chair sat askew. Upon ithis school photograph.
This is beyond strange, he whispered, his mind reeling.
He ate sparingly from tinned food in the pantry, then retreated to a guest room. The sheets were crisp, as if waiting. Moonlight silvered the lake, and the house seemed to breathe with the waters rhythm.
Sleep wouldnt come. Too many questions. Who was Alistair Hargrove? Why had no one spoken of him? Why had his parents never mentioned an uncle? And why this obsession with him?
When exhaustion took him, the house grew darker stillthe kind where floorboards creak like footsteps, and shadows loom like spectres.
A metallic clang shattered the silence. He bolted upright. Another sounda door swinging open below. His phone showed no signal. Only his own wide eyes stared back from the screen.
Flashlight in hand, he crept into the hall.
Shadows thickened. The librarys books sat slightly askew, as if recently touched. The study door stood ajar. A chill seeped from behind a tapestryone he hadnt noticed before.
He pulled it aside. A heavy iron door lay beneath.
No, he breathed, but his hand moved of its own accord.
The door groaned open, revealing a spiral stair descending beneath the lake. The air grew damp, thick with salt and age.
Below stretched a corridor of filing cabinets. Labels read: Genealogy, Letters, Expeditions.
One drawer bore his name: Whitmore.
He pulled it open. Inside, lettersall addressed to his father.
I tried. Why wont you answer? This mattersfor him. For Edmund
He didnt vanish. He wrote. He wanted to know me, Edmund whispered.
At the corridors end stood another door: Restricted Access. Hargrove Archive. No handleonly a palm scanner. A note beside it: For Edmund Whitmore. Only him.
He pressed his palm.
A click. Light bloomed. A projector whirred to life, casting a mans silhouette on the wall.
Grey-haired, weary-eyed, he gazed at Edmund.
Hello, Edmund. If you see this, I am gone.
The man introduced himself: Alistair Hargrove.
I am your true father. You should never have learned this way, but your mother and I made grave mistakes. We were scientists, obsessed with saving the world. She died bringing you into it. And II was afraid. Afraid of what I might become. So I gave you to my brother. He gave you a family. But I never stopped watching. From here. From afar.
Edmund sank onto a bench, numb.
It was you all this time
The recording faltered.
I feared Id ruin you, but youve grown strong, kindbetter than I ever dreamed. Now this house is yours, as is the truth. Forgive mefor silence, for cowardice, for being near yet never there.
The image faded.
He didnt know how long he sat in the dark. At dawn, Maggie waited at the jetty.
You all right? she asked, eyeing him.
I am now, he said softly. I understand.
He went home. His parents listened, then held him close.
Forgive us, his mother whispered. We thought it best.
Thank you, he said. I know it wasnt easy.
That night, his ceiling was the same. Yet everything had changed.
Weeks later, he returnednot to dwell, but to restore. The house became the Hargrove Centre for Environmental Study. Childrens laughter filled its halls; locals brought stories and smiles. No longer a haunt of secrets, it was alive again.
