He inherited a house standing in the middle of a lake Yet what he found inside completely changed his life.
The phone rang in the flat just as Oliver Fairfax stood by the stove. An omelette sizzled in the pan, filling the kitchen with the scent of garlic and melted butter. He wiped his hands on a tea towel and shot an annoyed glance at the screenunknown caller.
«Hello?» he answered curtly, keeping an eye on the pan.
«Mr. Fairfax, this is your family solicitor. Youll need to come in tomorrow morning. Theres a matter of inheritance. Some documents require your signature.»
Oliver hesitated. His parents were alive and wellso who could have left him anything? He didnt bother asking, just nodded silently as if the man could see him and hung up.
The next morning was grey and misty. As Oliver drove through the city, his mild bewilderment turned to irritation. The solicitor was already waiting at the office door.
«Come in, Oliver. I know this must sound odd. But if it were straightforward, I wouldnt have called you in on a Saturday.»
The office was empty. Usually, the place buzzed with activity, but now only the echo of footsteps on the hardwood floor broke the silence. Oliver sat across the desk, arms folded.
«This concerns your uncleWilliam Hargrove.»
«I dont have an uncle named William,» Oliver said flatly.
«Nevertheless, hes left you his entire estate.» The solicitor carefully placed an old key, a yellowed map, and a slip of paper with an address in front of him. «A house on the water. Its yours now.»
«Seriously?»
«Its situated in the middle of Lake Thirlmere, in the Lake District.»
Oliver picked up the key. It was heavy, its intricate design worn with age. Hed never heard of the man or the place. Yet something inside him shiftedthat moment when curiosity outweighs sense.
An hour later, his rucksack held a change of clothes, a bottle of water, and some snacks. According to the satnav, the lake was barely an hour from his home. That only made it strangerhow had he never known this place existed?
When the road ended, the lake stretched before himstill, dark, like glass. In its centre stood the houselooming, shadowed, as if it had risen straight from the water.
A few old-timers sipped tea outside a waterside café. Oliver approached them.
«Pardon me,» he began, «that house on the lakedo you know who lived there?»
One of the men set down his mug slowly.
«We dont talk about that place. Dont go near it. Shouldve been gone years ago.»
«But someone mustve lived there, right?»
«Never saw a soul on shore. Never. Only at night, wed hear boats. Someone brought supplies, but no one knows who. And we dont care to.»
At the jetty, a faded sign read: «Margarets Boats.» Inside, a weary-looking woman eyed him.
«I need a boat to that house in the middle,» Oliver said, showing her the key. «Its mine now.»
«No one goes there,» she said flatly. «Frightens folk. Frightens me.»
But Oliver pressed her until she finally relented.
«Fine. Ill take you. But I wont wait. Back tomorrow.»
The house rose from the water like some forgotten relic. The wooden jetty groaned underfoot. Margaret secured the boat with a quick knot.
«Here we are,» she muttered.
Oliver stepped onto the swaying planks and turned to thank her, but she was already pushing off.
«Good luck. Hope youre still here tomorrow,» she called before vanishing into the mist.
Now he was alone.
The key slid into the lock with ease. A dull click, and the door creaked open.
Inside, the air smelled of dust yet oddly fresh. Tall windows, heavy curtains, rows of portraits. One caught his eyea man by the lake with the house looming behind him. The inscription read: «William Hargrove, 1964.»
The library walls were lined with books, their margins filled with notes. In the study, a telescope stood beside stacks of journalsweather records, observations, the last entry dated just weeks ago.
«What was he watching?» Oliver murmured.
The bedroom held dozens of stopped clocks. On the dresser, a locket. Inside, a babys photo labelled: «Fairfax.»
«Was he watching me? My family?»
A note on the mirror read: «Time tells what silence hides.»
The attic held crates of newspaper clippings. One circled in red: «Boy from York missing. Found days later, unharmed.» The year1997. Oliver went cold. That was him.
In the dining room, one chair was pulled out. On it lay his school photo.
«This isnt just odd anymore,» he muttered, his head spinning.
He ate some tinned stew from the pantry and retreated to a guest room. The sheets were crisp, as if waiting. Outside, moonlight skimmed the lake, and the house seemed to breathe with the water.
But sleep wouldnt come. Too many questions. Who was William Hargrove? Why had no one spoken of him? Why had his parents never mentioned an uncle? And why this obsession with him?
When exhaustion finally took him, the house settled into true darknessthe kind where floorboards creak like footsteps and shadows move on their own.
A sharp clang jolted him upright. Another soundlike a heavy door swinging open downstairs. Oliver grabbed his phone. No signal. Just his own wide-eyed reflection.
He snatched a torch and stepped into the hall.
Shadows thickened. Every step echoed with dread. In the library, books sat slightly askew, as if recently touched. The study door hung open. A cold draft seeped from behind a tapestry.
He pulled it asidea heavy iron door.
«Not this,» he whispered, but his fingers closed around the handle.
The door groaned open, revealing a spiral staircase descending beneath the house, under the lake. The air grew damp, thick with salt and something ancient.
Below lay a corridor of filing cabinets. Labels read: «Genealogy,» «Letters,» «Expeditions.»
One drawer bore his name: «Fairfax.»
Hands shaking, he opened it. Inside, lettersall addressed to his father.
«I tried. Why wont you answer? This matters. For Olivers sake»
«So he didnt vanish. He wrote. He wanted to know me,» Oliver whispered.
At the corridors end stood another door: «Hargrove Archives. Authorised Personnel Only.» No handlejust a palm scanner. A note beside it: «For Oliver Fairfax. Only him.»
He pressed his hand.
Click. Light bloomed. A projector flickered to life, casting a mans silhouette on the wall.
Grey hair, weary eyes. He looked straight at Oliver.
«Hello, Oliver. If youre seeing this, Im gone.»
The man introduced himself: William Hargrove.
«Im your real father. You shouldnt have learned this way, but your mother and I made mistakes. We were scientistsobsessed with survival, the climate, saving the world. She died bringing you into it. And I I 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 the house on the lake. From afar.»
Oliver sank onto a bench, numb.
«It was you all along»
The recording trembled:
«I feared ruining you, but you grew strong, kindbetter than Id dreamed. Now this house is yours, as part of your story, your chance. Forgive mefor silence, for cowardice, for being near but never truly there.»
The image faded.
He didnt know how long he sat in the dark. Finally, he climbed back upstairs. At dawn, Margaret waited at the jetty. She frowned.
«You all right?»
«I am now,» he said softly. «I just needed to understand.»
He went home and told his parents. They listened, then held him tight.
«Forgive us,» his mother whispered. «We thought it was best.»
«Thank you,» he said. «I know it wasnt easy.»
That night, Oliver lay in bed. The ceiling was the same. But nothing else was.
Weeks later, he returned to the lakenot to live there, but to restore it. The house became the Thirlmere Centre for Climate and Heritage. Children laughed in its halls, neighbours visited with smiles. No longer a place of secrets, it was alive again.
