The Face in the House

28

Dear Diary,

I've made arrangements, begrudgingly, to stay with a distant cousin in town while I search for new employment. I have already packed away what little belongings I have. Much of what I own, I have come to realize, I do not really "own" at all. My clothes, bed things, and books are all borrowed from Thornewood.

As I look toward my exit, I am surprised by the emotion it brings me. I have never loved Thornewood House. I have never loved the country. I have never loved my employers, or the butler, or my work here. Even so, the very prospect of my departure makes me ill with grief. Perhaps the place has grown on my heart.

Beside the deep sadness, there is another feeling . . . a feeling that is difficult to describe. It's a . . . desperation. A desperate curiosity. Leaving Thornewood now, in the midst of such strange encounters, in the midst of such an unlikely visit as William Allan's, is like closing a book before the mystery is solved.

Still, I know I must go (though I am not sure how the mistress will fare without me!) but there is time yet to play detective.

Something strange is happening here. That much I know for certain.

I believe I will find my answers in the cellar. I will go there the first chance I get.

I am already losing my home. Now there is not much more to lose.

***

Dear Diary,

What I am about to record is a nonsensical account of the hours proceeding my last entry. I will write quickly, with little thought or revision, as what transpired is ripe in my mind, but fading fast. I feel inclined to state, due to the nature of the tale to follow, and due to the state of mind in which I have just awoken, that this tale, to my knowledge, is all entirely true.

I feel also inclined to state that I fear for my sanctity of mind.

Even so, this is what happened:

I waited many hours to find the cellar vacant, but at last I set for it while the butler was occupied with the mistress. It was a private meeting in the office, something which piqued my interest, and nearly pulled me away from my present errand. They must be discussing finances, I thought.

There are many curiosities at Thornewood. This one, this private conference, freed the other for close, confidential observation. I ventured into the cellar, unnoticed.

There, I found everything ordinary and unremarkable. It was dark, cold, and damp. There were bottles upon bottles of the late Mr. White's beloved wine. To my unpracticed eye, there was nothing more to be seen, aside from the spiderwebs that filled every dark corner.

I nearly returned to my work before something caught my eye - the warm glow of candlelight. It was then that I knew there must be more to explore, as the butler's own private quarters stood someplace below the house. I crept behind the shelf and found a simple bedchamber, not much larger than the wine cellar. The room was tidy but had none of the comforts one should expect. The only source of warmth came from candlelight.

I knelt down to inspect a trunk that sat on the stone floor. I assumed it belonged to Mr. Poole, who should be preparing to leave Thornewood, but upon closer inspection I caught the name William Allan on the face of an envelope that rested on top.

It occurred to me then that I had totally forgotten the guest. This was his trunk. "But where is he?" I thought... and I held my breath, fearing suddenly that he must be somewhere near. If his companion was with the mistress, and I saw no one else leave through the cellar door as I waited...