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End of Chapter 2.

Chapter 3: Echoes of the Past

The next morning dawned grey and damp, the ever-present mist clinging to the grounds of the Colton Estate like a shroud. Sam sat at the small wooden desk in his room, his gaze shifting between the journal he had found in Lord Andrew’s study and the stack of papers that lay before him. The room felt cold despite the fire crackling in the hearth, as though the very walls were leaching warmth from the air.

Sam had spent most of the night thinking about what he had discovered so far. The journal had been an unsettling find, with its cryptic entries and hints of madness, but it wasn’t enough. He needed more. The Colton family had been prominent in the village of Brackenmoor for centuries, and it was clear that their history was far from ordinary. If Lord Andrew’s disappearance was connected to the family’s past, then Sam had to dig deeper.

With a determined breath, he opened the first of the files he had brought with him. Inside were copies of old letters, historical documents, and clippings from the village newspaper, dating back to the late 1800s. Sam had requested them from the local archives in preparation for the case, suspecting that the Colton family’s long, complex history might hold some answers. Now, as he sifted through the fragile papers, he began to see just how deep those roots ran.

The Coltons had been one of the wealthiest families in the region for generations. They had made their fortune in textiles during the Industrial Revolution, expanding their estate and influence in the decades that followed. But alongside their wealth came rumors—whispers of dark secrets that had haunted the family for just as long.

The first document Sam examined was an old letter, written by Charles Colton, Lord Andrew’s great-great-grandfather. The letter was addressed to a colleague in London, dated 1892. The tone was formal, but there was a nervousness in the handwriting, a sense of desperation that bled through the ink:

“Dear Dr. Radcliffe,

I fear that the matter we discussed last autumn is far worse than we had anticipated. The disturbances have grown more frequent, and the staff refuse to remain in the house after nightfall. My wife, Eleanor, has taken ill, and I cannot help but feel that it is connected to the occurrences we have witnessed. The symbols, which you insisted were of no consequence, seem to hold a terrible power. I beg of you, come to the estate at once. I fear for my family’s safety.”

There was no further correspondence from Charles Colton in the file, but Sam’s instincts told him that something significant had happened in the months following that letter. He set it aside and turned his attention to the next set of documents—diaries and letters from Eleanor Colton, Charles’s wife.

Eleanor’s diary entries began innocuously enough, detailing her life at the estate, her children, and her duties as mistress of the house. But as Sam read further, the tone shifted. The entries became more erratic, the handwriting more frantic.

March 17, 1892:

The dreams are getting worse. I see them every night—the figures in the shadows, watching me from the corners of the room. I wake with the feeling that they have been here, standing over me as I slept. Charles says it is nothing, that I am simply overwrought, but I know what I have seen. They are real, and they are growing bolder.

April 3, 1892:

The symbols. I found them in the attic, carved into the floorboards beneath the old trunks. Charles denies knowing anything about them, but I can see the fear in his eyes. He has seen them too, I am sure of it. There is something terribly wrong with this house. The staff have begun to speak of a curse, and I fear they may be right.

Sam’s pulse quickened as he read the entries. The symbols Eleanor referred to sounded like something occult, and her fear was palpable in her words. He flipped through the pages, skimming for anything else of significance.

May 15, 1892:

Charles has fallen ill. The doctor says it is a fever, but I know it is something else. I can hear them at night now—the voices. They whisper from the walls, calling my name. I do not know how much longer I can stand this. I fear for my children. I fear for us all.

That entry was the last in the diary. Eleanor’s fate, it seemed, had been sealed. Sam closed the diary with a sense of dread. Whatever had plagued the Coltons in the 19th century had left a mark on the family—one that had carried through the generations.

Sam leaned back in his chair, running a hand over his face. The story he was piecing together was disturbing, to say the least. Suicides, mysterious deaths, and now occult symbols—it was as if the Coltons had been cursed by their own dark past. But curses weren’t real, were they?