Cross Manor

December 11th, 8:14 pm

The odor drew me back to a faint memory from childhood, one I had not felt in years. A winter night so cold it stole the breath from my lungs, each inhale followed by an involuntary cough. The smell was of dead air, still, unmoving, with nowhere to go. I felt that same air now, heavy in my chest, every second breath betraying me despite my efforts to remain quiet.

The floors crackled beneath my steps, each fracture sounding as though it might give way to the level below. The house itself was a grand spectacle, withered by neglect, slowly
collapsing inward under the weight of its own years.

I had been hired to find a young man, Mr. William Barton, one of the younger members of the esteemed Barton family. I told the patriarch, Sir Ronald Barton, that I no longer took this
kind of work. He persisted. The sum he offered was obscene, nearly a year’s salary for a single case, and in the end, temptation won. I was told William had left suddenly, without preparation or explanation, and not at all like himself. The family feared he had done
something reckless.

I must pause here. My thoughts are becoming jumbled, and I fear losing my place. I have found a large chair and cushions not yet eaten through by whatever vermin now call this
manor home. I will sleep, if sleep will come.

December 12th, 7:41 am

Morning arrived abruptly, as though I had only just surrendered to rest. I have never been a restless sleeper, yet the exhaustion clings to me so completely I would swear I slept only
minutes. Still, daylight is a gift. I have work to do, and I will not waste it.

December 12th, 3:35 pm

The documents lining this manor seem endless, mundanities of life preserved without purpose. Grocery lists, receipts for firewood bought in bulk, entire drawers of neatly filed garbage. That single line, “it began at Cross Manor” written in such haste on a stained piece
of parchment tossed in Williams bedside trash, the line that had led me here.

What began at Cross Manor? If the young man had been here, he certainly left no obvious trace, but then
again, they never do. As I review my entries, I realize I have not recorded the history of Cross Manor, such as I
know it. The story is uncomplicated, if quietly tragic. The manor once served as an orphanage for over sixty years. Now it stands as a decayed façade of what was once called home. Faded photographs line the narrow corridors, children seated at desks, standing in
rows before bed, assembled on the front steps. Always lined up. Always still. Their expressions largely vacant, save for a faint bewilderment in a select few.

These remnants made me feel there is scarcely more life here now than there ever was then. I was told the orphanage closed under financial strain and growing scrutiny for what were
described as corrective practices.

As I moved through the east corridor, I became aware of a sound I had mistaken for the settling of the house. It was quieter than footsteps, more deliberate than the wind. A soft,
rhythmic tapping, stopping and starting at irregular intervals. I followed it to a narrow hallway where the floorboards were worn smooth in a straight line,
as though generations of small feet had passed over the same path. The sound stopped when I did. For a moment, I had the distinct impression that I was expected to continue forward. When I reached the end of the hall, the tapping resumed behind me, once, twice, three times, then ceased. I found no source for it. Still, I could not shake the feeling that I had failed some quiet instruction.

December 13th, 3:29 am

I was asleep again before nine. I awoke to violent banging at the window, an overgrown branch whipped back and forth by the wind. Unable to return to sleep, I wandered the seemingly endless rooms of Cross Manor.

Dormitories held six or eight beds where there should have been two or three. Cold, sterile rooms. Stained mattresses gnawed through by mice that now rule these halls. Eventually, I
reached a small bedroom at the top floor, far removed from the others, so tucked away it was nearly forgotten.

The room was pitch black, as though it swallowed the flame from my lamp. There was no window, no desk, no light. Only a narrow iron bed frame bolted to the floor, its straps torn
loose. Melted wax pooled beneath the frame, hardened into uneven ridges. The smell of it lingered, faint but unmistakable. At the other end of the room was a small brown leather
chest, bruised and punctured.
Inside the chest were letters, bound neatly with red string. Each addressed to the same man. John Connel.

A chill settled over me, and my breathing slowed. I have noticed I make a habit of that here. I now sit beside a makeshift fire fed by tattered papers, broken chair legs, and the occasional book. I opened the first letter, and for record, I copy it here.

“Dear John,

I played hide and seek with Abigail this morning. I hid under the dumbwaiter and she searched for hours but could not find me. Even when I giggled, she still couldn’t find me. Even when I pretended to be a squirrel in the wall. She said I’m becoming too good, that it isn’t fair. I didn’t argue. If you were here, you would find me in minutes. I can’t wait to come join you. It must
be wonderful there.

Love, Annie”

I have read several letters now, each recounting some small adventure: sneaking extra bread, laughing until her stomach hurt, and running just fast enough to feel like she might lift off
the floor. Annie’s letters bring an unexpected comfort to this place.

December 13th, 1:15 pm

After hours of fruitless searching, I returned to the living room and continued reading Annie’s letters. I found myself lingering over them longer than I meant to. Some were
written hurriedly, ink smeared where her hand had moved too fast, others careful and neat, as though she were trying very hard to do it properly. There was joy in them that felt stubborn, almost defiant. Reading them by the fire, I caught myself smiling more than once, the sound of the house receding for a moment as though it, too, were listening. I enjoyed the lively diversion until I reached this letter.

“John,

Ms. Cromwell is shouting again. It’s louder than before, or maybe I just don’t remember it being this loud. The sound keeps coming back even when she stops, like it’s stuck in the hallway.
I’m hiding under my bed. There is dust on the floor and it smells like shoes. I’m trying not to breathe too hard because the bed makes a noise when I move. I pulled my blanket down so you can’t see my feet. I’m scared she will take me to the crows room. I don’t want to go back there.

I keep thinking if you were here, you wouldn’t let her. You always tell her to stop when she’s wrong. I pretend you’re standing in the doorway sometimes. It helps a little. I think about you when I wake up and before I fall asleep. I count the days until I can
come live with you.

She’s coming up the stairs now. I can hear them creak. The bed is shaking a little. I’m going to stay very still. If I don’t move, she might think I’m not here. I’ll keep hiding.

Annie”

The letters before this were written within a few weeks of one another. All addressed, stamped, and never sent. Their dates sit close together, sometimes only a day apart, as though she had been afraid to let too much time pass between them. The next letter was dated a month later.

“Dear John,

I’m sorry I haven’t written. My hand hurts now. It’s stiff when I wake up and sore when I hold the pencil, but I wanted to write anyway.

I haven’t heard from you since you left. I still think maybe you wrote and it hasn’t come yet. I check even when I know there won’t be anything. I try not to think you forgot me. Ms. Cromwell says I’m not allowed to play hide and seek with Abigail anymore. She
says it makes me careless. She says I am a bad example for Abigail. Because of that, I have to sleep in the crows room now. It’s very dark in there. She lets me have one candle, but it doesn’t last long. When it goes out, I stay very still and keep my hands under the blanket so I don’t move. I don’t feel the same here anymore. I keep thinking if you were here, you would tell
her to stop.

I miss you. Please write to me.

Love, Annie”

Ms. Cromwell appears in no photographs. In every group image, there is space where one might expect her to stand, a gap at the edge of the frame that no one seems to notice.
Former records list Ms. Cromwell as matron. Notes beside her name repeat the same phrase: order maintained. No further explanation is offered.

I cannot bring myself to read Annie’s final letter. Not yet.

December 13th, 8:27 pm

I spent the rest of the day searching for signs of William Barton. I found none.
In the kitchen, moss crept through the windows, blanketing the counters with leaves and rot. The dumbwaiter still stood at the far wall, its door barely hanging on, webbed thick with
dust. I imagined Annie hiding there, stifling laughter.

As I leaned in, a cold hand brushed my shoulder. I quickly turned around, and was met with no one, nothing, then just as soon I heard a shill scream cry out, it echoed from the top floor down the dumbwaiter shaft and nearly deafened
me. I stumbled, popping my ears, trying to regain my train of thought.
I ran as hastily as I could up the stairs, reaching the top floor in exacerbated breath. Dead silence.

I paused for a moment, thinking who could be up here? I searched every room, every closet, every washroom, nothing. There is no way they could have made it down to another floor, I
would have heard them, I would have run across them. As my search came to an end I realized the sun was close to fully setting, I did not want to
be up here without a light, I did not want to be in this manor at all anymore. I fled downstairs and made the fastest fire I could, narrowly beating the pitch black darkness by a
few minutes. This will be my last night here. Whatever ties William Barton has to this place, I will not
pursue them further. I will stay awake and pray for morning.

December 14th, time unknown

I am writing because it is the only thing keeping my hands from shaking too badly to be of use. The fire has gone out. The cold woke me suddenly, sharp enough that for a moment I thought I had been touched. I have managed to light two candles. They are not enough, but they will have to be.

As I stood to try and coax the fire back, I saw a letter resting on the seat of my chair. It had not been there when I sat down. I know this because I remember the shape of the cushion, the way it dipped where I had been sitting.

The letter is Annie’s.

I am standing here now with it in my hands, writing this before I open it. My breath feels shallow. My fingers are numb, and I am afraid if I stop to think I will not be able to continue at all. Writing feels like proof that I am still here.

I am opening the letter now.

“Dear John,

Ms. Cromwell was shouting again today. It was loud like it always is, but today it felt louder. Even after she stopped, it still felt like she was there. Sometimes I think the walls remember her voice, because it doesn’t go away when she does.

I hid under the dumbwaiter so she wouldn’t find me. It smells like dust and old bread and my nose itched, but I stayed very still. I had to press my face into my sleeve so I wouldn’t cough. She walked right past me. My heart was beating so hard I thought she would hear it, but she didn’t stop. I didn’t move at all.

She talked to Mr. Withers while he was making supper. She said I am bad and hard to teach. She said I make the other girls worse just by being near them. She said my head is always somewhere else. I wanted to tell her she was wrong. I wanted to tell her I try very hard. But I know not to talk when she’s like that.

Then she talked about you. She said you live in a beautiful house now. She said you have a soft bed and warm
food whenever you want it. She said you were given a new name. William. She said it slowly, like it was something special. She said your new family didn’t want me. She said none of my letters were ever sent. Not one of them.

I didn’t cry right away. I stayed very quiet. I thought maybe she was lying. She lies about things sometimes. I thought maybe the letters were lost. I thought maybe you were coming anyway and she just wanted to make me scared. I stayed under the dumbwaiter for a long time after they left. My legs went numb. I kept thinking about all the times I wrote to you at night after lights out, how careful I
was to fold the paper straight so you would know I tried. I kept thinking maybe you were reading them somewhere.

Tonight I have to sleep in the crows room again. She says it will help me think. There is only one candle and it doesn’t last very long. When it goes out, the room feels too big and I can’t see my hands. I try to count my breaths so I don’t panic, but I lose
count. I don’t want to sleep in there again. I don’t want to be in the dark like that anymore.

I know where Mr. Withers keeps the rat poison. He told me not to touch it, so I
remember where it is. I know you would be mad if you knew I was thinking about this. I know you would tell me to wait. You always tell me waiting is better. I tried to do
that. I waited every day. Nothing changed.

I don’t think this makes me bad. I just don’t want to be scared anymore. I don’t want her to find me again. I don’t want her to decide where I sleep or how quiet I have to be.

I hope you find this letter someday. I’m going to put it somewhere only you would ever think to look.

I love you.

Annie”

I am still holding the page. I can see something beneath it now, where the paper has thinned.

Another hand. Heavier.

“My dearest Annie,

I have found your letters. All of them. And I believe I have found you too, though I don’t know if I deserve to say that.

I was told you died of pneumonia not long after I left Cross Manor. They said it plainly, as though it were something that simply happened, like weather. I believed them. When I heard, I didn’t leave my room for weeks. The house was quiet. Too quiet. They gave me toys, new clothes, food whenever I asked. None of it meant anything. I kept thinking that if I stayed very still, I might hear you calling for me the
way you used to. I have thought of you every day since. Not a single one has passed without you in it.

It was only last week, after I found an old letter from Ms. Cromwell among the Barton papers, that I understood what they had done. What she had done. What I had done by leaving you there and believing it was over.

I have spent these last two nights in Cross Manor, walking the halls and counting my breaths. I tell myself I would have stopped you. I tell myself I would have found you. But I wasn’t there, and I didn’t. The Bartons did a terrible thing. Ms. Cromwell did a terrible thing. But the worst thing
was mine. I left. I accepted quiet. I accepted comfort. I accepted a new name.

I am so sorry, Annie. There is no part of this that I can make right. I should never have gone without you. I should have been braver. I should have waited. I should have come back sooner.

If you can forgive me, I will carry that forgiveness for the rest of my life. If you cannot, I will carry that too.
I love you. I always have and always will.

John”

As I laid the letter down, my eyes met the gaze of a young girl not more than 10 feet from me, she was dressed in an old nighttime gown, her long blonde hair in pigtails, and her eyes
green and steady. She held my eyes for a brief moment, the tiniest smile peaking through, and then, with a gentle sigh of my breath, she was gone.

The sun began to crest over the horizon, a warming light slowly flooding into the living room as I sat in silence.

As I stood, the air cleared, the house lifted, and walls quieted.

December 15th, 8:25 am

I gathered Annie’s letters and prepared to send them to the Barton estate. Let them explain what I cannot.

William Barton, John Connel, was never coming back. He had discovered too horrible a truth, and who knows where it will take him now.

I sealed the envelope and watched the courier disappear down the road.

The Bartons saved one child by abandoning another. Annie was never meant to be remembered, and now she is not forgotten.

Credit: Zach Tolstoy