Page 48 of The Haunting of William Thorn
William woke with a dry mouth and a taste like death in the back of his throat.
He knew he needed a glass of water – or three glasses of wine – but that would mean getting out of bed.
In truth, he was rather surprised to have woken up in the same place.
There was no sleepwalking, no dreams, only solitary nothingness.
He laid amongst the mounds of sheets, stealing a few more minutes before he had to face Edward. Because when he did, surely the conversation would begin and – just like with the water – he wasn’t ready for that either.
Leaving Hanbury sounded like the best and only option before he slept, now the thought of being separated from these foundations turned his gut in knots.
There were more questions he was frightened to face.
Why did the spirit spell out his recently departed partner? Why did it stand behind Edward wearing Archie’s red coat? Worse, had the haunting been Archie all along, and if so, why?
Just the thought of questions had him drawing the duvet up and over his chin, snuggling deeper into the warmth of the bed.
Soon enough, William heard the clatter of activity beneath him coming from the direction of the kitchen.
Considering the bed beside him was empty, he knew Edward was downstairs, likely rustling something up to eat as he promised.
After what had happened, every noise made him jump out of his skin.
It was odd – looking back to the events only hours before in the attic, it felt so unreal, as if the time between the incident gave William the space he needed to determine that it was all caused by something explainable.
Rolling over, he reached for his phone instinctively.
But it wasn’t where it always was, face down on the bedside table.
A cold wrinkle of dread coursed down his neck.
It didn’t take a genius to guess where he’d left it.
In the attic. He added going to retrieve his phone to the growing list of things he knew he needed to do but wasn’t ready to.
The brush of soft leather met his hand where his phone should’ve been.
Robert’s journal waited for him, as if it always knew he’d reach out for it.
Strange, because he didn’t remember leaving it there.
But like everything else that’d happened here, he didn’t question the oddity as he picked it up and drew it up before him.
He flicked the side light on, sparking the side of his room in a glow of chemical orange.
With one look out of the window, William knew it was late – the sky was completely black now, dotted with clouds so thick that even the stars couldn’t contest for their place.
His body clock told him it was close to the turn of the day, but without his phone, it was simply a guess.
Tomorrow, they’d leave Hanbury. For now, or for good, William hadn’t decided yet. What was clear was the manor didn’t want him, and he wished he shared in that feeling.
What did life look like far from this nightmare in the middle of the Cotswolds?
He’d return to London, back to his life and forget all about the lost stories within these rooms.
A strange ache sang beneath his ribs, so much so that he laid a hand and massaged the area.
Was it the idea of giving up on a future he’d hoped for or the knowing that William and Edward would part ways?
There was no reason they’d stay in contact; hell, neither man really knew each other.
Besides Hanbury, what did they have in common?
Not wanting to drown in those unwanted feelings, William opened Robert’s journal, likely for the last time.
As he flicked through the pages, he told himself that he pried on behalf of the man downstairs.
Edward had come all this way for answers to what happened to his great-uncle, and thus far, they’d only uncovered more questions and theories, than truth.
The truth. Such an odd concept, foreign and unclear.
It seemed people were conditioned to chase the truth, no matter if it hurt them in the end.
That was what we’d been doing here? Edward came to dig up the past, whereas William wanted nothing more than to bury it here.
Neither would get what they wanted in the end.
Perhaps that was the truth in life, to be complacent with what you had before you.
Focus on the day in hand and not those that came before it, or the promise of those coming after.
Nothing is ever really promised.
William found some solace in reading Robert Thomas’s tragic tale.
“What’s your truth, Robert?” William said aloud, sinking into a sitting position against the headboard, as he found his last place in the journal and began to read.
Perhaps if he listened hard enough, he would’ve heard the answer.