Page 49 of The Haunting of William Thorn

Dearest reader, I feel it is only fair I tell you the truth of what is to come.

We have, unless I am sorely mistaken, built a rather impressive rapport with one another, where I tell you my secrets, and you keep them.

I do not think there are enough pages in this journal for me to write how grateful I am for your company.

Forgive me, but this will be my last entry.

I know, believe me, my heart pains at the thought, too.

But maybe, one day soon, I can find a new pen and parchment and tell you of my new life.

The one Edward has promised me. Although I fear to write to you too much in case unwanted eyes find this before I discard it in the wishing well of our gardens.

Soon, I, Robert Thomas, will die. As this journal sinks into the forgotten waters and my words become food for the little beasts lurking in the bottom of my family’s well, I will be no more.

Like the metamorphosis of a butterfly from its cocoon, I will change into a new creature – something bright and proud, where I do not need to dull my colours. And I will not be the only one. Teddy will join me in the change, in altering one’s self to something new.

I am waiting for word from him. I have checked our hiding place daily, waiting for him to leave me a message on when we are to go.

But you see, we have had to be careful since that night over two weeks ago.

Father is a storm of fury. I see it in how he looks at me and hear it in his tone when he speaks to me.

Edward has been refused entry to the manor for so long that I have almost forgotten how he sounds.

But regardless if they keep us apart, I still see the candle on his window, dancing for me, flickering in a signal that I am on his mind as much as he is in mine.

Mother told me I was confused. Mother told me to pray for a clear mind. Instead, I took down the crucifix from the wall atop of my bed and hurled it at the door. It did not break, and for that I was relived. But it did make my mother cry.

She has not spoken directly to me since.

Mother believes her silence is punishment. If anything, it is giving me room to think.

Can I tell you a secret? I crave him. Sin or not, I need Teddy so desperately I am forgetting myself.

And this feeling has only intensified since our last encounter.

Brief as it was, he told me in hushed words about his sister, the letter he sent and the response he received.

I fear that if I do not receive instruction from him soon, then I will practically explode.

Perhaps I will climb to the roof and scream it for all of England to hear.

I have no bag packed. There is no need for my past items when looking forward to a future with Teddy.

We will both leave with nothing but our love for one another.

Then, as we build a home together, we will do it brick by brick, with nothing but the fresh coastal air to fill us, the endless stretch of sea to accompany us, and our love to sustain us.

I am no fool. These fantasies are childish and desperate. However, I am a man of my word and what good is reality when it punishes you for simply loving someone? So, I give myself to the fantasy and long for it. I dream of it, both in sleep and waking.

My family will forget me. Just like my brother Archibald whose name has not been uttered in years, they too will learn to live without me.

However, I take comfort that our story will live on one day.

There will come a time when others can scream about mine and Teddy’s love for each other, until every soul across the globe hears it.

For now, I will be happy if our song is whispered for only us both to hear.

Tonight, I will sit, no doubt in silence, with my parents in the drawing room.

We will drink our evening tea, then perhaps wash that down with a glass of father’s brandy.

We will play pretend, painting a false image of a family in love.

Tomorrow, I will throw this journal into the well, making my final wish as these secrets sink to the bottom.

It is the only place I can think of where my words will be forgotten.

It was built a summer back, a gift from Sergeant Andrew Dean in memory of my brother.

I used to sit on its side and read a book, until one spring morning I almost fell in.

I was far too engrossed in the story I read that I tipped and almost tumbled.

Father was there, ready to scorn me hard, telling me that if I had fallen, no one would ever have gotten me out. ‘ The perfect place to hide ,’ he said.

I will put my father’s theory to the test.

Reader, our time is up, the show has ended, the curtain must fall. I go. First, I will visit the drawing room, check for Teddy’s journal. Then I will play pretend, the dutiful and God-fearing son. I can be convincing when I need to be, trust me.

Do not worry for me. I will be okay.

I feel this last entry is the old Robert’s obituary and the birth announcement for the man who I will finally become when I leave Hanbury Manor behind.

Until then, I wish to write one final thing.

I, Robert Thomas, love Teddy Jones with such vigour that without him, I am nothing. Let this be known, even if it is only between us.

Our little secre–