The Shadows of Haverstone Manor

Emma Caldwell had always considered herself a fairly ordinary woman. She had an ordinary job as a librarian in the town of Willow Creek, an ordinary apartment filled with secondhand furniture, and an extraordinarily meddlesome cat named Sir Whiskers. But on a rainy Tuesday afternoon, as Emma rummaged through her mail, she discovered something that would change her life forever: a letter sealed with crimson wax, addressed to her in elegant calligraphy.

“Probably some sort of wedding invitation,” Emma muttered to Sir Whiskers, who yawned in reply. Wedding invitations often looked this elaborate, but there was something peculiar about this one. For starters, she didn’t recognize the return address—“Haverstone Manor”—and the handwriting, though exquisite, gave her the distinct feeling that whoever wrote it had never touched a keyboard in their life.

Curiosity got the better of her. She slid her finger under the wax seal and unfolded the parchment inside. The scent of aged paper and something faintly floral wafted up as she read:

Dear Miss Caldwell,

You are cordially invited to the reading of the Last Will and Testament of Lord Reginald Haverstone. The event will take place this Friday evening at precisely 7:00 PM, at Haverstone Manor.

Your presence is both requested and required.

Yours sincerely,

Mr. Horace Figglesworth, Esq.

Emma blinked at the letter, her brows knitting in confusion. “A will reading? For someone I’ve never even heard of? This has to be a mistake.”

But no matter how many times she reread the letter, her name and address were unmistakably correct. And something about the phrasing—“requested and required”—made her stomach flutter with a mix of intrigue and apprehension.

The sensible thing to do would have been to toss the letter in the trash and forget about it. But Emma Caldwell had never been particularly good at ignoring a mystery. That, and her Tuesday evenings were otherwise reserved for reheated lasagna and binge-watching detective dramas.

By the time Friday rolled around, Emma found herself driving through the winding countryside, rain drizzling against the windshield of her trusty, slightly rusted hatchback. Sir Whiskers had meowed in protest when she left, but she had promised him extra treats as compensation.

The road leading to Haverstone Manor twisted through dense woods that seemed to close in on her little car. Branches scraped against the windows, and shadows danced in the dim light of the overcast sky. A strange feeling settled in Emma’s chest—part apprehension, part excitement. Her grip on the steering wheel tightened as the looming silhouette of the manor came into view.

Haverstone Manor loomed on the horizon like something out of a gothic novel. Its towering spires and ivy-clad walls seemed almost comically ominous, and Emma half-expected a bolt of lightning to strike just for dramatic effect.

As she pulled up the gravel driveway, a figure in a dark suit emerged from the shadows. He was short and round, with a mustache so perfectly waxed it could have doubled as a coat rack. Behind him, the manor’s massive double doors creaked open as if welcoming her into its secrets.

“Miss Caldwell, I presume?” he said, bowing slightly.

Emma nodded, clutching her bag nervously. “Yes, that’s me. And you are?”

“Horace Figglesworth, at your service,” he replied, straightening his tie. “Do come inside. The others have already arrived.”

“The others?” Emma echoed, but Mr. Figglesworth had already turned on his heel and was marching up the grand staircase leading to the manor.

Inside, the house was just as dramatic as its exterior: chandeliers dripped with crystals, portraits of stern-faced ancestors lined the walls, and the faint smell of mothballs and mystery filled the air. The lighting was dim, with flickering candles casting long shadows that seemed to stretch and shift as Emma passed by. In the drawing room, a small group of people milled about, each as out of place as Emma felt.

There was a glamorous woman in a red dress sipping champagne, a tall man in a tweed suit who looked like he’d stepped out of a 19th-century hunting expedition, and a nervous-looking teenager clutching a skateboard. They all turned to stare as Emma entered, their gazes lingering just long enough to make her feel self-conscious.

“Ah, the final guest has arrived,” Mr. Figglesworth announced, clapping his hands together. “Please, make yourselves comfortable. The reading shall begin shortly.”

Emma settled into a plush armchair, trying to avoid the gaze of the man in tweed, who seemed to be scrutinizing her as if she were a rare bird. The woman in red offered her a tight smile that didn’t reach her eyes, while the teenager slumped further into his seat, clearly wishing to be anywhere else. She couldn’t help but wonder: who were these people, and what on earth had brought them all here?

Before she could dwell on it further, a thunderous crack echoed through the room. The lights flickered, and the chandelier swayed ominously. A gust of wind blew through the partially opened door, extinguishing one of the candles and plunging part of the room into shadow.

“Oh, come on,” Emma muttered. “This is like every bad mystery novel rolled into one.”

But deep down, she couldn’t deny it: she was hooked.