Chapter Text
I was paranoid the rest of the morning. Around every corner, every shadow, the Goat Man lurked. At one point I saw Minnie reading her Bible, and I damn near asked to join. I told myself there was nothing supernatural here. Was Daisy’s body a sacrifice? The shadows and size of the manor were getting to my head. Was she a sacrifice to that creature in my dream? It was terribly frightening. I should have left. I imagined Grandmother was getting sicker. Yet, just like before, I hesitated. I had to show Charles I wasn’t a murderer. I had to prove I was good…
At some point, around mid-afternoon, Charles left the house. I seized the opportunity, wandering the halls until I found a room that I presumed to be the study. I stepped inside cautiously. What I was looking for, I wasn’t sure. Something incriminating. A knife? An elaborately detailed manuscript on how and why he’d kill Daisy and then pin the blame on me?
I was taken aback by how messy the room was. There were books cluttered on the desk and a few stacks on the floor. It smelled nice, sort of oaky and cologney. I shuffled through the books on the desk. Wuthering Heights, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. Nothing too murderous there. I looked in the drawers. No guides on how to commit sacrificial rituals, no bloody knives. (Would’ve been a bit too obvious, I think.) But I did find something else peculiar—a little black journal, pushed all the way to the back. I pulled it out, flipping to the first page.
13 December 1870
My sleep has been restless, per the usual. I cannot seem to get visions of Father out of my mind. He torments me, even in death. My sleepwalking has gotten worse. Just yesterday I found myself standing above Father’s grave. I had no shoes on. I was surprised my feet weren’t frostbitten; God knows how long I had stood there. I’m scared of what I may do in my sleep. I’ve been travelling further distances. I know it scares the staff greatly, though they pretend it’s okay. It’s not. It frightens me as well.
I hate this house. If I could, I’d run away. I hate my parents. I’m glad they died. Call me the Devil, but I am. I hate that they left me this goddamned house to take care of. I hate the things I experience in this house. There are odd noises, and I’ve had far too many strange encounters. I heard someone come into my quarters a few nights ago. I thought it was one of the servants, but no one was there. Daisy and Clara insist some goat and man hybrid lives here. I don’t know. I’ve never seen it, but I have heard ghostly wails in the night. I wouldn’t be surprised if it did. The house radiates an evil energy.
I hate it. I wish I could leave.
This must’ve been Charles’ diary. He was “scared of what he may do in his sleep?” Very, very peculiar. Was it really possible to kill someone in your sleep? I also found it interesting he mentioned supernatural occurrences. I kept telling myself nothing otherworldly lived here, but I was struggling to believe it.
I flipped through a few more entries. Mostly the same thing, lamenting about his sleepwalking and the odd nature of the house. He mentioned his parents quite a few times. I felt terrible, really. I wondered why he hated them so much. I reminded myself to not feel terrible, considering the growing likelihood he’d killed Daisy. Not to mention he’d accused me of doing it! I stopped at the newest entry, dated the day I arrived.
6 January 1871
A visitor arrived at the house today! I nearly keeled over when Minnie told me someone was requesting to stay the night. I haven’t seen a new face for what feels like centuries. The visitor’s name is Percy. He said he’s leaving tomorrow. I wish he would stay longer. He seems like a nice boy. I shouldn’t dare to write such unholy things, but he’s truly very handsome and I’m truly very lonely. I wish to—
I quickly shut the journal, heart pounding. I didn’t know what I’d just read. Was Charles a homosexual? I set the book down. I didn’t…I didn’t care if he was. If he wanted to be perverted like that, then so be it. I certainly didn’t have those sorts of feelings toward him. It wasn’t like I took notice of his attractiveness or anything. God forbid, I was getting distracted! I was here to investigate, not to picture what he might have written next…
My face burned as I opened the journal again. I just wanted to see…
I wish to get to know him better. I could have sworn he—
“What on God’s green Earth are you doing in here?!” someone snapped. I looked up, heart sinking once I saw Charles. Jesus Christ! I attempted to hide the journal behind my back, but he saw. His face grew red.
“I won’t ask you again. What are you doing here? Looking at my goddamned diary, nonetheless!” Charles reached over and snatched the book from my hands, a blush on his cheeks. I myself was red-faced. I couldn’t believe I’d been so careless. I tried sputtering an excuse, eventually giving up. There was really no plausible lie I could tell.
“I was looking for evidence that you murdered Daisy,” I muttered. “Since I can’t leave until I prove I’m innocent.” Charles rolled his eyes.
“Right. Enlighten me, then. Did you find anything to suggest I killed one of my favorite staff members? Hm? Did taking a little peek in my goddamned diary tell you anything?” I looked down, ashamed. Had I taken it a step too far? I wasn’t sure. Of course, I thought he was a murderer, but at the same time…was he? He seemed sad and lonely, sure, but he didn’t seem psychotic like that. I wasn’t convinced you could kill someone in your sleep, especially not in such a hideous way.
“No,” I finally said. “But I don’t trust you.”
“Well enough. I don’t trust you either.” Then he added—“Where did you read up to?”
“I only read the first entry,” I lied. Charles let out a slight sigh of relief. Yes, I definitely didn’t read the part where you projected your homosexual desires onto me. I sort of studied him then. He really was very handsome. He styled his hair very fashionably and had nice lips. Of course, I wasn’t thinking any of this in a homosexual way. It was just very hard to not notice his attractiveness. Then I realized we were staring at each other. I broke eye contact, embarrassed. He was a murderer, I reminded myself, unconvinced.
“Leave. Now,” Charles gritted out. I started walking out the door.
Before I left, though, I blurted something out. “Are you okay?” He blinked, caught off guard. I remembered what he put in his diary about his parents. How he despised them. I didn’t know why I asked it. I suppose a little part of me felt bad.
“What?”
“Are you doing okay?”
“I…” he hesitated. Then he sneered. “What, like it matters to you? Please, can you leave?”
I went back to my room, finding a note neatly folded in half on the bed.
STOP LOOKING INTO DAISY’S MURDER OR YOU’RE NEXT
I gasped, dropping the paper. Had someone seen me go into Charles’ study? Was it Charles who left this? Did he actually go outside? What did he go outside for, anyway? I inspected the penmanship, nausea churning in my stomach. It didn’t look like his, but he could’ve done that on purpose. I stuffed it in the trash. It was alright. I breathed deeply, trying to push the bile down. I would be more careful. I wouldn’t end up like Daisy.
At dinner, I looked around the table. Emma and Minnie were gone. Emma hadn’t come out of her room since Daisy, but Minnie? That was new. Frederick was there, silent as ever. I watched as he cut a piece of goose, deftly maneuvering the knife. He certainly knew how to work it. Charles was silent, like always. Clara babbled on, but I could barely muster replies.
After dinner, I walked down the hall back to my room. A figure darted down an adjacent hall.
“Hello?” I called out, pausing. I suddenly realized how shadowy it was. The candles hardly did anything. “Clara?” No response. The air was chilly. I heard faint footsteps in the distance. Creak, creak, creeeeeak. I started walking again, faster. This damn house was so big that it would take me forever to reach the spare room. Were the footsteps behind me now? I sped up. Creak. Creak. Creak. I couldn’t turn around because he’d be behind me. The Goat Man. I heard him. I felt his evil presence, goosebumps traveling along my arms.
After an eternity, I reached my room, slamming the door behind me. I panted, leaning against the wood. I was being ridiculous. I was letting the threat from earlier and Charles’ journal entries get into my mind. There was no Goat Man. I could open this door and there’d be nothing. So do it, I told myself. I turned around, taking a deep breath and putting my hand on the knob. It was ice cold. I opened the door, revealing…
Nothing. Just as I had suspected. I breathed a sigh of relief. Then I noticed something on the floor. I picked it up. Was it…was it a hair? I rolled it through my fingers. Long, thick, and white, almost the length of my hand. It was thicker than any human hair I’d ever seen. I dropped it, disgusted. What on earth? I wiped my fingers shakily. It didn’t belong to the Goat Man. It didn’t. The Goat Man simply was not real.
That night, I couldn’t fall asleep. I was afraid of seeing Daisy or those bald men in my dreams. I was afraid of the Goat Man. (Ridiculous, considering he wasn’t real.) I was afraid of that note from earlier. (Someone wanted me gone. Who?) Then I heard the creaking out in the hallway. Please, God, no. I prayed it was just Charles as I lit my candle. If the Goat Man was out there, I’d leave tonight. I swore to Jesus I would. I peeked out, breathing a heavy sigh of relief when I only saw Charles sort of meandering the hall. Just him and his sleepwalking. I should’ve gone back to bed. For God’s sake, I’d suspected him of leaving me that note! And I knew he disliked me greatly. But…
“Charles,” I whispered, gently approaching him. I saw the tearstains on his cheeks again. Just like last time, he was muttering things about his father. I laid a hand on his shoulder, preventing him from walking down the hall.
“Wake up,” I said a little louder. His eyes fluttered. I repeated myself a few times, and he woke up. Once again, he backed away, frightened. I stayed in place, hands raised, until he calmed down. He slumped his shoulders, rubbing his eyes.
“So sorry for the disturbance. Goodbye,” Charles said curtly. He didn’t make a move to walk away, though. I tilted my head.
“Really. Are you alright?” I asked softly. He wiped a tear, nodding.
“Yes. Please, go back to bed. I don’t care for your presence…” he trailed off, hugging himself. My heart broke. I decided right then and there that Charles was not the killer. Dammit, maybe I was senseless, but I simply couldn’t see this broken boy before me doing something so gruesome. (I’d totally lost my marbles.)
“Here, I’ll walk you back to your chambers,” I suggested. He didn’t protest as I took his arm. Warm. He was so warm. I didn’t want to let go. He didn’t say much, just sniveled as he looked at the ground. He occasionally directed me where to go.
“You’re a murderer. Are you going to kill me too?” Charles asked weakly. “I would hardly mind if you did.” I paused. What did that mean?
“I can assure you I’m not a murderer, and have no intention of murdering you.” I sort of stroked his arm. Did he move closer? Did it matter if he did? I flushed, thinking about his diary entry from earlier. It was nonsense. There was nothing to think about. He clearly didn’t like me one bit. He thought I was a killer.
“Here we are,” I said gently, once he’d stopped in front of a door. Charles didn’t lean away from me.
“I’m scared to sleep again. I’ll just walk again,” he sniffed. I frowned. I’d never seen him like this.
“Okay,” I said hesitantly. “Do…I mean, I could sit in there until you fall asleep? Perhaps?” Good grief, what was I doing? Was I out of my mind? Charles shrugged, picking at his nail.
“It’s fine. Just go back to your room. I don’t even like you.” He said the last part unconvincingly.
“No. You’re clearly unwell,” I insisted. “I know you don’t trust me, but…” I trailed off. I almost said but I care about you. Was it true? How? How could I be fond of someone who accused me of murder? And someone I’d known for a few days, nonetheless! He kicked the ground lightly.
“Would you really?” he murmured. I nodded shyly. Then he blurted out, “Why?” I shrugged.
“I don’t know.” I really didn’t. Perhaps it had something to do with the way his touch made my stomach flutter, or the way I wanted to touch him more…
“I accused you of murdering my servant!” Charles narrowed his eyes, suddenly distrustful. He backed up. “I must’ve been out of my mind to let you help me. You read my diary!” I raised my hands.
“Yes, because I thought you were the murderer! I’m sorry, alright? I don’t think you did it anymore, if that’s what you’re looking for,” I snapped. I was surprised I said that. Charles merely rolled his eyes.
“Why, because you did it?”
“No!” I insisted. “It’s not me. And I don’t think it’s you, either, because I just...I just feel bad for you. I really don’t think you would do that.” I wanted to touch his face then. His dreams must’ve been awful. Lord knew what had happened with his father. I just sort of wanted to stroke his cheek and tell him it would be alright. For a half second, I thought Charles wanted to do the same. His eyes reflected so marvelously in my candlelight. Then his face hardened and he scowled.
“Don’t ‘think’ anything about me! You don’t know me, and I certainly don’t need your goddamned pity. Don’t believe for one moment I trust you,” he seethed before entering his room and slamming the door in my face. I walked back to my room, a flurry of emotions whirling in my stomach. Charles. He irritated me, yet I pitied him. I wanted to leave the house, yet I stayed. I was scared, too. Not of the Goat Man or the threatening note—I was scared of those as well, don’t get me wrong—but of Charles.
I was scared of the things I felt for him.