Chapter 3: The Unrelated Inquiry

After Lila’s chilling revelation, the house felt less like a home and more like a carefully constructed trap. I knew I couldn’t trust Julian, nor could I openly confide in Mrs. Albright, whose loyalty, while wavering, still seemed tethered to the estate’s entrenched hierarchy. I needed outside help, but from someone detached from Julian’s pervasive influence.

I spent hours in my room, pretending to read, but actually using my phone to search for anything about the Croft Estate that wasn’t filtered through Julian’s narrative. I typed variations of “Croft Estate history,” “Croft family secrets,” “Croft wife disappearances.” The internet was a labyrinth, mostly filled with genealogical records and architectural features of the grand old house.

Then, a small, local historical society blog post caught my eye. Its title, “The Curse of the Croft Brides,” seemed too on-the-nose, too sensationalized to be real, yet it resonated deeply with the diary I held. It was written by an Arthur Jenkins.

The article detailed local folklore: whispers of Croft wives who met “unfortunate ends” or simply “faded away” over generations, often after exhibiting signs of extreme distress. The author, Arthur Jenkins, dismissed these as fanciful tales, but he meticulously cataloged anecdotal evidence and mentions in old town records. He was a local journalist, known for his historical pieces.

A desperate hope sparked within me. Here was someone who had already acknowledged the pattern, even if he attributed it to folklore. He might be the independent mind I needed.

I found his email address listed on the historical society’s website and composed a careful message. I didn’t mention Julian, or ghosts, or gaslighting. I simply expressed an interest in the Croft Estate’s history, mentioning I was a new resident, and that I’d found an old family diary that hinted at fascinating, if tragic, stories. I asked if he might be willing to share any further insights. I kept it professional, neutral, hoping to pique his journalistic curiosity.

A day later, to my surprise, Arthur Jenkins replied. He was intrigued by the mention of an old diary and suggested we meet for coffee in the nearest town, Blackwood, about a half-hour drive from the estate. He mentioned he was already investigating a cold case involving a missing local architect, Mr. Davies, who had been involved in an old land dispute with the Croft family decades ago. The confluence of events felt like fate.

Julian, of course, raised an eyebrow when I mentioned my “outing” to Blackwood.

“Just exploring the local shops, dear,” I’d said, trying to sound casual. “And perhaps picking up a few historical pamphlets. This old house has me fascinated.”

He gave me one of his unsettling smiles, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Of course, Eleanor. Immerse yourself. Just try not to get *too* lost in the past. Sometimes, what’s best forgotten remains so.”

His words, intended as a veiled threat, only solidified my resolve. He knew the past held dangers for him.

The café in Blackwood was cozy, smelling of roasted coffee and old books. Arthur Jenkins was precisely as I imagined him: earnest, slightly rumpled, with sharp, intelligent eyes that missed nothing. He had a stack of files beside him, an old-fashioned tape recorder, and a reporter’s notebook.

“Eleanor Croft, I presume?” he said, rising as I approached, a friendly hand extended.

“Arthur Jenkins,” I replied, shaking his hand, noting the firm grip.

We ordered coffee, and he immediately launched into his current project.

“I’m looking into the disappearance of Thomas Davies,” Arthur explained, pushing a small, sepia-toned photograph across the table. It showed a man with kind eyes and a neatly trimmed beard. “An architect from the 50s. Designed a few additions to the Croft Estate, actually. But there was a bitter land dispute, a boundary line issue, and then… he vanished. The police never found a body.”

He paused, taking a sip of his coffee.

“It’s a long shot, but I’ve always felt there was more to it. His company files mentioned a peculiar section of the estate, a ‘forgotten wing’ that was never properly documented in the main blueprints after a certain point. He was apparently quite vocal about its structural integrity, or lack thereof.”

I felt a chill. The “forgotten wing.” Mrs. Albright had once vaguely gestured to a sealed-off section of the house, saying it was “not used.” My mind instantly connected it to Julian’s great-grandmother’s diary, which hinted at rooms that were always locked, always cold.

“And what about ‘The Curse of the Croft Brides’?” I asked, trying to steer him back to the more immediate threat.

Arthur chuckled, a slightly embarrassed sound.

“Ah, yes. My more… fanciful work. It was an attempt to weave together some compelling local folklore. But even folklore often has a kernel of truth, doesn’t it?”

He then pulled out a folder filled with brittle, yellowed newspaper clippings. Twist 4 was about to unfold.

“Here’s where it gets interesting,” he said, tapping a finger on a headline from 1903. “‘Prominent Socialite Suffers Nervous Collapse at Croft Estate.’ This was Julian’s great-great aunt. Her husband, Silas Croft II, had her institutionalized shortly after.”

He slid another clipping across. “Then there’s this, 1937: ‘Mystery Illness Claims Mrs. Beatrice Croft.’ Julian’s grandmother. She’s the one your diary mentions, isn’t she?”

I nodded, my breath catching in my throat. This was it.

“The official cause was pneumonia,” Arthur continued, “but the death certificate mentions ‘acute delirium.’ Some whispered it was a broken heart, others, a tormented mind.”

My gaze darted from the clippings to Arthur, then back. The pattern was undeniable, terrifying. Nervous collapse. Mystery illness. Acute delirium. And the missing architect, Thomas Davies, who questioned the “forgotten wing.”

“There are more,” Arthur said, spreading out a few more. “Smaller articles, sometimes just mentions in the society pages. ‘Mrs. Charlotte Croft, confined to her rooms for an extended period.’ ‘Mrs. Evelyn Croft, a tragic accident on the main staircase.’ The similarities are too striking to ignore, even for a skeptic like me.”

He looked at me then, his sharp eyes scrutinizing my face. He saw the genuine fear, the haunted look I hadn’t been able to entirely erase.

“You mentioned a diary, Eleanor,” he prompted gently. “Does it shed any more light on these… unfortunate incidents?”

I hesitated, weighing my options. Could I trust him? He was a journalist, always seeking a story. But he also seemed genuinely concerned, his curiosity mixed with a moral compass that pointed towards truth. And he was already halfway there. Lila’s words still rang in my ears. I couldn’t face this alone.

“It does,” I admitted, my voice barely a whisper. “It talks about similar experiences. The feeling of being watched, things moving, the whispers.”

Arthur leaned forward, his journalistic instincts fully engaged.

“Gaslighting,” he murmured, his eyes thoughtful. “Psychological torment. It’s a classic tactic. But for it to happen over generations, always to the wives… that’s beyond coincidence.”

“And the source of it isn’t entirely human,” I finally confessed, pushing the boundaries, watching his reaction. “There’s something else in that house, Arthur. Something Julian is… manipulating.”

He blinked, a flicker of skepticism in his eyes, but it was quickly replaced by a deeper consideration.

“Supernatural?” he asked, a professional detachment in his tone. “I confess, that’s a new angle for me. But I’ve learned, in this profession, that truth is often stranger than fiction.”

I quickly explained Lila’s comment, how she had spoken of Julian “whispering to the quiet lady behind the wall,” how he “tells her to be scary.” I left out the part about Lila’s mother, for now. That felt too sacred, too devastating to share casually.

Arthur listened intently, scribbling notes. He didn’t interrupt, his expression growing more somber with each detail.

“A malevolent entity, harnessed and weaponized,” he mused, looking past me as if seeing the Croft Estate in his mind’s eye. “That would certainly explain the persistence of the ‘curse,’ and why the official explanations always fall short.”

He then pulled out a small digital recorder.

“Eleanor, if you’re comfortable, would you be willing to share more? Officially, I mean. Off the record, for now. But it would help me connect the dots, verify your claims, and perhaps, uncover the truth of what happened to these other women. And to Mr. Davies.”

The request was a gamble, but I felt a surge of relief. Finally, someone was taking me seriously. Someone was willing to look beyond Julian’s carefully constructed façade of respectability.

“Yes,” I said firmly, my voice gaining strength. “I will. But we have to be careful. Julian is… very powerful. And very dangerous.”

Arthur nodded, his gaze unwavering. “Understood. The first rule of investigative journalism: don’t become part of the story.”

He spent the next hour meticulously recording my account, asking probing questions, connecting my experiences to the clippings and to the architect’s disappearance. He was particularly interested in the “forgotten wing,” suggesting it might be where the malevolent entity was housed, or perhaps where the “accidents” truly happened.

“If Thomas Davies was poking around that wing before he vanished,” Arthur hypothesized, “it might not have been a land dispute that silenced him. It might have been something far more sinister, connected to whatever Julian’s ancestors were hiding in there.”

The weight of generations of suffering, of hidden atrocities, pressed down on me. I felt a profound sense of responsibility, not just for myself and Lila, but for the women whose voices had been silenced by Julian’s ancestors.

As we parted ways, Arthur looked at me with a grim determination.

“Eleanor, this isn’t just a story anymore,” he said, his voice low. “This is a quest for justice. For all of them.”

I drove back to Croft Estate, the afternoon sun casting long, eerie shadows across the winding drive. My fear was still present, a cold knot in my stomach, but it was no longer a paralyzing terror. It was now tempered with a flicker of hope, a sense of purpose. I had found an ally. Arthur Jenkins, the journalist, was no longer just researching local folklore. He was embarking on a genuine investigation, and this time, the “Curse of the Croft Brides” might finally be broken.