The Mystery of Cliff House

Three firm knocks echoed through the quiet house, cutting through the rhythmic sound of the ocean below the cliffs. Even the gulls were silent in the cold, stark island landscape.

After a brief pause, three more knocks rang out, louder this time. The entryway lights flickered on, and the heavy wooden door opened to reveal a warmly dressed, smiling young woman.

“Sorry for the wait, I thought I was hearing things. I hadn’t expected guests just yet. Please, come in.”

She stepped aside and waved in the visitor—a young woman about her age.

“Oh, no worries. I wasn’t waiting for long. I’ve waited months for this tour already. What’s a few more minutes?” Her reply was followed up with a soft chuckle that was overpowered by the sound of a powerful wave crashing against the nearby cliff.

A confused look passed over the features of the host as she looked out the door into the vast, gray landscape beyond the threshold. “Are there any others joining you?”

“I was the only one on the ferry over, so I’m guessing it’s just me. I know I'm a bit early, too.”

The host waves her hand again before shutting the door behind her visitor. “I don’t mind, I love showing this place to people. It just means we can spend more time on the tour.”

The warmth inside was immediate and welcoming, a comforting contrast to the biting wind outside. The visitor pulled off her jacket, draping it over a chair near the entryway. She set her phone down beside it before following the host deeper into the house.

"This place has an incredible history," the host said, voice filled with genuine passion as she gestured to the elegant parlor where furniture sat perfectly arranged, as if waiting for guests who would never arrive. "Built in 1887 by the Ashford family. Eleanor Ashford was extraordinarily intelligent, accomplished, and sought after by half the wealthy men in the city."

She ran her fingers along the mantelpiece almost reverently. "But she married Thomas Ashford. A charming man, by all accounts. Roguish though. The kind who could talk his way into and out of anything." A shadow crossed her face. "He was also controlling. There were rumors Eleanor wanted to leave, but back then, women like her had so few options. Society trapped her as surely as any locked door or remote island."

They moved through the dining room, and the host pointed out details in the woodwork, the imported wallpaper, and the chandelier that had been shipped from a small villa in France. Her knowledge was intimate, as if she'd memorized every corner of the house.

"Thomas gambled," she continued as they climbed the stairs. "Cards, mostly. Horse races. Bad investments. By 1891, he'd squandered nearly everything. The estate was on the verge of foreclosure. Eleanor tried to reason with him, but Thomas was a proud man. Too proud."

At the top of the stairs, the host paused before a large window overlooking the cliff walk. "One night in October, they had a terrible argument. The servants heard shouting. Eleanor begged him to stop, to think of their son and the babe growing in her belly. Thomas stormed out." She pointed through the glass. "He went out to the cliff walk and fell."

The visitor leaned closer to the window, trying to catch a glimpse of the path below.

"They never knew if it was suicide due to the shame over what he'd done, or if he simply lost his footing in the dark." The host's voice was quiet now. "Either way, Thomas Ashford died on those rocks. And Eleanor..." She smiled, but it was a sad smile. "Everyone assumed she'd be ruined. A widow, penniless, with a young son and a baby on the way. The estate was seized, and she disappeared."

"Disappeared?" the visitor asked.

"For nearly fifteen years." The host led her down the hallway, opening doors to reveal bedrooms frozen in time. "But in 1906, something remarkable happened. Eleanor's son, grown now and a successful attorney, returned to the island with his mother and young sister."

The visitor's eyes widened. "She was alive?"

"Very much so. She'd been living with her sister in San Francisco, working as a teacher, of all things. Her son had been searching for years to reclaim the estate. When he finally succeeded, he brought Eleanor home." The host's entire demeanor brightened. "And together, they restored this house to glory. Better than it had ever been under Thomas. Eleanor lived here for another twenty-three years. Hosted salons, supported women's suffrage, and became a pillar of the community. She thrived."

They reached a back door, and the host opened it to reveal the cliff walk. The narrow path stretched along the edge, nothing but a weathered railing between safety and the churning ocean far below.

The host stepped out confidently, walking right to the edge. She stood there, perfectly comfortable, gesturing to the rocks below. "This is where Thomas fell. Where his pride killed him. But Eleanor?" She turned back, eyes bright. "Eleanor survived. That's the real story. Not his death, but her life afterwards."

The visitor stayed in the doorway, unnerved by how close the host stood to the precipice. Once they were both safely back inside, she asked about something nagging at her. "I thought I read something online about another tragedy? Something more recent?"

The host's expression changed. The warmth drained away, replaced by something flat. Clinical. "Yes. In 1994, a historian came to restore the house. Eleanor's descendants funded the project. They wanted to preserve her legacy, turn this into a proper museum."

She moved to the window, looking out toward the cliff. "The historian was just as brilliant. Passionate about their work. They brought their partner with them, and for two years, they poured everything into this place. It was quickly coming back to life."

A long pause. The visitor waited.

"There was a man," the host continued, her voice hollow now. "A businessman and descendant of Thomas Ashford's old gambling partner, the one who'd enabled his addiction and profited from his losses. The same one who helped seize this estate when Thomas died. His family had always resented that Eleanor's son reclaimed it. Bad blood, generational grudges." She paused, as if gathering herself or her thoughts. "He wanted to buy the property, turn it into a resort. The historian refused to let that happen. Said it would destroy Eleanor's story."

Another pause. Longer this time.

"One night, there was a confrontation. An accident, they called it. It was said that the historian fell from the cliff walk." Her voice was barely above a whisper now. "Their partner survived but was badly injured. Wheelchair-bound. For a time, they were suspected of being responsible. The businessman was never charged—claimed he had never visited the island." Bitterness crept in. "The case went nowhere. The restoration stopped, and the house closed again."

She turned away from the window. "All that work. All that passion. Wasted."

They walked back to the entryway in silence. The host opened the front door, and the cold wind rushed in.

"Thank you for coming," she said softly. "It means everything that people still want to visit, to hear the stories. That someone wants to remember why this place matters." The faintest smile crosses over her features as she waves goodbye.

The door closed with a soft click.

The visitor was halfway down the winding path when she heard the mechanical whir of a motor. A figure appeared at the bottom of the hill, a woman in a tour company jacket, maneuvering an all-terrain wheelchair up the weathered path with obvious difficulty.

"Hey!" the woman called out, breathless. "I am so sorry—the accessible ferry was delayed, and I tried to text, but there's never service out here—"

The visitor stopped. "What do you mean? I just finished the tour..."

The woman in the wheelchair was taken aback. "That's impossible. The house has been locked all day. I have the only set of keys." She held them up for inspection. "I'm the only guide. I've been the only guide for years now."

A cold feeling settled in the visitor's stomach. "But someone let me in. She showed me everything. Told me about Eleanor Ashford, about the restoration..." She stopped. "Oh god. My phone. I left my phone inside."

They returned to the house together, the visitor walking slowly beside the wheelchair. The house was dark. Obviously, unmistakably locked.

The guide opened the door with shaking hands. Everything was dark, covered in sheets and a thin layer of dust. The visitor's phone sat on the chair by the entrance, surrounded by a perfect circle of clean wood in an otherwise dusty surface.

The guide picked up the phone carefully, as if it might burn her. Her hands trembled. "Who gave you the tour? Please. Tell me what they looked like."

The visitor described her. Mid-thirties, warm smile, passionate about the house, intimately knowledgeable about every detail. Dark hair pulled back. Grey sweater. Kind eyes.

The guide made a sound, something between a sob and a gasp. She wheeled herself to a small office in the back of the house and returned with a photograph in a frame. "Was this her?"

The woman in the photo wore the same grey sweater. Same smile. She stood on the cliff walk with her arm around the woman now sitting in the wheelchair. Both of them were young, in love, covered in paint and plaster dust. A banner behind them read: "Cliff House Restoration Project, 1993."

"That's Sam," the guide whispered. "Samantha Reeves. My fiancée. She died here in 1994." Tears streamed down her face. "I'm Jenna. I survived the fall, but Sam..." Her voice broke. "I thought I was alone all these years. I thought she was gone. But she's..."

The visitor couldn't speak. She looked back at the dark interior of the house.

"She always said Eleanor's story mattered," Jenna continued, staring at the photo. "That women like Eleanor, women who survived impossible things, deserved to be remembered. She died fighting to protect that."

On the ferry back, the visitor stood at the railing, looking toward the cliff house. Jenna had stayed behind, saying she needed time alone. Needed to think.

For just a moment, a figure appeared on the cliff walk. A woman in a grey sweater, watching. Still there. Still waiting. Still trying to finish the work she and Jenna had started so many years ago.

Still loving the woman she'd left behind.

The house disappeared into the fog, but the visitor knew, somehow, she just knew that Jenna would return tomorrow. And the day after. And every day after that.

Because Sam was still there.