The Widow’s Watch – Chapter Two

The following evening, Jonah found himself once again standing at the base of Greystone Manor. The ivy-clad tower loomed above, its silhouette bleeding into the graying sky. He didn’t know what drew him back—curiosity, guilt, or something unspoken whispering through the wind.

He knocked. Again, the heavy door opened as if summoned by his presence.

Lady Eleanor stood there, in the same high-collared black gown, her face pale as frost but her eyes brimming with unspoken sorrow.

“I was expecting you,” she said softly, turning before he could respond. “The tower awaits.”

Jonah hesitated at the threshold, but something in her voice—like a cello in a silent cathedral—compelled him forward. They climbed the narrow spiral staircase again. The air grew colder with each step, and by the time they reached the observatory, the sun had dipped behind the hills.

Lady Eleanor walked to the window with slow grace and raised a hand. “Watch with me. He comes at seven.”

Jonah pulled out his notebook, pretending to scribble details. The air felt charged, as if the room were waiting. Then came the wind—sudden and fierce—rattling the panes. The chimes on the balcony tinkled, and a faint knock echoed, not on the door… but inside the tower.

He turned, heart thudding. “Did you hear that?”

Lady Eleanor didn’t move. “He always knocks. He was never one to simply walk in.”

A silhouette appeared on the edge of the garden path below. Jonah leaned in. A man. Dark clothes. Standing completely still. Just like the day before.

“Do you see him?” she asked, voice trembling.

“Yes,” Jonah whispered.

But when he blinked, the figure was gone.

Gone.

He stared in disbelief, but Eleanor simply nodded. “He never stays long. He always leaves me wanting.”

Jonah left that night with more questions than answers. Was it a trick of light? A performance? But her grief was too raw to be an act. Back in his room at the inn, he couldn’t sleep. He reviewed his notes, read over the historical records, and came across something odd—a mention of a fire at Greystone nearly fifteen years ago. The article noted that a man, Lord Alaric Deverell, was presumed dead in the blaze, but no body had ever been recovered.

Was it possible… she wasn’t mad after all?

The next day, Jonah returned with a plan. If this was a hoax, he would catch it. If it wasn’t—if there really was something at Greystone—then he had to know.

“May I stay the night?” he asked as Lady Eleanor welcomed him again.

She looked up sharply. “No one has stayed here in over a decade.”

“I’m not afraid,” he said.

She studied him for a long moment. Then she nodded. “Very well. But you mustn’t leave your room after midnight.”

The house creaked and groaned through the night like it resented his presence. Jonah, of course, didn’t obey her warning. At 12:15 a.m., he slipped out, barefoot, notebook in hand.

As he passed the portrait gallery, a cold draft ran down the hall. The temperature dropped. The lights flickered.

Then… a whisper. Faint. A woman’s voice. “Alaric?”

He turned toward the sound, but saw only darkness. No one was there.

Another whisper. “Why don’t you come in?”

Jonah followed the sound, down into the library. The door creaked open, even though he hadn’t touched it. Inside, firelight flickered—though the fireplace had been cold for years.

Then he saw her.

Lady Eleanor.

Younger. Laughter in her voice, life in her eyes. She sat by the fire, gazing into it, humming softly. A man approached from behind. Jonah gasped.

It was the same figure from the tower’s garden—the same man in black.

Jonah stepped forward, but the room blinked out. Gone. Silent. Cold.

He was alone in the dark once more.