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Calaroga Shark Media.
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Hello and welcome to Romance Weekly. This episode is titled
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Whispers in the Dark, Part One, The Inheritance.
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I never believed in ghosts, not until I inherited Blackwood Estate.
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My name is Elise Morgan, and three weeks ago I
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was living my perfectly ordinary life in the city, working
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as an art restorer, dating occasionally, and spending too much
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on coffee. Then a letter arrived from a law firm
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i'd never heard of, informing me that a distant relative,
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a great uncle I didn't even know existed, had left
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me his entire estate, including a sprawling Victorian mansion on
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the coast of Maine. I remember laughing when I read
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the letter, things like this don't happen to people like me.
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But they verified everything, and a week later I found
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myself driving up a winding coastal road, watching as Blackwood
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Estate emerged from the mist like something from a Gothic novel.
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The house was imposing, three stories of weathered stone and
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dark wood, with a tower on one side and a
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wrap around porch that had seen better days, the kind
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of place that looks like it's watching you approach. I
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sat in my car for nearly twenty minutes before I
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worked up the courage to go inside. Mister Holloway, the
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estate attorney, met me at the door with a heavy
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iron key that looked more like it belonged to a
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medieval dungeon than a house. He was eager to leave,
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I noticed, kept looking at his watch, mentioning the long
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drive back to Portland. He handed me a thick folder
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of documents, muttered something about the caretaker coming by weekly,
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and was gone before I could ask half the questions
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swimming in my head. And then I was alone in
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a house that creaked and whispered with every gust of
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wind off the ocean. That first afternoon, I wandered from
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room to room, running my fingers over dusty surfaces, opening
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curtains to let in what little sunlight penetrated the heavy clouds.
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The furniture was mostly covered with sheets, creating ghostly silhouettes
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throughout the house. The place felt preserved in time, not
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quite the nineteenth century, but certainly nothing newer than the
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nineteen thirties. In the library, I found shelves of leather
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bound books and a desk with papers still arranged, as
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if someone had just stepped away. In the parlor, a
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grand piano stood silent beneath its cover. The kitchen was
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a strange mix of antiquated fixtures and appliances that had
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been modern sometime during the Kennedy administration. But it was
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the main staircase that drew me most, a sweeping curve
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of dark mahogany leading to the upper floors. I climbed slowly,
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aware of each step, groaning beneath my weight, as if
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the house was recognizing me, evaluating me. The second floor
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held bedrooms, one grand master suite, and three smaller rooms,
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all with their own distinct character. The master bedroom featured
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an enormous four poster bed, draped with heavy velvet curtains,
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now faded but once a deep crimson. The attached bathroom
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contained a claw foot tub big enough to swim in.
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I chose one of the smaller bedrooms to sleep in
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that night. Something about the master suite felt too intimate,
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too presumptuous, as if I would be intruding on someone
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else's space. I unpacked my suitcase and placed my toiletries
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in the adjoining bathroom, making a small island of my
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belongings in this ocean of someone else's history. By the
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time darkness fell, I had managed to figure out the
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ancient heating system, make a quick dinner from the supplies
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i'd brought, and open a bottle of wine i'd picked
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up on the drive. I sat by one of the
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large windows in the library, watching the moon rise over
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the ocean, casting a silver path across the water to
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the shore below the house. I must have dozed off
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in the chair, because I woke with a start. The
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wine glass empty beside me, and the fire burned down
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to embers. The house was utterly silent except for the
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distant sound of waves, and yet I had the strangest
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feeling that some thing had awakened me, a sound, a presence.
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I shivered and headed upstairs to my chosen bedroom. The
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house was cold now, and I hurried through my nighttime
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routine before slipping beneath the heavy quilt on the bed.
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Despite my exhaustion, sleep didn't come easily. Every unfamiliar sound,
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the settling of old wood, the rattling of windows in
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the sea breeze, jerked me back to wakefulness. When I
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finally did drift off, my dreams were unusual, vivid in
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a way I'd never experienced before. I dreamed I was
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still in the house, but it was different, warmer lived in.
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I was walking through the hallways, drawn towards something I
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couldn't name. The air felt charged, as if a storm
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was approaching. I came to the door of the master bedroom,
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closed in my waking exploration, but now slightly ajar. A
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warm light spilled from the crack, and I could smell
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something woodsy and masculine, sandalwood perhaps, and beneath it the
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metallic tang of the sea. I pushed the door open
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in that dream, and the bedroom beyond was transformed. The
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sheets on the four poster bed were turned down invitingly.
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A fire crackled in the fireplace, and standing by the window,
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looking out at the same moonlit ocean I had observed earlier,
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was a man. He turned when I entered, and something
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in my chest tightened. He was tall, broad shouldered, with
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dark hair swept back from a face that managed to
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be both classically handsome and utterly unique. His eyes caught
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the firelight. Were they gray blue? I couldn't tell. Clothing
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from another era, a white shirt open at the collar,
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dark trousers, suspenders, the kind of casual elegance men don't
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manage anymore. You came, he said, and his voice was
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like warm, honey, rich and soothing. I've been waiting, dream
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Me wasn't surprised. Dream Me moved toward him, as if
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this midnight rendezvous was expected anticipated. I felt a surging
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heat that had nothing to do with the fire and
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everything to do with the way his eyes traveled over
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my body, which I now realized was clad only in
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a thin silk nightgown I definitely don't own in real life.
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He reached for me, his hand cupping my cheek. His
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touch was cool, but not cold, sending electric shivers down
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my spine. Who are you, I whispered. His smile was slow, secretive.
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You know who I am, Elice. This is my home,
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and now it's yours. He leaned down, his lips hovering
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just above mine, and I felt myself rise up on
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my toes, desperate to close that final distance. And then
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I woke with a gasp, my heart pounding, my skin
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flushed and over sensitive. The room was dark and cold,
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no trace of firelight or mysterious stranger, just me alone
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in a strange house, tangled in sheets that seemed too confining.
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I got up and went to the bathroom, splashing cold
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water on my face. In the mirror, my reflection looked
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altered somehow, my eyes too bright, my cheeks flushed, my
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lips slightly swollen, as if I'd been kissed. I told
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myself it was just the disorientation of sleeping in a
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new place, the stress of all the sudden changes in
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my life. I didn't get back to sleep that night.
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The next morning I decided to explore the grounds. The
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estate included several acres of land, most of it wild
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and overgrown, sloping down to a private stretch of Rocky Beach.
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The day was cool but clear, the kind of crisp
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autumn weather that makes New England famous. I wrapped myself
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in a sweater and walked the perimeter of the property,
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trying to clear my head. Behind the house, I found
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a small cemetery, just a dozen or so headstones, enclosed
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by a wrought iron fence. Family plots like this aren't
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uncommon with old estates, but something drew me inside the gate.
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Most of the stones were old, dating back to the
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mid eighteen hundreds, all bearing the Blackwood name, but one
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stone was newer than the rest. The engraving still sharp
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and clear. Alexander Blackwood eighteen ninety one to nineteen twenty,
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not lost but waiting. Something about that epitaph sent a
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chill through me. I knelt beside the grave, tracing the
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letters with my fingertip. Alexander Blackwood. The name resonated in
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my mind, stirring something I couldn't quite place. When I
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returned to the house, I was determined to learn more
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about the family whose home I'd inherited. The library seemed
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the logical place to start. I spent hours going through
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books and papers, piecing together the history of the Blackwoods.
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They had been shipbuilders originally, then expanded into other industries,
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always wealthy, often controversial. The last of the line, according
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to what I could find, was indeed Alexander Blackwood, who
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had inherited the estate in nineteen twelve. There wasn't much
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about him specifically, though I did find a few newspaper
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clippings mentioning his return from Europe after the Great War,
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and then a brief obituary from nineteen twenty, stating only
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that he had passed unexpectedly at his home. No cause
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of death given, no surviving family mentioned. I was about
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to give up my search when I noticed a small
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door behind the library shelves, the kind that might lead
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to a storage closet. It was locked, but I remembered
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the ring of keys mister Holloway had given me. After
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trying several, I found one that fit. The room beyond
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was small, windowless, and filled with dust. But unlike the
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rest of the house, which had been maintained to some
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degree over the years, this space felt truly abandoned. Boxes
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and trunks were stacked against the walls. A desk stood
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in one corner, its surface covered with papers turned yellow
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with age. I switched on my phone's flashlight moved carefully
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into the room. The air was stale, difficult to breathe.
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On one wall hung a cloth covered frame. Curious, I
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pulled the covering away, releasing a cloud of dust that
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made me cough. When the air cleared, I found myself
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staring at a portrait a man in his late twenties
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or early thirties, painted in the style of the early
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twentieth century. Dark hair swept back from a strong, featured face,
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eyes that seemed to capture the light even through the
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layer of dust on the canvas. He wore formal attire,
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a dark suit with a high collar, but there was
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something in his expression that suggested restrained intensity, passion kept
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carefully in check. I stepped closer, my heart suddenly racing.
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I knew this face beneath the formal attire and serious
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expression of the portrait, this was unmistakably the man from
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my dream, Alexander Blackwood. I stumbled backward, my heel catching
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on something, a trunk maybe, and I fell hard, my
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head striking the corner of the desk. Pain exploded behind
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my eyes, and for a moment everything went dark. When
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my vision cleared, I was still on the floor of
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the hidden room, but I wasn't alone. He stood in
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the doorway, exactly as he'd appeared in my dream, casual shirt, suspenders,
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that same intense gaze. He looked at me with concern,
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then glanced at the uncovered portrait. You found me, he
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said simply. I scrambled to my feet, ignoring the throbbing
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in my head. Who are you? What is this? He smiled,
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and the temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees.
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I told you last night, Elise, this is my home,
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he gestured to the portrait, and that is or was
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me Alexander Blackwood, at your service. This isn't happening, I whispered.
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I hit my head. I'm hallucinating, You're not, he said.
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Stepping closer, I could see now that there was something
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not quite solid about him. The edges of his form
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seemed to waver slightly, like heat rising from pavement. And
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there's no need to be afraid. I've been waiting for
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you for a very long time, waiting for me. What
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are you talking about. I'd never heard of this place
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until three weeks ago. His expression softened. And yet here
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you are, in my house, in my life, or what
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remains of it. He reached out as if to touch
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my face, just as he had in the dream, but stopped. Sure,
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there are things you need to know, Elise, things about
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this house, about what happened here, about why you're here now.
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I backed away until I hit the wall. The portrait
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of Alexander seemed to watch me accusingly. This isn't real,
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You're not real, I assure you. I am quite real,
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different from what I once was, but real. Nonetheless, his
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voice had that same hypnotic quality from my dream. And tonight,
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when you sleep, I'll show you just how real I
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can be. He began to fade before my eyes, becoming transparent,
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then nothing more than a shimmer in the dusty air. Wait.
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I called out, surprising myself, what happened to you? How
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did you die? His voice came from everywhere and nowhere,
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just a whisper in my ear. That's what we need
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to discover together, because I don't think I was meant
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to die at all. And then he was gone, leaving
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me alone with the portrait and the growing certainty that
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whatever I'd inherited with Blackwood Estate was far more complicated
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than just a house. I spent the rest of the
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day in a daze, alternating between convincing myself i'd imagine
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the whole encounter and frantically researching ways to cleanse a
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house of spirits. By evening, I'd settled somewhere in the middle,
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not fully accepting that I'd seen a ghost, but not
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quite able to dismiss the experience either. As darkness fell,
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I found myself drawn to the master bedroom, the room
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that in my dream had been his. I stood in
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the doorway for a long time before gathering the courage
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to enter. The room was just as I'd left it
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the day before. Sheets covering the furniture, curtains, drawn dust
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motes dancing in the beam of my flashlight. I approached
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the massive bed and slowly pulled away the sheet that
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covered it. The bedding beneath was faded, but still beautiful,
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dark blue silk that must have once been sumptuous. I
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ran my hand over the surface, trying to imagine what
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it would feel like to sleep here, to dream here.
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Against all better judgment, I found myself preparing for bed
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in this room instead of the one I'd chosen the
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night before. I told myself it was just curiosity, just
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a way to prove to myself that I'd imagined the