No one knows what happened that day—apart from us, of course. Only mum and I are left to remember. But I’m no storyteller. Not like Elliot.
We never told a soul. Who’s there really to tell? Stories about that place have been passed through generations in Raynham, but I doubt many believe them to be true.
The last clear memory I have is parking the car, then mum and me heading up the old drive to the Priory. After that, it’s a blur, just flashes of images, with a deafening sound of rumbling stone. The next thing I knew, I came to sprawled on the ground down near the drive with mum sat by my side, her face white. I stood and stared up over the brow of the hill toward Hardacre Priory. I knew I should go and have a look, but I just couldn’t. There was no way my feet would move any closer. I wondered about Elliot, what had happened, where he was. Mum was distraught, of course; she has carried guilt all these years. She thinks she failed him just like she did his mother.
Despite that churning feeling in my stomach, I knew I wouldn’t find him there, dead or alive. He just wouldn’t be there. That place had its grip on him the moment he arrived back in Raynham. When it comes to the Priory, nothing is normal. And as neither of us could go any farther up the drive, we walked back to the car. That’s when we saw poor Nick. Mum and I pulled him from the car and tried to resuscitate him, but we were too late. The coroner said it was a massive heart attack, that it would have been instant. I took that as a blessing. His funeral was a small affair, some colleagues, local villagers, and us.
The great oak tree is no more. We found it burned and ripped from its roots, nothing but a charred, twisted mass. I arranged for a tree surgeon to take away the remains. Mum feared we were doing the wrong thing, like touching it would revive the evil. But it’s over. Removing the last piece was the right thing to do. Elliot would want that.
No one else walks by the lane; it’s almost forgotten. It’s only me who visits. I often wonder if I’ll glimpse him up there, looking out of the window, wandering the grounds, or writing his latest book. Though, in truth, I can see nothing. But that doesn’t mean the Hardacres aren’t there. I must live with that hope.
I had a mailbox erected at the end of the drive, next to where the tree had stood. I walked by this morning.
Elliot left mail for me today—two large, brown envelopes. One addressed to his agent, which I shall forward, and a copy of the manuscript for me.
I miss him in a way. He was always a little odd—the boy who wrote funny—but it’s what made him special.
He left something else for me too. I heard it before I saw it. I still hear it calling. It sits in my lap, round and heavy, still wrapped in a white cloth. I know what it is, but not sure if I can bring myself to look. So, I keep tracing the carved acorns through the linen.
It came with a little note:
A gift of thanks and love, Elliot and Oliver.
The End
…for now.