Anita stood in the corner of a dimly lit room at Harrow Hall. The flickering light from candle wall sconces cast eerie shadows that danced across the room, stressing the dark hollows of antique furniture and mysterious artifacts that filled the space. The air was thick with a sense of foreboding, and Anita could feel her heart racing as she took in the scene before her.
At the center of the room stood a circular table made of dark mahogany, its surface adorned with intricate carvings of arcane symbols and sinister creatures. The table seemed almost alive, the designs shifting and changing in the flickering candlelight. Around the table, two men and two women, dressed in expensive suits and gowns, the women draped in jewels, sat with solemn expressions as they chanted words that Anita could not understand. Their layers of clothing and hairstyles spoke of epochs gone by. She recognized the trio from the bride’s daguerreotype as the two women and one of the men, but the second man was unknown to her.
Victoria Harrow, though dressed differently but equally exquisitely as her first dream, had a face with a mask of dignity and calm. Her eyes were cold and unfeeling. The young girl who had worn the bride gown in the photo was completely the opposite. The men chanted along with the women but had their gazes anxiously focused on four strange dolls that also each held a place at the table, one person seated in between each.
Even small as the dolls were—the tallest being perhaps 30 inches—the table and the gathering in general seemed to belong to them rather than to the humans. Anita noticed the dolls’ intense gazes all settled on her, and her heart beat faster under their constant focus.
Each antique doll seemed to be of a different era. With hollow eyes and matted hair, a tattered straw doll slumped slightly, as if burdened by the weight of forgotten years. It seemed to be the oldest. Next, a porcelain beauty with a tarnished gown exuded a ghostly grace, its unblinking eyes loaded with chilling intent. A cherubic doll, pristine in a lace dress, stared blankly ahead, its unsettlingly large face with parted lips dominating its body. Completing the sinister circle, a Victorian doll, cloaked in black, sat with an air of quiet menace, its dark eyes reflecting the flickering candle flames like portals to some unfathomable abyss. Together, they created a tableau of frozen dread, an assembly of nightmares forever trapped in an eerie, silent communion.
Anita’s focus shifted from the table and landed on a woman in a maid’s uniform, gagged and tied to an intricately carved chair poised at the opposite end of the room. The wood was so dark that it appeared to fade in and out of the shadows, adding to the surreal nature of the scene. The woman’s shoulders shook with silent sobs, eyes wide, her body trembling with panic and dread. It seemed not just her life at stake as the apron of her uniform bulged with the roundness of a pregnant belly. Her muffled cries were heart-wrenching, filled with a desperation that tore at Anita’s soul.
The people around the table, however, paid no attention to the woman’s pleas. Their chanting grew louder and more intense, drowning out her cries. The words they spoke were foreign and haunting, echoing through the room with a malevolent energy. The air around the table seemed to thrum with power, and Anita could feel it pressing down on her, suffocating her.
Anita’s eyes were drawn to the maid’s face, soaked with tears. Her screaming, diminished by the gag, fell on deaf ears in the cacophony of chanting. She threw her head back, obviously seeking the intercession of a higher power to save her. Anita wanted to reach out, to tear her from her bindings, to save her, but she found herself frozen in place, unable to move or speak. The pain in her chest grew more intense, mirroring the agony that the maid was experiencing.
The chanting continued to rise in volume, a relentless crescendo that seemed to vibrate through Anita’s very bones. The room began to spin, the shadows lengthening and twisting around her. The faces of the people at the table blurred and shifted, their features becoming monstrous and grotesque. The dolls’ eyes glowed with an eerie light, their expressions shifting disproportionately to reflect a sinister glee.
Anita’s head throbbed with pain, her vision darkening at the edges. She could feel herself being pulled into the darkness, the chanting growing louder and louder until it was all she could hear. The maid’s cries were lost in the roar, and Anita felt a surge of helplessness and despair wash over her.
***
With a rush of pain, Anita jolted awake. She sat up in bed, drenched in sweat, her heart pounding in her chest. The room around her was dark and silent, but the echoes of the nightmare still lingered. She took in deep, shuddering breaths, trying to calm herself, but the fear and pain from the dream were slow to fade.
She grabbed for the side lamp, wrenching the pull chain and gawked around the room, half-expecting to see the eerie table and its occupants, but there was nothing there. She was alone in her bedroom. The nightmare had been so vivid, so real, that it took her several minutes to fully convince herself that it had been just a dream.
Anita swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up, her knees weak and trembling. She walked to the window and looked out at the grounds of Harrow Hall. The moonlight cast long shadows across the garden. The night was still and quiet, but the sense of unease from the dream lingered, making her feel as if she were being watched.
She took a deep breath and tried to shake off the remnants of the nightmare. Images replayed in her mind: the chanting, the crying maid, the sinister dolls. She couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something deeply wrong with the house, something that went beyond the realm of nightmares.
Anita returned to bed, but sleep was elusive. She lay awake, staring at the ceiling, her mind racing with thoughts of the nightmare. The fear and pain she had experienced were unlike anything she had ever felt before, and the maid’s despairing cries haunted her.
***
Logan arrived at Susan and Brad's house just as the sun began to rise, casting a warm, golden hue over the sleepy town. He parked his pickup in the driveway and walked up to the front door, feeling a sense of excitement. He had always enjoyed these early morning breakfasts with his sister's family. It was a time to connect, share stories, and enjoy the simple pleasures of life.
As he opened the door, he was greeted by the smell of fresh coffee and the sound of Grace's laughter. Susan was bustling around the kitchen, flipping pancakes, in slippers and a robe while Brad was helping Grace with her homework at the dining table.
"Uncle Logan!" Grace squealed, hopping off her chair and running to him. He scooped her up in a big hug, her infectious energy brightening his morning even more.
"Hey there, munchkin!" Logan said, giving her a playful squeeze. Gracie giggled.
He set her down, ruffling her hair.
Susan turned from the stove, her face lighting up when she saw Logan. "Morning, Logan! Coffee's ready, and pancakes are almost done. Sit down and make yourself comfortable."
"Thanks," Logan said, grabbing a mug and pouring himself a cup of coffee. He took a seat at the table next to Brad and Grace. He watched his sister rub at the small of her back, her pregnant belly dwarfing her short stature. “Can I help with the breakfast.”
“Nope. Just about done.”
Brad looked up from the homework sheet. "Morning. How's everything going?"
Logan took a sip of his coffee, savoring the rich flavor. "Things are good, Brad. Really good, actually."
Susan raised an eyebrow as she flipped the last pancake onto a plate. "You sound different today. Happier."
Logan smiled, a sense of contentment washing over him. "I guess I am. I broke up with Vanessa yesterday."
There was a brief moment of silence as Susan and Brad processed the news, exchanging a glance. Susan was the first to speak, her voice filled with a mix of surprise and curiosity. "Really? What happened?"
Logan shrugged, leaning back in his chair. "It was time. We've been going in circles for too long, and it wasn't fair to either of us. She didn't take it well, but it needed to be done."
Susan set the plate of pancakes on the table and sat down, her eyes searching Logan's face.
"You seem... lighter. Like a weight's been lifted."
Logan nodded. "That's exactly how I feel. And there's something else. We've got a new Mrs. Harrow at the estate."
Susan's eyes widened. "A new Mrs. Harrow? Tell me more."
Logan took another sip of his coffee. "Her name's Anita Miran. She inherited the estate from Vic. She's been through a lot, though. His death was unexpected, and it wasn’t pretty. It's been tough on her."
Susan frowned, her brow furrowing in concern. "Victor Harrow... That was such a strange drama. And it must have been hard for Vanessa, too, this past fall. Dealing with all of that. Finding out he’d been alive all these years."
Logan nodded. "Vanessa wouldn't talk about it much. I think more than anything it hurt her pride. Remember when we were growing up how much she wanted to be a Harrow?”
“Yeah. The Hall creeped most kids out, but it was a fairytale castle to her.” I still don’t know how you work there every day.”
Logan grinned. “But Anita... she's different. Strong. Resilient. I'm hoping she decides to stay."
"Why wouldn't she?" Susan asked.
"The Hall holds a lot of memories, and not all of them are good. The whole estate is wrapped up so tight legally, I don’t think there’s a snowball’s chance in Egypt of it being sold, but it would have to move on to some other long lost relative."
Susan reached across the table and squeezed Logan's hand. "Well, I hope she finds some peace here. It sounds like she could use a fresh start."
Logan smiled, appreciating his sister's empathy. "Yeah, me too."
Grace, who had been listening quietly, looked up at Logan with wide eyes. "Is Mrs. Harrow nice?"
Logan chuckled, ruffling her hair again. "She is. I think you'll like her."
Brad cleared his throat, drawing everyone's attention. "Well, whatever happens, we'll support her. That estate is a huge part of Harrowsburg. The town has felt the loss of Hyacinth for years."
The rest of breakfast was filled with light-hearted conversation and laughter. Grace chattered excitedly about her school projects, while Susan and Brad shared stories from their week. Logan felt a sense of belonging, a comfort that he hadn't realized he had been missing.
After breakfast, it was a flurry of activity as they got Grace ready for school. Logan helped her pack her backpack while Susan made sure she had everything she needed. Brad loaded the dishwasher, humming a tune under his breath.
"Can you walk me to the bus stop?" Grace asked, her eyes shining with hope.
"Of course, munchkin," Logan replied, smiling.
They all walked out together, the crisp morning air invigorating. At the bus stop, Grace gave Logan a big hug. "Thanks for coming to breakfast, Uncle Logan. I love you."
Logan's heart melted. "I love you too, Gracie. Have a great day at school."
As the bus pulled away, Susan turned to Logan. "Take care of yourself, Logan. And keep us posted about the new Mrs. Harrow."
Logan nodded. "I will. Thanks, sir. Try to take a load off."
“Ugh. January can’t come fast enough.”
They exchanged hugs, and Logan got into his pickup, waving as he drove off. The drive to Harrow Hall was peaceful, the morning sun casting long shadows over the road. Logan felt a sense of optimism about the day ahead. There was work to be done, but for the first time in a long while, he felt ready to face it with a clear mind and a hopeful heart.
***
Anita sat on the dilapidated porch swing of Harrow Hall, a cup of coffee warming her hands against the brisk morning chill. The rich blue sky above promised a sunny day ahead, but the air still held a bite. Wrapped in multiple layers, Anita contemplated her surroundings—the grandeur of the estate and the massive responsibility it represented. Her thoughts were interrupted by the familiar rumble of Logan's pickup as it pulled up alongside her car.
Logan stepped out dressed in his usual work attire—jeans, a flannel shirt, and sturdy boots, looking every bit the part of the estate's caretaker. His broad smile beamed in her direction as he approached the porch. Anita, feeling the weight of her sleepless night, offered a weary smile in return and shuffled over on the swing to make room for him.
“Morning,” Logan greeted, his voice carrying a cheerful note as he placed a shopping bag on the porch. Anita, stifling a yawn, wrapped her sweater-clad arms tighter around herself.
“Rough night?” Logan inquired.
“You could say that,” Anita responded, managing a small laugh.
Logan’s expression softened with concern. “Anyone wander into your apple orchard?” he joked, trying to lighten the mood.
She chuckled, appreciating the attempt. “No. That’s definitely not the kind of dream I had last night, though Victoria Harrow was there.”
“Really?” Logan’s interest piqued, his brow furrowing slightly. “What happened?”
“Let’s just say I think I watched one too many horror movies as a kid,” Anita replied, dismissing her discomfort with a wave of her hand.
“Did you get any sleep at all?” Logan asked, his voice laced with worry.
“Not much. And still going on very little from my trip across the country. I’m sure that’s all the nightmare was. I’ve decided to spend the next two days like I’m at a one-of-a-kind vacation rental. I’m going to relax and nap and explore, and on Thursday, I’ll go visit Mr. Charlton’s office again with whatever decision I’ve made,” Anita explained, hoping to convey a sense of control she didn’t quite feel.
She gave a slight kick, setting the porch swing into a gentle motion.
“Do you want to take a full tour of the estate today?” he ventured.
“Mmhmm,” Anita nodded, pulling her sweater closer. “But maybe this afternoon if it works with your schedule? It’s freezing this morning.”
Logan laughed, a warm, hearty sound that made Anita smile despite herself. “Now you’re going to tell me you’ve never seen snow.”
“Oh no, I have. Two times,” she confessed.
He gave her a side-eyed glance, still smiling, and kicked their swinging up a notch. “Twice? That’s it?”
“Let’s see. I had an airport layover in Minneapolis one winter on the way to a nursing convention in Atlanta, and Vance and I stayed in a hotel in Denver once that had a view of the Rockies,” Anita recounted.
“What? An airport view and hotel view? That’s it?” Logan teased.
She nodded.
“You’ve never had a snowball fight or made a snow angel?” he continued, disbelief coloring his tone.
“Nope.”
“Never cut down your own Christmas tree?”
“People do that in real life? I thought it was just a thing for the movies.”
Logan laughed again. “Well, you are in for a treat this winter. We will find you a perfect tree for the foyer, and I will personally see to it that you receive a proper lesson in making snowballs,” he promised, his eyes twinkling with amusement.
Anita shivered. “My temp’s dropping just at the thought of it,” she laughed.
“Nah. You have to get out of those California clothes is all.” He surveyed her layers. “Speaking of which.” He grabbed the shopping bag at her feet and plopped it onto her lap.
“What’s this?” Anita inquired, curiosity piqued.
“Well, those sandals and clogs you’ve been wearing won’t do for our tour of the grounds at all,” Logan stated matter-of-factly.
Anita dug into the bag and brought out a pair of hiking boots with distressed leather and pink camo edging. They were the perfect size. “Logan, I can’t accept these.”
“Consider them a welcome-to-the-neighborhood gift,” he insisted.
She slipped out of her clogs and put one foot into the boots. “They’re surprisingly light,” she noted, “and comfortable.” She then slipped the other foot in. Logan reached down, scooped her feet into his lap, and began lacing them up. She laughed at his actions.
“You California girls probably don’t know how these work.” He grinned at her. Anita couldn't help but wonder how a simple touch, even through layers of cloth, leather, and canvas, could send such exhilarating shivers through her.
“That actually does sound nice,” she said thoughtfully. “The Christmas tree, I mean, I’ve never had a real one.”
Logan’s eyes widened in genuine surprise. “Never?” he echoed.
She shook her head. “Did Hyacinth put one in the foyer?”
“I’ve only seen pictures of it from her younger days when they had a house full of servants to do the dirty work. She told me once that the maid staff would decorate it,” he shared.
“Where’s the fun in that?” Anita asked, her tone playful.
“Exactly,” Logan agreed, finishing up the lacing but keeping a hold of her feet.
They swung in silence for a few minutes before Logan cleared his throat. “For what it’s worth, Anita, I really hope you decide to stay.”
Anita gave him a smile, but she felt it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I know, and it is worth something.”
“Good,” he responded warmly, gently setting her feet down. “Well, I’ll go get some work done and pick you up after lunch. How does that sound?”
“That sounds great,” Anita agreed, watching him walk away toward one of the outbuildings. As she turned back into the house, her heart was a tangle of emotions—anticipation, fear, and a burgeoning hope that maybe, just maybe, she could find a home here, not just in Harrow Hall, but someday with Logan by her side.
***
**Anita**
Hey, Doreen. Got some news and it's not great.
**Doreen**
Oh no, what’s up?
**Anita**
So, the estate can’t just be sold. It’s all wrapped up in legal mumbo jumbo. Basically, I either take it on or they find some long-lost relation of Vance’s and give it to them.
**Doreen**
Seriously? That’s a lot to dump on you. What are you going to do?
**Anita**
I’m not sure yet. I was hoping this would be a quick in-and-out job, but it looks like it’s going to be more complicated.
**Doreen**
You could just come back to Cali.
**Anita**
What happened to the fall leaves and syrup catching?
**Doreen**
Well, I don’t want you to get mixed up in anything dangerous.
**Anita**
Dangerous? What do you mean?
**Doreen**
Well, there’s a lot of money at stake, isn’t there? Someone else always wants it.
**Anita**
Yeah, I suppose. But I would be set for life. It’s just…
**Doreen**
What?
**Anita**
This place doesn’t always seem right. It just has a weird vibe.
**Doreen**
Then come home.
**Anita**
I don’t know. I think I just need a few more days to figure things out.
***
Logan’s proposal for a dirt bike ride around the Harrow estate caught Anita by surprise, her eyes widening as she processed the suggestion. "You’re serious?" she asked, a hint of trepidation lacing her voice. Logan’s grin was infectious, his excitement evident as he nodded. "Absolutely. It’s the best way to really see the place," he insisted, leading her to where two dirt bikes stood, ready for adventure.
At first, Anita was hesitant at the unfamiliar feel of the bike under her. The roar of the engine made her heart race with a mix of fear and excitement. But as Logan showed her the basics, her confidence slowly began to build. “Just hold on tight, and trust the bike,” he advised, his tone reassuring. With a deep breath, Anita gave a tentative twist of the throttle, and they were off.
The wind whipped past her as they sped along the rugged trails of the estate. The initial fear that gripped her heart gave way to exhilaration as the landscape blurred past them—rolling hills, dense woodlands, and sprawling fields stretched as far as the eye could see. Logan led with ease, occasionally looking back to make sure she was keeping up, his smile wide whenever their eyes met. Anita, feeling the thrill of the ride, began to relax and enjoy the freedom that came with speeding along the dirt paths.
They zoomed up and down country roads and across section lines, the estate seemingly unending. Logan pointed out landmarks as they passed—a hidden pond that was a favorite spot for deer, old stone walls that marked colonial property lines, and wildflower meadows that erupted in color during the spring. Every so often, they would stop, and Logan would share stories about the estate, his knowledge deep and his pride in the land evident.
The ride took them over two exhilarating hours, during which Anita’s apprehension melted away completely, replaced by a budding love for the untamed beauty of the land. As they returned to the Hall grounds, Logan shifted the tour to a more leisurely pace, showing Anita the various outbuildings. Each structure had its own story—a weathered barn that had once housed prized thoroughbreds, a stone outbuilding that served as a seasonal cider press, and a charming cook’s cottage shrouded in ivy.
When they returned to the gardens near the house, they dismounted and walked. The well-tended plots were a testament to generations of care, with rows of meticulously planned flowers and shrubs. Logan talked about the ideas he had for the space, and his vision for bringing parts of it back to its former glory. Anita listened, deeply moved by his connection to the place.
As they strolled through the apple orchard, the late afternoon sun filtered through the branches, casting dappled shadows on the ground. The air was sweet with the scent of ripening fruit, and the peaceful ambiance starkly contrasted with the adrenaline of their earlier ride. "I never realized how much history and life could be packed into a place like this," Anita confessed, her voice soft, reflective.
Logan stopped and looked at her, his expression earnest. "There’s a lot here worth preserving.” His tone was gentle yet hopeful.
The tour, filled with speed, stories, and the serene beauty of nature, had not just shown Anita the breadth of the estate but had also subtly woven her into its tapestry. As the shadows lengthened and the day drew to a close, she felt a profound connection to Harrowsburg and its history—a sense of belonging that she hadn’t anticipated. The adventure of the day, Logan’s companionship, and the undeniable beauty of the land had sparked something within her, a desire to stay and become a part of the estate’s ongoing story.
Logan’s presence, both reassuring and exciting, had shown her that Harrow Hall was not just a relic of the past but a place brimming with potential for the future. As they walked back to the Hall, Anita’s mind was abuzz with possibilities, and she allowed herself a limited hour that night to pretend she had chosen to stay.
She explored the Hall’s interior with fresh eyes, imagining possible restoration work. The grand staircase, the opulent but dusty ballroom, the numerous bedrooms and sitting rooms—all would need attention. She took notes, her mind buzzing with ideas and a cautious optimism. She prayed for a quiet night with neither dreams nor nightmares.
***
Hyacinth Harrow’s Diary
June 2, 19__
The ink on this page feels heavier tonight, as if the weight of my thoughts makes the pen harder to lift. I am engaged to Roger Wainwright, a man I find entirely repugnant. Yet, here I am, writing about a future that seems inevitable, a future where I will be Mrs. Hyacinth Wainwright, by law, and bestowed as Mrs. Harrow to all, bound by duty and legacy rather than love.
My parents are elated by this arrangement, their faces glowing with the satisfaction of securing the future of Harrow Hall. Roger comes from an old family, one with almost as many secrets and shadows as our own. The Wainwrights have been intertwined with the Harrows for generations, their fates linked by more than just proximity and wealth. It is The Covenant of Shadows that binds us most tightly, the ancient pact that dictates our actions and our alliances.
When my father informed me of the engagement, I could see the gleam of triumph in his eyes. "Hyacinth," he said, his voice rich with the gravitas of tradition, "this union will fortify our family's position and ensure the continuation of our legacy. You understand the importance of this, don't you?"
I nodded, the words caught in my throat. How could I express my dismay when I knew it would fall on deaf ears? My mother embraced me, her touch cold and perfunctory. "You are making us so proud, my dear. This is the path you were meant to walk."
Roger arrived at the Hall the following evening, his presence as unwelcome as a storm cloud on a clear day. He is handsome in a way that seems almost artificial, his features too perfect, his smile too calculated. His eyes, though, betray his true nature—cold, scheming, and devoid of genuine warmth.
"Hyacinth," he greeted me with a smirk, bowing slightly as if he were a knight and I, his queen. "It is a pleasure to finally call you my fiancée."
I forced a smile, the corners of my mouth aching with the effort. "The pleasure is mine, Roger."
We spent the evening together, the four of us—Roger, my parents, and I—dining in the grand hall. The conversation was stilted, filled with hollow pleasantries and forced laughter. Roger spoke of his family's illustrious history, of their role in The Covenant of Shadows, and how our union would be a powerful symbol of our families' continued alliance.
As he spoke, I felt a chill run down my spine. The Covenant of Shadows, that ancient pact, has always been a source of fear and fascination for me. It is said to be a bond forged in blood, a contract with dark forces that ensure our family's prosperity in exchange for unwavering loyalty and the occasional, mysterious sacrifice. I know little of the details, but I have seen enough to understand its power and its danger.
Roger is as complicit as my parents in this dark alliance. He spoke with an ease and familiarity that made my skin crawl, recounting tales of rituals and ceremonies that sent shivers through my soul. I felt trapped, a pawn in a game played by forces far greater than myself.
After dinner, Roger and I walked through the gardens, the air thick with the scent of blooming roses. He took my hand, and I resisted the urge to pull away. "Hyacinth," he said, his voice softer now, almost tender, "I know this arrangement may not have been what you wanted, but it is what is best for our families."
I looked into his eyes, searching for any sign of sincerity. "And what of love, Roger? What place does it have in this?"
He chuckled, a low, mocking sound. "Love is a luxury we cannot afford, my dear. We are bound by duty, by honor. The Covenant of Shadows demands our loyalty above all else."
His words stung, but they also clarified my purpose. Love, it seems, is a frivolity for those not bound by ancient pacts and familial expectations. My role is to ensure the continuation of the Harrow legacy, to keep Harrow Hall strong and its secrets safe.
I must marry Roger. To do so will please my parents and cement our family's position within The Covenant of Shadows. The weight of this responsibility is crushing, but I must bear it. There is no other choice.
Returning to my room, I sat by the window, gazing out at the darkened landscape. The moon cast long shadows across the grounds, and I could almost hear the whispers of my ancestors urging me to accept my fate. The legacy of Harrow Hall is a heavy burden, but it is mine to carry.
As I write these words, I feel a mixture of resignation and resolve. Roger Wainwright is not the man of my dreams, but he is the man who will help me uphold the traditions and expectations of our families. Together, we will continue the work of The Covenant of Shadows, ensuring that our legacy endures for generations to come.
I have always known that my life would be dictated by forces beyond my control. This engagement is merely another step on that path. I must find strength in the knowledge that I am fulfilling my duty, even if it means sacrificing my own desires.
In the stillness of the night, I can hear the echoes of the past, the voices of those who came before me. They remind me that I am not alone in this struggle, that I am part of a lineage that has endured much and will continue to endure. Harrow Hall stands as a testament to our resilience, our power, and our unwavering commitment to The Covenant of Shadows.
I will marry Roger. I will do my duty.
Hyacinth Harrow