I woke late, which I never do. The parlor room where I have been sleeping since I arrived was damp and cold when I woke, and my eyes felt glued together, my head groggy. I’d been plagued all night with the feeling of fingertips on my forehead, a gentle pressure, barely there. Whenever I would open my eyes, it was to dying candlelight or empty darkness, but always I appeared to be alone.

My necklace of rosemary lay in tatters on the floor beside me. The outside of my sleeping bag was slick with the moisture from the room. It was difficult to get up, to leave the warm cocoon that I had created while I slept. I was in desperate need of coffee, and for once I arrived in the kitchen to find not a moldy tea bag in sight.

The weather today is foul again, and after I was thoroughly caffeinated, I lit candles throughout the lower level of the house. Dressing quickly and warmly, I packed my day bag just in case the weather turned in my favor and I could head into town, or explore the family graveyard. Leaving it near by coat by the door, I then stood at the bottom of the staircase with some trepidation, flashlight in one hand and my notebook in the other. I felt like a character in an Agatha Christie novel.

My intentions at the start of today were to explore upstairs. According to the blueprints, there are seven bedrooms in the house, not counting those for the servants on the ground floor.

The stairs are broken into two parts, separated by a landing in between. As I climbed, I was surprised to find the first set of stairs sturdier than anticipated. Have I been braving the violently purple fainting couch for nothing? That will depend entirely on the state of the bedrooms. Sleeping in a dead person’s bed may give some of my peers pause, however, I am not picky.

At the top of the landing, there is a stained-glass window, its picture depicting that of a small cottage set upon a craggy rock. According to the short history book I read at the library, the ship Bellamy and Bellona Knock arrived on had crashed into what the locals now call Twins Rock. I wish I knew from where they hailed from, but very little seems publicly known about the twins to begin with. Bellona was accordingly a talented seamstress and her brother a successful businessman. Together they created a highly successful clothing line that would fund all the Knocks that came after them. That is, until the family met ruin, partially due to Delphina Knock’s adventuring debts.

Delphina, whose study I stood outside of for only a moment before my curiosity bested me.

Upon opening the door, I was unexpectedly met by a sarcophagus that seemed to be keeping guard. It was immaculately painted, though covered in a fine layer of dust. Blue hair and dark solemn eyes staring back at me, hands folded at its broad chest.

I was surprised, to say the least, to find it there. In the Midwest, of all places.

Cobwebs covered its mantle, and once I stepped around it, I could see that it was propped up against one of the many bookshelves that lined the entirety of the room. The room is fantastic. Dark emerald wallpaper decorated the few walls not encumbered by bookshelves. A brass chandelier hung above a large, cluttered, oak desk that sat in the middle of the room. The desk was flanked by two burgundy leather armchairs, both with piles of books in their seats. In the corner, a daybed left unmade and messy with red velvet blankets.

Behind the desk sat…well, there is no other way to describe it other than calling it what it is – a throne. The wood is painted gold, the top reminiscent of that of a crown. A velvet cushion seemed to have been added to the wide seat as an afterthought for comfort. Engraved in the golden wood were scenes of battles and royal processions. I do not presume myself to be a historian by any means, but to me, the chair looked old. Very old.

Over its arm was a long dark robe, and from its pockets, I discovered a plain wooden pipe. I set it down on the desk and attempted not to feel overwhelmed. There was so much to look at. Taking inventory of Delphina’s study will take me days, if not weeks.

Delphina Knock. She was an early explorer, one of the first women to fund her own expeditions, from which she seemed to have brought back many so called “souvenirs”.

Where there weren’t books, the shelves were littered with pottery, stones, wooden trinkets, and dishes made of clay. Art was suspended from every spare wall, a giant tapestry hung above the fireplace, which, upon writing this I realize is a terrible fire hazard. A map held pinned by darts to a wall behind the throne chair. Oddly, no photographs, save one. Small, about the size of my hand, of a beautiful young woman with sad, watery eyes. The name signed across the bottom right-hand corner read Marguerite.

Overall, the room felt stuffed and on the brink of explosion. But besides the stench of dust and mildew, I could neither smell nor sense any evidence of supernatural activity. This perplexed me until I noticed the head of an iron nail peeking out from above the door frame. I retrieved it and observed it long enough to confirm it was in fact iron before returning it.

There is an old cunning folk rule that iron placed above the doorway prevents any spirit from wandering in. It is one of my favorite folk traditions and yet I have never seen it in practice. How exciting to find it here!

Ruthie had not mentioned Delphina, so perhaps she is not one of the spirits still haunting Knockbury. I hope she is not, because, by the look of this room, her study is where she kept her treasures. It saddens me to think she could have accidentally locked herself out of it in her afterlife.

Excitedly, I began to search her desk. It was littered with papers and small delicate tools I know no use for. The desk is large with many drawers, and I began to systematically go through them. Delphina Knock was not an organized person. The papers seemed mostly to be travel documents and some official permits for archaeological digging. The most notable looked to be from the Chinese government in 1918, another from 1921. Each drawer revealed another surprise – one was entirely filled with rocks – but I did come across a few interesting letters.

The first of which is from a man named Avery Cauville, who accuses Delphina of forgery and thievery. The idea of my aunt being a cat burglar or, and here I looked back to the sarcophagus acting as a sentinel by the door, some sort of international black market bootlegger, had me looking around the room with renewed interest.

The second letter seems to confirm Mr. Cauville’s accusations. I rolled my eyes. What is the fascination wealthy people have with taking what does not belong to them? I have never understood this. I wonder if Sister Adelita still has that notoriously secret contact in D.C. Perhaps she can offer me some advice on a few items that should be returned or at least – and here my eyes landed again on the ancient sarcophagus – installed safely in a museum and not a drafty old house in the middle of nowhere.

I spent the rest of the afternoon going through Delphina’s desk, pausing only for a quick lunch. Delphina seemed to keep every piece of paperwork she ever received. These mostly consisted of loan statements and overdue debt notices that she shoved into the farthest corners of the desk, as if to try and hide it. I put aside anything I thought could be helpful.

I emerged from the study late morning, my black dress now gray with dust, feeling satisfied with my productivity. The inside of the manor had lightened as the morning went on, and once the storm had passed I was able to have my flashlight off in the study.

However, when I exited the study, I found that the hall across was buried in shadows. There are no windows down this hall, so I turned on my light once again, and it landed squarely on a door.

My plan for today was to explore two rooms on the first floor, so I let my feet follow the light beam to the doorway. A slight smell of smoke was all the warning I had before the wispy incorporeal spirit of Ruthie appeared before me.

“No reason to go in there, Miss,” she said.

I paused mid-step, “What room is this?”

“It was Miss Celeste’s.”

Was. Because Celeste Knock had died under mysterious circumstances. I have still yet to learn what had happened to her.

I observed Ruthie. She looked, if possible, paler today, than she had when we’d first met. “Why did you not come when I called yesterday?” I asked, trying not to sound accusatory. I didn’t want her to view me as someone whose orders she must follow; I sensed that was not a way to get any answers out of Ruthie Daniels.

Ruthie didn’t respond, instead looked at me with wide, near translucent eyes behind cracked spectacles. I hesitated, suddenly thinking about how confusing this must be for her, for all the spirits at Knockbury Manor. I was still a stranger to them, and yet, had seemingly invited myself into spaces that have been unoccupied by the living for years. But, I needed to get on with my work. I sighed and explained patiently, “Ruthie. I am now the mistress of this house, and I shall go into any room I like.”

To her credit, Ruthie did not argue with me, “As you say, Miss.” I waited for her to move aside – it is uncouth etiquette to simply walk through a spirit you are conversing with, plus it feels awful – before finishing my movement towards the door.

It stuck slightly, probably from age and little use. I had to push my shoulder into the door to get it open, but open it did.

The room beyond was so different to Delphina’s that for a moment I paused. The room was practically empty. Only an iron bed frame sat up against the far wall. It was devoid of anything that would hint at whose room it once was.

In general, this is a sad house, empty of even a flicker of happiness. I think most people would find it very hard to be here. But in this room, there was a cold and near unbearable sensation of sadness that differed somehow from the rest of the manor.

What had happened to Celeste Knock? Where were all of her things?

“Ruthie?” I called out, almost before I realized I was doing so. The little ghost materialized outside the door, still in the hall.. Tiny wisps of smoke rose from her shoulders, disappearing almost immediately in the air.

“Yes?”

“Where are all of Miss Knock’s belongings?”

“Gone, Miss.”

Well, obviously, I refrained from saying. I tried again, “What was Miss Celeste’s life like before her death?”

For a moment, Ruthie looked puzzled at the question, as if the matter of her employer’s life perhaps never occurred to her, “Well, she was fond of Miss Hester. They were quite close, as twins are, I suppose.”

“Does Miss Celeste remain here, as you do?”

“No, Miss.”

As of right now I know very little about the Knock sisters, so perhaps there was somewhere else Celeste’s spirit would have wandered to in death. But it strikes me as odd that Hester, whose death details remain unknown to me as of yet, would remain at Knockbury, and not Celeste.

I glanced through the room’s only window which overlooked the top of the conservatory and the water beyond it. I could not help but wonder if they had been lonely, Hester and Celeste, stuck in this big house with only each other as company. I wonder if they’d had any friends.

I walked to the center of the room, “Thank you, Ruthie. That will be all for now.” I nodded at her, “I am going to do a summoning, much as I did that first day we met. Please ignore its call, as my goal is to contact the other spirits bound here.”

“Other spirits?” she asked, her eyes squinting around the room. At my nod, her shoulders shrugged slightly, and she responded, almost sounding exasperated, “Yes, Miss.” In a cloud of white, ashy smoke she disappeared from the doorway.

I took out the bell from the pocket of my pinafore and rolled my neck, clearing away my thoughts before ringing the bell three times. It took me longer than usual to organize my thoughts and perhaps I rushed into using the bell faster than usual. Perhaps that is why it took me a moment to realize something was amiss.

It was the noise I noticed first, a shuffling sound, reminiscent of a body moving under a bed sheet. Like rough fabric against stone. When I opened my eyes, I jerked back and away in shock.

The walls around me were moving.

Bodies and fingers pressed against the inside of the walls, wailing. Teeth outlined open mouths, agape in a grotesque horror. They clawed and moaned into the thin layer that trapped them from me. The walls undulated with their agony, stretching out towards me like a baby in a womb. Their fingers never quite touched me, never quite tore at the vellum-like wall that kept them from me.

Their screams were a humming wail that rose and fell around me. Nausea that crept up my throat. It was overwhelming, those distorted, nightmarish forms writhing in the walls. I could feel my breath quicken, and I realized I was quickly losing myself to the situation. Panic rang in my fingertips, down my torso.

I ran from the room. I don’t remember coming down the stairs. At the bottom, I realized I had clutched the bell so tightly in my hand that it had broken skin. A thin trickle of blood ran down the edge of it, dripping slowly into the hardwood beneath my feet.

I needed air. I needed clarity. I needed to leave. I could still hear the screaming from the room upstairs.

I tried to steady my breathing but failed. There is great harm in succumbing to fear during a spiritual call, our teachers provided us with ample examples in class. The spirits could dominate the caller, possess them. I did not wish for this to happen, so I shut my eyes and began to count each breath I took.

When I opened them once more, the manor was quiet, save for that creaking noise that I have been hearing night after night.

It was louder this time, and I found myself following its origin with my eyes without consciously deciding to do so.

I saw only her feet before I shut my eyes again.

Two slim feet, pale white. Belonging to a form that swung gently, left to right, from the upper balcony. The creaking persisted, but I did not raise my eyes any further. I grabbed my bag, my notebook, and my coat in a flurry and was out the door before I could second guess my cowardice.

Later –

It was several minutes before I regained my typical composure. I evened out my breathing as I walked towards town, counting my steps. Initially, I had no plan of action other than just wanting distance between myself and the house.

I know not even how to put into words the haunting that occurred in Celeste’s bedroom, nor the form on the stairs, and as such I know not how to report it. Physical manifestations like that are rare. Perhaps it could be labeled a poltergeist, but key components such as a foul stench are missing. Maybe a residual haunting? A physical manifestation of despair?

Or perhaps…and I do not enjoy this line of thinking…but it is possible that the “she” Ruthie has hinted at, the domineering spirit that resides within the manor, could have created that vision to frighten me? That it was nothing more than a scare tactic.

If that was the case, then I fell for the trap. Yet…and many of my peers would believe this to be wishful thinking…it didn’t feel fabricated. The fear was palpable. But I have had little to no experience with anything outside a Class-A ghost, so perhaps these feelings are par for the course.

I decided I would inquire with Mr. Kitsch, the owner of the general store in town, if anyone remained in Knockbury who had once been familiar with the Knock family. For such a prominent family, there was a suspicious lack of information on them at the library, specifically about Celeste and Hester Knock. Perhaps it was time to step into the rumor mill and see what I could dig up.

I entered town and made my way to Kitsch General Store. Mr. Kitsch is a friendly old man, and when I queried my question to him, he clicked his teeth and paused in thought.

“Henry Keats may be your best bet. He doesn’t live in town anymore, not after his wife passed, but up through Chambers Pasture with his daughter.”

I asked what his daughter’s name was, and if they took visitors. He relayed to me that the daughter of Henry Keats was the dragoness librarian, Helena Keats because of course she was.

It was late in the day and with the library now closed, I asked Mr. Kitsch to use his telephone When Helena answered I greeted her courteously and reminded her who I was, and that I would like to come and speak with her father if he was in good health and permitted it.

A gusty sigh answered me, and the dragoness spoke, sounding reluctant, “I figured it was only a matter of time before you made the connection. My father doesn’t take visitors. It’s not him that knew the Knocks best, anyway. Come to the library tomorrow, and I’ll have something for you.”

I wasn’t sure what she meant, but I agreed nonetheless, and we hung up. To thank Mr. Kitsch, I bought a few grocery items - some canned goods and candlesticks, batteries for my flashlight – before reluctantly heading back to the manor.

The sky was beginning to darken with the onset of evening, and a large part of me dreaded returning. But I am resilient in the face of my own fears and pushed on down the country road. The manor was quiet when I returned. No one hung from the balcony banister, and I heard no wailing from upstairs. The candles I had lit that morning had long since burned down, so I quickly replaced them with those I bought.

It is funny what a little candlelight can do for a room. With the evening sky and the candles lit, I almost felt very cozy in the parlor room. Safe, perhaps. I suppose I should draft something up for the Society. How do I report what happened today? Perhaps after some food, my thoughts will become clearer...

Till tomorrow.

I watched the rain pour down the kitchen windows as I made a small lunch of cold cuts and cheese. I had to remove another moldy bag of tea from my mug, this time a green tea blend. Will the atrocities never cease?

Since the weather prevented me from safely venturing outside, I was determined to start exploring the first floor of the manor that afternoon. I thought back to my early days at the Sybil Society, and wondered if perhaps a little bit of protection wouldn’t do me some good. In school, we learned that certain herbs, if ingested or worn on the body, can become like a shield to malevolent entities or spirits that mean you harm. Knowing that there is a conservatory on the grounds, I thought I would try there. As soon as I finished my lunch I headed towards the grimy, glass-plated door that would lead me out.

The room was circular in shape and not very large, but in its day I think it would have been very ornate. The glass conservatory, much like the rest of the home, has seen better days. A set of wicker chairs sat stacked against the wall shared with the kitchen, the rattan threads once white now near black with mold. Most of the panes in peaked rooftop windows have been shattered during some Atlantic storm. Rain was coming through, and the wind howled like a rising scream that never quite crested.

After a cursory look around, I was easily able to determine that most of the foliage was indeed dead. There was a massive, gnarled tree at the center of the room, its roots bare and growing above the ground, its arms curved, disjointedly downwards. It reminded me of a giant, crouching spider, eyeless but watching me all the same.

Further down the cracked tiled path, I had to step side to side to avoid the puddles of rain forming beneath the gaping holes in the roof. Surprisingly, I caught sight of a small herbal garden that oddly looked to be flourishing. Tall stalks of rosemary and thin, spindly lavender rose to meet me as I approached. There were other plants I recognized as well - mugwort, vervain, blue lupine, and chamomile, all green and flourishing despite the dour conditions.

At the foot of the garden bed was a small stone that looked to be childishly embossed, carved with uneven bulky letters: HESTER’S GARDEN.

I bent and ran my fingertips over the etching. Hester Knock, Celeste Knock’s twin sister. My aunt. Or, possibly, my mother.

Taking the small sewing scissors I keep on hand from my pinafore, I snipped a few stems of the rosemary, their scent wafting up through my nose as I handled them.

When I turned to leave, there was a gaping space behind me. I stood, blinking for long moments at an empty array of broken tiles on the ground. It took my brain an embarrassing amount of time to figure out what was missing. The strange tree was gone, its massive, otherworldly presence now ever more obvious in its absolute absence.

I had noticed no shift in the air and smelled no sulfur or ectoplasm. Like the kitchen chairs and refrigerator, the tree had simply vanished, as if it had never been planted at all. I would have believed my mind to be playing tricks on me if it wasn’t for the vast, empty space of something obviously missing.

I have never experienced an esoteric plane shift - an object moving between planes - if that is indeed what this was. Is this perhaps an example of what Ebony Copeland was talking about in her work with CW Francis? I will have to put in a request for their work and review their findings before I am able to confidently give my report. Whether or not Sheila O’Shaunnasy will aid me in this is…unlikely.

Back in the kitchen, I arranged the stems of rosemary in a neat row, patting them down with a mildewy cloth to dry off the moisture from the rain. I let the stems sit as I went to get twine from the kit in my carpet bag. Then, I bent and twisted the drying stems until I had made a full circle, large enough to fit over my head. Just like they taught us in school.

It stopped just above the neckline of my pinafore and the herbal smell hit me in full force, bringing back memories of practicums and a haunting I investigated with Sister Adelita in Fell, Wyoming. I don’t think I will ever be able to smell rosemary again without thinking of that.

Full as my head was with memories, it was a shock to turn and see a face in the window.

At first, I thought it was my own reflection, for the shape of her face was like my own. But once my eyes registered a roundness in the chin that mine does not possess, I realized the skin was milky white, almost sickly pale. The hair, I assume, was long, for it disappeared past the neck and out of the frame of the window and was plastered to her face as if wet from the rain.

It was a woman’s face. A young woman, though older than I. And her eyes were wide with shock and looking directly at me.

When I made to approach the window, to bid the spirit welcome, those eyes widened further and the ghostly figure stepped back and away from the window, disappearing in a mist that was quickly dispelled by the rain outside.

I remained frozen in the kitchen after she left. My heart beat uncomfortably in my chest. She looked like me. I have never met anyone, never seen a photograph or painting of anyone that looks like me.

I’m embarrassed by how long I stood there, before finally shaking myself of the strange mood and carrying on out of the room.

Later ---

Nothing of note to be found on the first floor. I did find several cold spots in the dining room, and the feeling of being watched persists in each room. I did try to reach out again to Ruthie, as well as the spirit I met briefly in the kitchen. I began at the front of the manor in the foyer, just before the vestibule that leads to the front door, and rang my bell, waiting for any spirits to appear but received no answer.

Something seems to have a tight hold on the spirits of Knockbury Manor. Nevertheless, I dutifully took my (antique, some of my classmates call it) camera from room to room and shot pictures of every nook and corner.

Most of my practicing partners wish I would modernize my camera equipment, but I stand steadfastly by Sister Sanjana’s research. Modern cameras are too advanced to pick up the willowy auras of a ghost, especially one that has been haunting the mortal plane for an extended amount of time. I’ll fairly admit that the development is often timely and difficult, the pictures are excellent for record-keeping and reference.

I made my way through the ground floor of the house. First the parlor. It is the only room not encased in dust, as I have cleaned it to the degree that I can in order for me to sleep without suffocating on cobwebs. The room is smaller than the sitting room, and the styles seem more mismatched. There are a few winged back arm chairs, slightly moth eaten, and of course the violently purple fainting couch I have made as my bed. The main feature of the room is a white marbled fireplace. The wood trim that frames it is gorgeously detailed, and quite the contrast to the simplicity of the marble. Carved expertly into the wood are a series of nautical scenes – sailboats battling tremendous waves, a mermaid perched atop a rock, a man on a hill facing the roaring sea.

The storm outside had darkened the manor, and while it would be wonderfully cozy, I do not trust the fireplace to be safe enough for use. I must check with the honorable Mr. Fowl.

As the afternoon grew darker, I sufficed with groups of carefully lit candles in each room, lighting my way as I progressed. The shadows in the dining room grew long and warped as I entered, but when I rang my bell and called out a greeting, I still received no answer.

The feeling of being watched was practically overbearing, and many times I had to stop myself from turning around to see if anyone was there. Instead, I tried to focus my camera on the fully set table, the empty, peeling walls, the dark shadowy corners, and the chandelier encased completely in webs. Something about the dining table irks me. It seems to have been set up for a large dinner party, one that never occurred. But why was it never taken down?

The sitting room next. Upholstery stuffing peeked through holes made by mice, peeling wallpaper revealing molded plaster underneath. Cobwebs decorated nearly every surface. The air was thick with dust and mildew, made worse by the damp weather conditions of the afternoon. There sat a small table to one side of the room opposite of the fireplace, perhaps set up for card playing. Adjacent to that was an oddly tall wooden cabinet. The door stuck when I tried to open it, but I dutifully took a picture of it regardless.

I made my way further down the dark corridor, back towards the kitchen, to the servant’s quarters. There were only two rooms in this wing of the house. One small and completely empty, and the other larger with a solid wooden bed frame and an empty bedside table. There was a rocking chair in the corner and a narrow armoire, empty save for a few stained smocks.

From what I could find, after Annie died in the fire that broke out in the home, a cook was hired out from the village, and they commuted to and from the manor every day. The only servant that seemed to stay on was Ruthie. Odd, that such a large home had so few employees.

With the greatest of hesitation did I make my way to the pantry and larder. I have been afraid of finding masses of wasted and molded food but was pleasantly surprised to find the larder completely empty save some dust and mice droppings. The butler’s pantry turned out to be full of canned goods. Checking the expiration date of each has been put on my to-do list.

I returned to the kitchen and rang the bell twice in hopes of enticing whatever spirit I had glimpsed earlier into making another appearance. No such luck.

By the time I packed my camera away, it was closing on evening and quickly entering night. By candlelight I made myself a light dinner and then retired to my makeshift bed on the violently purple couch, where I sit now. The creaking noise from the foyer continues. It is ceaseless and does not get louder or softer no matter where I am on the ground floor. Just an ever-going creak, like something swinging.

I will sleep with the garland of rosemary still on, for there is this feeling I cannot shake, nor describe properly. I am being watched, and for what purpose, I truly do not yet know.

Tomorrow, upstairs.

As I noted down this morning’s observation in my case notes and waited for the kettle to boil, I reexamined the kitchen and found that two out of the four chairs that surrounded the small table in the breakfast nook the night before were missing, as was the refrigerator.

The dead, it seems, are already trying to get my full attention.

Armed now with a fresh cup of coffee, I will describe the room: At one point, the kitchen in a house such as this would have been someone’s pride, I am sure. It is a large, spacious room, with a large brick fireplace at one end, and rooms for what used to be a scullery and larder at the other. I am terrified of entering the larder, worried I will find a mass of molded food.

A wide, deep sink is underneath a window so dirty I’m unable to see through it. Some of the tiles are cracked and crumbling, and overall, the room smells powerfully of mildew, a scent that plagues most of the ground floor.

It feels as if time is frozen here, in this house. It’s as though the last living resident had simply got up and left rather than died in his bed. The eerie way the formal dining room is still set, as if in expectation of guests. In the kitchen sink, there is a faded blue porcelain teacup, set aside for later washing up.

The other windows in the kitchen, though grimy and covered in dust, show a typically gray Midwestern fall day. Hopefully, the weather will hold off and I will be able to walk into town about a mile down the road and get started on the research that needs to be completed.

Though I am not physically at school, my time here is technically an assignment, and therefore I have continued to wear the starch white pinafore, with the Sibyl Society crest sewn into the top right breast corner. Its pockets now habitually hold my notebook, pencil, and a small, silver bell.

I will begin the first steps of my investigation on the first floor, starting with the Agatha La Faeul Meditation technique.

I have no magical blood or bone, but I have discovered during my first few investigations alongside Sister Adelita that regardless of magic or psychic abilities, ghosts had once been human, and therefore the frequencies of powerful ones can still be picked up by ordinary human beings, such as myself.

Goosebumps on your arms, hair prickling on the back of your neck, shadows only seen out of the corner of your eye - all moments of the human mind trying to make sense of a ghost. The La Faeul technique, I have found, helps open the mind and hear whoever is trying to make contact.

I thought briefly about beginning in the dining room. At the mouth of the room, I took in the scene before me once more. The empty dishware, caked in dust, was obviously expensive in nature, though time has diminished its initial beauty. It is my understanding that the house has only been vacant for six or so years, though the last tenant, Alater Knock, secluded himself to only one room of the manor. This room seems to have been set up nearly a decade ago or more then left untouched.

It was a curious, depressing room, but to my keen nature, I knew it to be unoccupied for the moment. Besides, I have found that the best room to mediate was one more open to the rest of the home, not enclosed in dark drapery and peeling wallpaper. I took one of the high-back wooden chairs from the dining room and carried it carefully back out, through the parlor, and into the front hall.

Meditation has not been a difficult practice for me to accomplish. I am of neat and organized nature, and it takes very little effort for me to silence my thoughts, tuck them into folders and drawers and invite whatever spirit wants to contact me to make itself known.

I placed the chair just before the front of the door in the center of the room, sat down, and smoothed out my dress and pinafore over my legs. Then from my pocket, I took out a tiny brass bell.

I straightened my shoulders, shut my eyes, and rang the bell.

A delightful noise. It echoed throughout the foyer, and I let it resonate inside my head. I thought of nothing but the twinkling sound of the bell and my steady breath.

Then suddenly, a presence.

She arrived alongside the smell of smoke. I opened my eyes to find a small woman of indeterminate age in a faded black dress, uniform like in appearance. Dust covered the top of her shoulders, and her ashy blond hair was pulled back in a neat bun. Her face was pale, void of any color, with ashen lips, a small nose and cracked round spectacles.

She was also completely transparent, as ghosts ought to be.

“Ah, that didn’t take very long,” I said, pleased.

The ghost narrowed her eyes, “Well,” she told me begrudgingly, “it’s my job to greet the guests of the master’s home.” Her eyes narrowed further, until she was practically squinting at me, perhaps due to the cracked nature of her glasses, “But master hasn’t had many guests as of late.”

“I’m sure he hasn’t,” I told her.

“Who’re you?”

I looked the ghost straight in the eye, “My name is Beatrice St. Anne, and I am the new owner of Knockbury Manor.”

The ghost giggled girlishly, her small nose scrunching, “‘Course you’re not.”

When my expression didn’t waver, she squinted at me again, “Well, you don’t look like a Knock, forgive me for sayin’.”

I nearly laughed. “No, I’m sure I don’t,” I said,

She squinted harder until her eyes were just beads behind her spectacles as if still trying to catch me in a lie.

I rolled my eyes before standing up. I was quite a bit taller than her, and my movement had the ghost stepping back from her place and tilting her small, pointed chin to look up at me, as I intended. “Now,” I said, “if you will. What is your name?”

The ghost shifted uncomfortably, “Name is Ruthie, Miss.”

“And how many of you are still here? That you’re aware of.”

“Well,” Ruthie blinked quickly, “Many of them don’t make themselves known to me, you see. Missus Hester is here from time to time, but she’s never really here. Was like that in life too, I suppose.”

“No others?” I asked her while quickly writing the name Hester in my notes.

“Lots I don’t know the names of. Before my time, you see.” Ruthie shrugged before motioning quickly over her shoulder without looking, “Mrs. Haskins, the old cook, she’s here sometimes. Then there’s -” and here she paused, cutting herself off as if listening.

Ruthie’s head swiveled around, looking down the narrow dark corridor to the side of the stairs. I noticed then that the hall was so much darker than it had seemed earlier, as if the shadows that dwell within the hall had sucked out all the light. I could barely see the outline of the kitchen entrance from where I stood.

I was eager to get any answers I could from Ruthie, however, so the darkness would have to wait. I encouraged her to continue with whatever she was trying to tell me.

“There’s -” Ruthie turned back to me, but her ghostly face had a distant look to it. Her voice dropped, “She doesn’t like me talking to visitors.”

I was surprised by this. “She?”

“I suppose,” Ruthie continued, ignoring my question, her voice still monotone and low, “She doesn’t like any of us talking to each other, let alone any others.”

I tried again, “Who are you referring to?”

The ghost’s eyes snapped back to mine, and the dull, distant look left her face. Ruthie giggled, “Did I? Silly of me. You must forgive me, miss, I do tend to ramble on.”

I was disturbed, I admit. But we are encouraged not to judge the dead. They are neither in our world nor the next, and at times communicating with them can be difficult and confusing. I did not want to scare Ruthie away, so I gentled my approach, “Not at all,” I said, “I appreciate you coming to speak with me.”

I sat back down in my chair and thanked Ruthie again, dismissing her by ringing the bell twice. The ghostly outline of the small woman in front of me de-materialized in a soft breeze, leaving behind the smell of ectoplasm and cigarette smoke.

I have no other notes for now, only that I am encouraged by the knowledge that more than one ghost haunts Knockbury Manor.

Later ---

This afternoon I ventured into the village. It is strange to find places in America that will still argue itself a village. Though Knockbury is certainly the size of one. My journey the day before had been a long, tedious one. The Amtrak from Chicago would only take me as far as Duluth; I had to then travel by bus to Ashford and then by ferry across the lake. A very reluctant cab driver took me the remaining eight miles to the manor. I had not been able to get a good glimpse of the modest village through the rain.

It is not a busy town, almost desolate during the winter, and not many shops have remained open. The few storefronts that are available to the full time residents of the island are a pub that has windows decorated with flower boxes filled with dead marigolds; a store called only Kit’s; a post office that is attached to a humble brick Village Hall; and, most importantly, a public library.

I left school without much fanfare, but in preparation for my time here I attempted to check out a few textbooks from the Society Library – for reference! And research! But Sheila O’Shaunnassy limited me to only three! She has been interning under Sister Louisa for the past six months and I think the power has gone to her head. She has become an absolute dragoness at the library. A medieval gatekeeper who stifles others’ academic progress for her own petty amusement. I still think she is mad about what happened during first year Herbalism.

Knockbury Library is a short, squat brick structure with two fading white pillars standing guard at the entrance. Walking through the heavy wooden doors, I was met with a large, rounded wooden desk, a banker’s lamp perched on one side, its green glass lamp shade glowing warmly.

To one side of the librarian’s desk was a card cataloging cabinet and behind it several neat rows of bookshelves. On the other, a few available wooden tables and more bookshelves. Above the desk was a round brass clock, the ticking of it the loudest noise in the room.

The librarian herself was surprisingly young. She wore a long plaid skirt, suede brown boots, and a neat tucked-in blouse paired with an olive-green jacket. On the jacket’s lapel sat a pin that read FIGHT FOR LIBERATION above a picture of the Venus symbol, a fist at its center. Her eyes, when they looked up at me, were a startling shade of green.

When I introduced myself and told her why I was visiting, from librarian she quickly turned into a dragoness, questioning immediately why I was asking for the birth, death, and property records of the Knock family.

I announced that I was the new owner of the Knockbury Manor, and there must have been some talk in town about my inheritance, for she conceded, though with obvious reluctance. I soon found myself in the position of a surprisingly small stack of material dedicated to the Knock family. I settled myself at one of the available wooden tables, and the smell of the library, the wooden bookcases, and paper folders made me suddenly reminiscent of the extensive library we are privileged to have at the Sibyl Society for Young Women.

It is not often I find myself melancholy, but whenever I feel out of place or, very rarely, homesick, I think of where I had been truly happy for these past glorious years. Being recruited by the Sibyl Society has been the best thing to ever happen to me. Here I am, a proud student of the Society. Though the general public may not know of the important and good work we do, those that the Society helps do, and that is enough for me.

I turned my attention back to my research and was surprised by how little content the library had, given that the village was named after the Knock family. A slim volume titled “A Short History of the Knock Family” and a thin folder of birth, death, and marriage certificates.

The volume begins by listing two twins, Bellamy and Bellona Knock, who sailed from the mainland during a sudden spring storm. The boat crashed into the cliffs that Knockbury Manor now sits upon. Bellamy and Bellona survived and went on to build the manor as their main homestead, while also running a very successful clothing empire from Chicago.

The family seemed to reap in tragedy. The fourth generation of Knocks seemed to experience the most loss. The eldest brother, Elphias Bell Knock, committed suicide at seventeen by throwing himself off the rocks Knockbury Manor was built upon.

His sister, Delphina Bell Knock, was an amateur archaeologist and explorer who disappeared somewhere in Eastern Europe while traveling.

The youngest brother, Alater Bell Knock, lost his wife Ophelia who died giving birth to their twins daughters, Celeste and Hester.

Celeste committed suicide in 1959. Hester disappeared in 1960.

The orphanage presumed my birth year to be 1958 or 1959. If one of the Knock daughters, be it Celeste or Hester, is my birth mother, she would have been twenty-eight when she gave birth to me.

Twenty years ago, there may have been rumors about a surprise - and clearly unwanted - pregnancy at the Knockbury home. Secrets like that never stay true secrets for long, not when many of the manor’s servants probably came from the town. And most certainly not when both daughters of childbearing age ended up dead or gone the following years after.

I admit that I had no desire to ask the librarian, or really anyone in town, about these rumors. I know that it is the Society’s protocol to do and is probably the smartest avenue to explore given the lack of physical documentation on the Knock family, but for something pertaining to my life I cannot stand idle or malicious gossip.

I am almost surprised by how vehemently I do not want to do it. I believe I am better off questioning the ghosts.

I retraced the Knockbury property lines for my own reference. Much of the original Knock land had been sold off throughout the years to pay off the debts the family owed. Debts that Delphina had incurred in life doubled in her death and came to haunt her brother Alater’s doorstep.

In 1949 a fire erupted in the kitchen killing the family’s long-time cook, Annie Haskins. A freak flood in 1962 swept away the family’s collection of automobiles, quite literally carrying them off into the sea. And in 1967 my new friend Ruthie Daniels was cleaning her master’s hunting rifle when it went off unexpectedly. While it missed hitting Ruthie, it did not miss a supporting beam overhead, causing a mass of plaster to collapse upon the poor woman’s head.

I have recorded each name, date, and death in my case file, as well as here for my personal reference. Now that I have completed my tasks, I will attempt to beat the weather and hurry back to the manor.

The manor sits at the edge of town, its back facing a cliff overlooking Lake Superior. Once, apparently, a grand family home, the manor now resembled more of a haunted house than a stately home.

Which was fitting because the home is, in fact, very much a haunted house.

Some context: Knockbury Manor had come into my possession rather unexpectedly when the last member of a family I had nothing to do with died. A lawyer by the name of Fowl (why is it that all lawyers must have the most Dickinsonian names?) hunt me down while I was on an assignment in Virginia, and rather reluctantly told me that I was the final, very last descendant of a strange family by the name of Knock.

I was accompanying Sister Adelita to Virginia to assist with a rather nasty poltergeist case and fulfill some of more field experience hours. Mr. Fowl found me at the hotel somehow, just as I was checking out. A dour, lumpy man with an overwhelming mustache approached me, coughing wetly to get my attention.

“Beatrice St. Anne?” I nodded and he held out a damp hand, “Hubert Fowl of Pennworth. Duke, Smyth, and Fowl. Do you have a moment?”

I told him I didn’t but asked if it was an emergency, as it was odd that he asked for me specifically. He opened his briefcase and took out a stack of documents, frail and crumbling at the edges.

“It was rather difficult to get in touch with you. The last public record we have of you is of the orphanage in Chicago -” I refrained from telling him about my current enrollment at the Sibyl Society, of which of course, he would have no notion of existing. He took out a document from the stack that read MORTGAGE DEED, “the Knock family has left you their family home and any possessions that remain on the property.”

I stood in bewilderment as he handed me the deed. At the top was a seal that read KNOCK in red wax, “I’ve never heard of such a family.”

“In cases like these, with families like the Knocks, there is not always a paper trail for such things,” the lawyer said vaguely, eyeing me carefully.

“Cases like these?”

“I have been the lawyer to the family for the last twenty years or so. I was made aware there was a child that was given up. Based on Master Knock’s correspondence, I believe it is safe to assume you were that child.”

I didn’t know quite how to respond, so instead, I briefly glanced over a few lines of the deed before returning my attention to the lawyer:

“The Knocks were once a very powerful and prestigious family.” Fowl eyed my plain school-sanctioned black dress, “Ever heard of B&B Knock & Co., the clothing line?” I said I hadn’t, and he nodded, unperturbed by my apparent lack of knowledge of family history, “Used to be very high-end.”

“Used to be?”

“Out of business now. The family fell from,” he cleared his throat “social graces in the early sixties. Can’t say the estate had been kept up like it should have been, so I’m not of the sort of state it will be in if you decide to view it but,” he shrugged, placing a set of keys atop the stack and holding it out to me, “Yours now.” Finding his duty done, Fowl soon left, leaving the damp pile of paperwork behind for me to sort through.

I have been left a house. A house with a reputation, nonetheless.

I dove headfirst into investigating any stories or rumors that surrounded Knockbury Manor. Though my time at the Sibyl Society has taught me many things there is one aspect of coursework that I have always found I excel at best, and that is research.

To say I was delighted to discover that there was quite a plethora of ghost stories about my newly discovered ancestral home is putting it lightly. I consider the ownership of a haunted house to be an excellent opportunity to perfect my skills in ghost hunting. It will provide ample situations to try out a few of the techniques I have been working on and will better prepare me for graduation next year.

Once I have dispelled any and all of the ghosts that remain at Knockbury, I will of course sell the house and continue with my work wherever I am needed.

Though how much this house would sell for I have very little confidence. I will not say I am disappointed – though the previous inhabitant, a man named Alater Knock, whom I am somehow related to, only died six years ago, any care for the house seemed to have been abandoned long before that. Upon entering, I discovered that much of it has not been touched in several years. The decor is molded, the furnishings outdated, and everything is covered in such a thick layer of soot that walking from room to room is like kicking up a dust storm.

I will admit here and only here that I have other intentions for being here. Growing up as I did, it is no wonder that I am curious about that family that left me in the care and charity of the women at St. Anne’s Children’s Home. Perfectly natural, I should say. Did I ever suspect to have inherited an estate, dilapidated or not? Of course not. I’d always assumed my birth mother to be a young woman who perhaps got into trouble and couldn’t afford to keep the baby she ended up with. Looking around at the dusty grandeur of this old house, I understand that now to not be the case. Frankly, I don’t know which scenario is worse.

I have not yet explored much during my first night, but I shall at least describe here the initial layout of the ground floor for my own record keeping: Upon entry, you are let into a cold and leaking vestibule, the tile cracked and molded beneath. From there into the foyer, all dark wood panels and the smell of damp rot. Straight ahead is a grand staircase, the safety I questioned almost immediately. To the immediate right is a small parlor. The wallpaper in this room is peeling down in great curls, but the floor is sturdy and there is a small fireplace gilded in dusty black marble. A violently purple Victorian fainting couch is the most eye-catching item in the room, a small wooden side table sat next to it.

Alongside the staircase is a long dark corridor that has entryways to a formal dining room, another sitting room, kitchen, and servant’s quarters. From the kitchen there is a narrow glass door, the bottom caked in moss, that leads to the conservatory.

The smell of dust and wet wood is overwhelming. There is, of course, also the distinct smell of ectoplasm and, oddly enough, a hint of rosemary.

The dining room is a long narrow room encased in oak paneling and oil portraits of northern scenery that have suffered the elements of time and poor insulation. Dead flowers trapped in molded and rotted vases line the middle of a long black table. The high back chairs match the table and remind me of thrones - it made me suddenly wonder, for the first time during all of this, as to the relations I might have had. What kind of people they were.

Formal dishware was set out on the table. Why, I have no guess. The once-gilded plates are blackened with dust, and I noticed that at various seats the silverware was missing from its place beside the accompanying dishware.

To my delight, the stove in the kitchen works. The honorable Mr. Fowl had told me that the gas company would be turning on the gas for me but, given the lackluster tone of our first meeting, I had not believed him.

I retrieved my tea kettle, white mug, and instant coffee from my bag. I am a creature of habit, especially when I travel. A strong cup of coffee in the morning always does me good.

I set all three items atop the counter and, before leaving the kitchen, measured the distance between the three objects and the end of the counter, noting down each number. We shall see what the morning brings.

I have set myself up in the parlor room atop the violently purple Victorian fainting couch. I had initially approached the monstrosity with trepidation and narrowed eyes before ultimately determining that I have slept in much worse places.

I have determined that my nighttime routine will remain as it had been while on assignment in school: from my carpet bag, I retrieved a crisp white sheet which I draped over the violently purple couch. This was followed by my neatly rolled-out sleeping back, smooth of any wrinkles.

Removing a retractable hanger and my sleeping clothes from my bag next, I undressed out of my all-black ensemble, hung my dress, and finally dressed in a fresh, pearl-white nightgown.

My hair has been braided and my feet face east. I sit now, writing this, both for my own record keeping and for my future investigation here. I have always enjoyed diary keeping (part of my old fashion sensibilities, my classmates would say) and I admit I am not upset by the lack of phone installation in the house. I am looking forward to sitting down every night and organizing my thoughts here with ink on paper.

Just outside the parlor room in the main foyer, there is a strange, creaking noise that has been nonstop since I laid down. Perhaps it was there when I first arrived, but the sound of the storm drowned it out. It is a slow sound, almost like something heavy swinging back and forth. Perhaps it is a long-dead relative trying to get my attention.

More tomorrow!