Chapter 1 - Tilly's Inheritence

Tilly August pulled the car up to the gate and pressed the remote. She waited, finger hovering to press it again when, finally, the gate shuddered and slowly swung open. Beside her, Anne glanced at the rusty hinges with a faint sigh.

"It probably hasn't been opened in a year," she said. "We're lucky it moved at all."

August House's surrounding land covered roughly five acres, a considerable expanse compared to its neighbors. When the house was first built in 1910, it stood at the northern edge of town, surrounded by forest and open land. Over the last hundred-plus years, the city had grown up around it, transforming the area into an upscale neighborhood. Now, August House was encircled by smaller but elegant homes, the largest of which sat on an acre of land. A high fence surrounded the August property, separating it from the surrounding neighborhood and lending it a sense of privacy.

They sat another few moments, watching as the gate creaked wider, allowing just enough space for the car to pass through. Tilly steered carefully up the cobblestone drive. The stones were uneven under the wheels. Some stones were worn smooth, while a few were missing. Overgrown trees cast deep shadows across the path, their branches almost close enough to brush the sides of the car as Tilly drove slowly forward.

The drive led to the front of the house, where Tilly stopped, staring up for a moment before shutting off the car. August House rose before them. Its brickwork faded to a muted red, with vines stretching across the walls. Windows framed in dark wood reflected the light unevenly. A couple panes had cracks spidering through the glass, perhaps from neighborhood kids throwing stones. The front porch, built with wide stone steps, extended beneath a high, sloping roof, the wood darkened with age and a scatter of moss creeping along the edges.

Anne glanced around as they got out of the car. Tilly retrieved their bags from the trunk and moved toward the steps. The iron railing felt cold and solid under her hand as she climbed. The stones beneath her feet showed signs of wear, slight grooves worn down where years of footsteps had passed.

At the top of the steps, the front door loomed large, thick wood with carved details around the frame, traces of old paint clinging to the grain. An iron knocker hung in the center, its surface dulled and marked by the elements. Tilly reached for the door handle, feeling its weight as she twisted it and pushed the door open, revealing the dim interior stretching beyond.

Anne lingered near the threshold, taking in the high ceiling and the long hallway extending to the back of the house. The entryway was wide, with a grand staircase leading up to the second floor. Faint patterns still clung to the wallpaper, but their colors had faded with time. Dust lingered in the air, floating in the beams of light that slipped in through the narrow windows.

They stepped inside, their footsteps echoing lightly against the wood floors. Dust motes floated in the streams of light that filtered through narrow windows, catching the particles in a hazy glow. Tilly flipped a nearby light switch, watching the dim bulb overhead flicker to life, casting a soft, uneven glow across the vast entry hall.

"It's been a few years, hasn't it?" Tilly murmured, moving to a cloth-draped armchair in the corner. She lifted the cover, revealing worn upholstery in deep green. "I remember playing with Clinton here when I was five or six. We'd play hide-and-seek, and I could never find him."

Anne nodded, trailing her fingers over the edge of a covered side table. "Your brother's always been good at making himself scarce."

Tilly moved toward the grand staircase, hand skimming the railing as she glanced back. "I wonder why Fred didn't leave him the house?"

Anne sniffed, watching her daughter test each step of the staircase, pressing her weight on the creaking boards. "He should have just let me take care of it. I could've sold it and given you your share of the money instead of making you feel so obligated."

"He wanted it to stay in the family," Tilly replied, trying not to sound defensive. She'd said those exact words to her mother at least twice already, but they felt right here.

Anne followed her slowly, casting a skeptical glance at the high ceiling and its intricate moldings. "There's just the three of us left," she pointed out. "This place was built to house a dozen at least, and more if needed. It's no place for a young woman to live alone."

Tilly paused by a doorway leading into a parlor, flipping the switch to reveal a chandelier shrouded in dust, its crystals barely catching the weak light. "You're welcome to live here too," she offered, aiming for a light tone. "I wouldn't mind."

Anne shook her head, almost to herself. "No chance of that. I wouldn't want to spend another night in this house. It's old and creaky, and it smells like…" She paused, giving a delicate sniff. "…old wood and damp."

Tilly wandered into the parlor, noting the musty scent that filled the air, a mixture of wood, leather, and a faint trace of mildew. She turned a brass knob on a side door, which led down to the kitchen, and twisted the faucet. After a few sputters, water gushed out, rusty at first, before running clear.

"I like the smell of old wood," Tilly said quietly, almost to herself, letting her fingers trail along the countertop's grain, each nick and scratch a reminder of years past.

Anne stayed by the entryway, watching as Tilly moved through the space, opening cabinets, inspecting furniture under dust sheets, and flipping switches as they went along. Tilly reached up to pull down a heavy, dark curtain, revealing the whole stretch of windows, each glass panel tinged with a layer of grime.

"It's going to take work, Tilly," Anne said, her tone softening slightly. She touched the edge of a door frame, feeling the smooth wood beneath her fingers. "A lot of it."

Tilly only nodded, moving toward the wide bay window at the far end of the room. The view overlooked the back garden, overgrown but holding an undeniable shape beneath the wildness. The garden behind August House had once been the crowning glory of the estate, a carefully curated blend of nature and design that seemed almost magical in her childhood memory. It stretched over two acres, with paths that twisted and turned through beds of vibrant flowers, hedges, towering trees, and quiet, shaded nooks. Now, the garden had grown wild, with branches curling and stretching wherever they pleased, but beneath the overgrowth, Tilly could still make out the outlines of what it had been.

She remembered the old granite benches, their surfaces smooth and cool beneath her as she and Clinton used to sit and listen to Uncle Fred’s stories. He would set up a small table between the benches, with a silver platter holding glasses of iced tea and a stack of neatly made sandwiches. Fred would weave tales of fairies and ghosts, heroes and villains—all of them wandering the garden, having adventures that played out under the trees and around the fountain. He spoke of brave knights who would challenge the spirits of the garden to tests of wit and courage, of fairies who lived within the flowers and cast spells on unsuspecting visitors, and of ghosts who watched over the paths, waiting for someone worthy of their secrets. His stories always made the garden seem enchanted, as if the magic he described was still there, lingering among the branches and flowerbeds.

At the garden's center stood the fountain—at least, that’s how Tilly remembered it—a bare-breasted faerie woman poised on tiptoe, wings reaching toward the sky, her arms extended as if ready to take flight. In her memories, the fountain had always been flowing, water sparkling in the sunlight and sending a soft murmur across the garden. It was easy to imagine the faeries Fred described, flitting through the flowers or resting on the edge of the fountain, hidden from view but present just the same.

"He used to tell me those stories. About fairies, ghosts, and heroes wandering through the garden. It always felt like some kind of fairy tale," Tilly said, her eyes drifting to a framed portrait hanging crookedly on the wall. The glass was clouded, and she could barely make out the figures within—distant relatives, perhaps, frozen in sepia smiles.

Anne August stared out at the garden, her gaze following the tangled vines that climbed up the trellis. Then a slight scowl flashed across her face. "He did the same to me. It gave me nightmares." She shook her head, her fingers brushing against the faded floral wallpaper that was peeling at the edges.

Tilly decided not to go any further with that line of conversation. She shifted her weight, looking up at the ceiling where an old water stain spread like a faded map. "I’m going to go upstairs and see if there’s a bedroom that’s usable."

Anne's eyes followed the dust floating in the dim light. "There’s six on the second floor and two on the top. My old room is the one with the Echo and the Bunnymen posters," she said, her lips curving into a faint smile.

"Were they famous back in the olden days?" Tilly asked with a grin, her eyes glancing toward a dusty bookshelf filled with forgotten, leaning volumes.

"The olden days," Anne repeated with a sigh, her hand brushing across a windowsill, leaving a clean streak in the dust. "Back before cable TV."

"What’s cable TV?" Tilly teased, her smile widening as she pushed open a door leading to a narrow hallway. The wallpaper here was even more faded, a strip of it hanging loose and fluttering slightly in the draft.

"Wait until you see all the videotapes," her mother said, leaning against the doorframe. "My father did a lot of recording those last few years."

"I can't wait to see them," Tilly said, her voice softening as she glanced back at her mother, then up the staircase. She started toward the stairs, her fingers trailing along the banister, brushing away some dust.

The two went through the upper floors, finding them far more cluttered than the downstairs. Boxes were stacked against walls, old furniture crowded the hallways, and books spilled out of shelves onto the floor. Only Anne's old room appeared to have avoided being stuffed with an assortment of forgotten curios and furniture, its faded posters still clinging to the walls amidst the mess.

Anne sighed as she looked around, a mix of nostalgia and resignation in her expression. "Well, I'm ready to head out. How about we grab dinner at The Salt Grotto?"

Tilly nodded, her gaze lingering on the cluttered rooms. There was so much to sort through, but she found herself already considering where to begin—maybe clearing the hallway first, or making space in one of the bedrooms. "Yeah, that sounds good," she replied, giving her mother a small smile.

They walked to the front door, the heavy wood creaking slightly as Tilly pulled it open. The late afternoon sunlight spilled into the dim interior, highlighting the dust and forgotten corners. She paused briefly, her eyes catching on the shadowed outlines of furniture, then stepped outside, feeling the weight of the day lift as she moved onto the stone steps.

Anne followed, closing the door behind them. "Let's get something to eat," she said, giving Tilly a sideways glance. "You’ll need your energy."

Tilly smiled, nodding as they headed toward the car.