THE HOUSE OF HOLLOW SAINTS

THE HOUSE OF HOLLOW SAINTS

Chapter One

An Invitation to the Living

There are places that remember you, even when you have spent your entire life trying to forget them.

---

The letter arrived on a Thursday.

I remember this because it was raining, and because the clock above the kitchen door had stopped at 3:17 that morning. My mother had spent twenty minutes trying to repair it before eventually declaring that some things were simply not worth fixing.

She was wrong, of course.

Some things were worth fixing. Others were worth understanding.

And there were things that, once broken, should have been left that way.

The envelope was lying on the hallway table when I returned home that afternoon. It was an unusual thing, almost offensively elegant against the faded wood and the small collection of unpaid bills.

Thick ivory paper. A dark burgundy seal. My name written across the front in black ink.

Miss Elara Voss.

No return address.

I turned it over in my hands.

The envelope smelled faintly of something I couldn't identify. Old paper, perhaps. Or the sort of perfume that belonged to women who never had to ask the price of anything.

"Mother?"

There was no answer.

I slipped a finger beneath the envelope's edge and broke the seal.

Inside was a single sheet of paper, folded precisely in half.

Dear Miss Voss,

Following a review of your academic qualifications and previous archival experience, we would like to offer you a position as a private archivist at Ashbourne Hall, England.

The position includes accommodation, meals and a generous salary, with an initial contract of six months.

We believe your particular background makes you an exceptionally suitable candidate.

Should you wish to accept, arrangements will be made for your arrival.

Yours sincerely,

Vivienne Ashbourne.

I read it twice.

Then a third time.

Ashbourne Hall.

The name meant nothing to me.

At least, that was what I told myself.

I placed the letter on the table and reached for my phone. A quick search produced photographs of an enormous estate somewhere in the English countryside. Stone walls, tall windows, a private chapel and gardens that seemed to stretch beyond the horizon.

It was beautiful in the way old things sometimes were: expensive, preserved and entirely indifferent to the people who looked at them.

I scrolled through the photographs.

The Ashbournes appeared in several articles. An old aristocratic family with considerable wealth, a long history of charitable foundations and an almost impressive talent for avoiding public attention.

There was one photograph of the family.

A woman stood in the centre, silver-haired and perfectly dressed. Beside her were two young men, both dressed in dark suits.

The eldest looked directly into the camera.

His expression was unreadable.

I couldn't explain why I paused on his face.

Perhaps it was the stillness of it. He looked like someone who had learned very early that showing emotion was a form of surrender.

I closed the photograph.

A noise came from the kitchen.

My mother.

"Elara?"

"Yes?"

"What's that?"

I glanced towards the letter.

"An employment offer."

She appeared in the doorway, drying her hands on a dish towel.

"From where?"

I hesitated.

"Ashbourne Hall."

The towel slipped slightly between her fingers.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

It was a small reaction. Almost nothing. The sort of thing a stranger might have overlooked.

But I had spent twenty years learning the difference between my mother's silence and her discomfort.

This was the latter.

"What did you say?"

"Ashbourne Hall. It's in England."

She looked at the envelope.

"Don't accept it."

The answer came too quickly.

I frowned.

"Why?"

"Because I don't like it."

"You don't even know what it is."

"I know enough."

I studied her face. Her expression had settled into something carefully neutral, but her fingers were still gripping the towel.

"Have you heard of them?"

"No."

It was an immediate answer.

Too immediate.

I looked down at the letter again.

"Then why are you worried?"

My mother turned away.

"Some opportunities are not worth taking, Elara."

I wanted to ask her what she meant. I wanted to demand an explanation for the strange expression that had crossed her face.

Instead, I watched her return to the kitchen.

The conversation was over.

It was always over when she decided it was.

---

Three days later, I accepted the position.

Not because I particularly wanted to defy my mother, although the temptation was there. Nor because the salary was generous, although it was certainly difficult to ignore.

I accepted because something about the letter had unsettled me.

The phrase your particular background had remained in my mind.

I had submitted a résumé, academic records and two references. Nothing in those documents explained why I would be an exceptionally suitable candidate for a position in a private estate I had never visited.

I sent an email asking for clarification.

The reply arrived less than an hour later.

Your application was recommended to us by a trusted acquaintance.

No name.

No further explanation.

I should have withdrawn my application.

Instead, I booked my train.

---

The journey to Ashbourne Hall took considerably longer than I had expected.

By the time I left the train station, the rain had become a fine mist, settling over the countryside like a veil.

A black car waited near the entrance.

The driver stood beside it, holding a small card.

MISS VOSS.

I approached him.

"That's me."

He opened the rear door without asking another question.

"Good afternoon, Miss Voss."

His voice was polite, almost rehearsed.

"Good afternoon."

I placed my suitcase inside and followed him into the car.

For the first twenty minutes, the journey was uneventful. Narrow roads, distant villages, fields disappearing beneath the grey sky.

Then the driver turned onto a private road.

The trees grew taller.

Their branches intertwined above the car, blocking what little daylight remained. The road was lined with ancient stone pillars, each bearing the same carved emblem: a small crown above a circle of thorned branches.

I watched them pass.

"What does that symbol mean?"

The driver glanced at the mirror.

"An old family emblem, Miss."

"Of the Ashbournes?"

"Yes."

I waited for him to elaborate.

He didn't.

Eventually, the trees began to thin.

And there it was.

Ashbourne Hall.

I had seen photographs, but photographs had failed to communicate its size. The building stood at the end of a long gravel drive, its grey stone facade rising against the darkening sky.

Tall windows. Ornate balconies. A central tower.

To the left stood an old chapel, its bell tower visible above the trees.

The gardens were meticulously maintained, although several of the rose bushes appeared to have been left untouched for years.

It was not a welcoming house.

It was a house that expected visitors to behave themselves.

The car stopped.

I stepped outside and looked up.

For reasons I couldn't quite explain, I felt as though I had arrived somewhere I had been before.

Which was impossible.

I had never been to Ashbourne Hall.

I was certain of that.

---

The front doors opened before I could knock.

A woman stood in the entrance.

She was perhaps in her early sixties, dressed in a charcoal-grey uniform with a small silver brooch pinned to her collar. Her hair was neatly arranged, and her expression suggested that smiling was a privilege she had long since abandoned.

"Miss Voss?"

"Yes."

"Margaret Hale. Housekeeper."

She stepped aside.

"Please come in."

The entrance hall was enormous.

A black-and-white marble floor stretched beneath a vaulted ceiling, and a grand staircase divided into two symmetrical flights. Above it hung a chandelier that looked older than the house itself.

Portraits lined the walls.

Men. Women. Children.

All dressed in the fashions of another century.

I followed Margaret towards a long corridor.

"Mrs Ashbourne is expecting you," she said.

"Thank you."

"Your luggage will be taken upstairs."

"That's very kind."

She nodded.

We passed several doors. Some were open, revealing rooms filled with antique furniture and carefully arranged flowers.

Others were closed.

I noticed that one corridor, branching towards the western side of the house, was separated by a pair of dark wooden doors.

They were locked.

Not simply closed.

Locked.

I slowed down.

"What's down there?"

Margaret didn't turn.

"Private rooms."

"Are they used?"

"Not anymore."

There was something final about the answer.

I continued walking.

A few moments later, she stopped before a set of double doors.

"Mrs Ashbourne is inside."

She knocked twice.

"Come in," a woman's voice replied.

Margaret opened the door.

And I met Vivienne Ashbourne.

---

She stood beside the fireplace, holding a porcelain teacup.

Up close, she was even more striking than in the photographs. Her silver hair was arranged in a perfect chignon, and her dark dress was tailored so precisely that it seemed almost architectural.

Her eyes settled on me.

For a moment, she said nothing.

Then she smiled.

"Elara."

Not Miss Voss.

Elara.

"Welcome to Ashbourne Hall."

"Thank you for having me, Mrs Ashbourne."

"Vivienne, please."

She placed her cup on the table.

"Your journey was comfortable, I hope?"

"Very much so."

"Excellent."

She gestured towards a chair.

"Please. Sit."

I did.

She remained standing.

"I understand you have an interest in historical archives."

"Yes. I've always enjoyed working with old documents."

"How fortunate."

Her gaze moved over my face, lingering for a second longer than politeness required.

"You have your mother's eyes."

I felt my shoulders stiffen.

"I'm sorry?"

Vivienne's expression didn't change.

"Nothing. An observation."

I considered asking how she knew my mother.

Before I could, she continued.

"I trust Margaret has shown you your room. You'll find the estate rather quiet, particularly during the winter months."

"That's fine. I don't mind quiet."

"Most people say that before they experience ours."

She returned to her chair.

"Your responsibilities will primarily concern the family archives. There are several collections requiring organization, particularly those belonging to the late generations of the Ashbourne family."

"Of course."

"There is, however, one matter I must make perfectly clear."

I waited.

"The western wing is not part of your responsibilities."

I remembered the locked doors.

"May I ask why?"

"Because it is private."

"Understood."

She watched me for another moment.

Then, almost casually, she added:

"Curiosity is a rather expensive habit, Miss Voss."

I couldn't tell whether she was joking.

I wasn't sure I wanted to know.

---

I met Adrian Ashbourne at dinner.

He entered the dining room several minutes after I had taken my seat.

Tall. Dark-haired. Dressed in a black shirt with the sleeves buttoned neatly at the wrists.

He didn't look particularly surprised to see me.

In fact, he barely looked at me at all.

"Adrian," Vivienne said. "You're late."

"I wasn't aware we had guests."

"You were informed this morning."

"Then perhaps I forgot."

His eyes finally moved towards me.

There was a brief pause.

"Miss Voss."

"Mr Ashbourne."

He pulled out his chair.

"Have you settled in?"

"Quite comfortably, thank you."

"Good."

He unfolded his napkin.

"Then I hope you enjoy your stay."

Something about the way he said it made the sentence sound less like a welcome and more like a warning.

Sebastian arrived shortly afterwards, apologizing dramatically for the traffic despite having apparently spent the afternoon at home.

He was considerably more talkative than his brother.

"So," he said, looking towards me, "you're the new archivist."

"That's right."

"How unfortunate."

"Sebastian," Vivienne said.

"What? I'm only being honest."

He smiled at me.

"People who come here for temporary employment tend to discover that six months can feel rather long."

Adrian glanced at him.

"Perhaps you should try being useful for once."

"Perhaps you should try being pleasant."

I lowered my eyes to my plate, hiding a small smile.

For the remainder of dinner, the conversation revolved around business, charity events and several people whose names meant nothing to me.

I said very little.

But I noticed things.

Vivienne never asked Adrian questions.

Adrian never looked towards the portrait hanging above the fireplace.

And when Sebastian mentioned the family chapel, the atmosphere changed so subtly that I almost convinced myself I had imagined it.

Almost.

---

Margaret escorted me upstairs after dinner.

My bedroom was situated on the second floor, overlooking the gardens.

It was beautiful.

A large four-poster bed stood against the far wall, beside an antique writing desk. Heavy curtains framed the windows, and a small fireplace occupied the opposite corner.

On the desk sat a vase of fresh white roses.

I thanked Margaret as she prepared to leave.

"Will you need anything else, Miss?"

"No, thank you. Everything is lovely."

She nodded.

"Good night, then."

"Good night, Margaret."

She closed the door.

I stood in the middle of the room for a moment, listening to the silence.

Then I noticed something.

A small envelope had been placed beneath the vase.

It was cream-coloured, slightly yellowed with age.

Unlike the letter that had invited me here, this one had no seal.

Only three words written across its front.

For Elara Voss.

My name.

Again.

I picked it up.

Inside was a photograph.

It showed Ashbourne Hall, though the building looked different. The gardens were overgrown, the windows dark.

A young woman stood on the front steps.

Her face was turned slightly away from the camera.

I flipped the photograph over.

There was a date written in faded blue ink.

Twenty-two years ago.

Beneath it, in handwriting I didn't recognize, were six words.

She was never meant to return.

I read the sentence once.

Then again.

A strange feeling settled in my stomach.

I turned the photograph over and examined the woman's silhouette.

Something about her seemed familiar.

Not her face.

Her posture.

The way she held her hands.

I couldn't explain it.

A soft sound interrupted my thoughts.

Three knocks.

I looked towards the bedroom door.

"Yes?"

No answer.

I approached and opened it.

The corridor was empty.

I stepped outside, looking in both directions.

Nothing.

Then I noticed a small folded piece of paper on the carpet.

I picked it up.

It contained a single sentence.

Written in the same dark ink as the envelope downstairs.

You should have stayed away.

For a long moment, I simply stared at the words.

Then a voice came from behind me.

"Miss Voss."

I turned.

Adrian stood at the far end of the corridor.

His expression was unreadable.

His gaze moved from my face to the paper in my hand.

Something changed in his eyes.

Not surprise.

Recognition.

"Where did you get that?"

I looked down at the note.

"Someone left it outside my room."

He approached slowly.

"Give it to me."

"Why?"

"Because you don't understand what it means."

"Then perhaps you should explain."

His jaw tightened.

For the first time since I had met him, he seemed genuinely unsettled.

"Listen carefully," he said quietly. "There are things in this house that have nothing to do with you."

I looked at him.

"Then why does everyone keep acting as though they do?"

He didn't answer.

Instead, his eyes moved towards the photograph I was still holding.

And when he saw it, the colour seemed to leave his face.

"Where," he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, "did you find that?"

I didn't respond immediately.

Because suddenly, I understood something.

Adrian Ashbourne wasn't trying to keep me away from the western wing.

He was trying to keep me away from something much closer.

Something that had already found me.

---

That night, I slept very little.

At 3:17 a.m., the clock above the fireplace began ticking.

I sat upright.

It was the same time the clock at home had stopped.

And somewhere below me, behind the walls of Ashbourne Hall, a door closed.