Eleanor Moor
Here we are, on the same bed as I wait for words to interrupt the silence, but it continues like this long dreary night. I watch you flip the pages of the weathered book, I can see how deeply you are immersed in its tales. Beyond the serenity placed in darkness, a lamp guides you to uncover the stories laced within those bulky paragraphs. Your eyes chase the words, and I try to fall asleep in the comfort of your presence.
The morning comes soon on the hill but the days never get warm. I asked Elise once,” Why this place? Why would she love a place this displeasing?” but she didn’t answer.
“They were like sisters. The day madam died, Elise lost half of her heart while sir lost his whole.” I have heard whispers like this floating around the house. ” Such a young girl with so much to give. ” “They were right. All the riches in the world can’t buy you happiness.”
Happiness... I thought.
EleMoore, that is what this hill is called. It owes its name to Eleanor Moore, the woman who loved it first. The brown earth and the ever-present cold attracted no one but Eleanor. In a place where even crows wouldn’t build their nest, Eleanor decided to build her home. Maybe the naked trees and their wrinkled branches whispered something in her ear or the winding roads that took forever to reach somewhere showed her a place that no one has ever seen.
I remember the day I set foot on EleMoore, dark clouds spiraled in the sky like a hungry snake searching for prey. I anticipated a huge storm that day, but after an hour of thunder and lightning, there was nothing but silence.
It took me a long time to get used to the peculiar weather. Here, the night and day blend into one, and the sun doesn’t decide when you sleep. A dense fog envelops the area and perhaps it is this fog that makes the place so cold. It has been two months since I arrived here and the place has never been kind to me. I was bedridden for two weeks, and only now did I gather the strength to move around the house.
There is nothing much to do here. The workers are like ants, each assigned a different task. I once tried helping Elise with the dishes but ended up breaking half a dozen plates. I was met with such a harsh glare that I have never dared to go near the sink again. Everyone here is particular with their task, there is a way to do everything, and if you don’t know the exact steps it is not worth trying. This is why I keep to myself. I wish I was like Edmund, then I could disappear into the study room. But for me, the words make lesser sense the deeper I dive into the subject.
I wonder what Elenor did with her time. I heard she loved to paint, but I haven’t seen any artwork around the house. Maybe there is a separate place to keep all that belonged to her, a room that is brighter. “Flowers... She only made flowers,” Elise told me once. The only things I hear from her are bits and pieces of Eleanor. Her sharp eyes dull down with every story that she tells. The type of love that she held for that woman, perhaps she never did for anyone. This is the same reason why she never sleeps through the night. She carries a lamp and roams around the hallways checking behind every door, hoping to see the ghost of Eleanor Moor.
