Prologue
I remember the morning they found me. Most of that day was a blur, but I remember feeling so angry that they wouldn’t tell me what was going on. I was thirteen years old. Orphan from age three and tossed to and from foster families. I was spoiled to a fault. I wasn’t good at keeping friends. And I was living at a group home in Texas. I was different from the other boys in the home. I didn’t know at the time, but I wasn’t dumb.
An uncle I’ve never known existed, appeared out of the blue and claimed custody of me. I was more then shocked anyone would come for me. Well, it wasn’t him personally. He sent his housekeeper, Ms. Dunham. Wretched lady with a crooked nose and a huge mole. When she’s around, I can’t stop myself from thinking of a witch I’ve see in a movie. Ms. Dunham was sent to get me because my uncle was on some business trip or another.
Since I didn’t own very many belongings, Ms. Dunham didn’t waste time in getting me on a plane and across the country. We switched planes at some place called Hoover International, and then we were crossing the Atlantic ocean. I didn’t bother asking where my uncle was living. But when it finally occurred to me that this woman might be kidnapping me, I asked. Ms. Dunham merely rolled her eyes as if I was annoying her. But she answered my question.
“We’re arriving in England,” she had said, pointing to the Big Ben as we flew over London. She then started to give me a list of things I could and couldn’t do. No running in the house. No disturbing my uncle in his study. No intruding the house tours, which were every Saturday. Who gives house tours to people visiting the country?
When I realized just how well off my uncle was, I sort of understood.
It has been three years, six months and eighteen days since I’ve come to live with my uncle. Since the first day I stepped in the front door, I’ve been living it up. Ms. Dunham still thinks I should be in a boarding school, but my uncle won’t allow.
“He thinks you’ve done you time in group homes,” she says with a scoff. “Were you my child, that’s where you’d be. Boarding school.”
At least we have one thing in common. We can’t stand the sight of each other. Which is why I tend to hide away in my room. Or rather, Ms. Dunham is always sending me to my room.
My uncle owns a huge manor house with a lot of land surrounding it. He has servants and gardeners, the housekeeper, and even a private cook. I have three private tutors that live in the mansion and are paid to teach me. One for music and art, another for maths - that’s what he calls it, maths - and science, and a third for everything involving literature. They’re actually the best tutors someone like me could ask for, and not for their credentials. They have really helped me turn myself around.
When I’m not in my room, I’m outside exploring the grounds. The first few days I was here, I hated being outside. But now, sometimes I can’t wait to get out of the house. Ms. Dunham makes sure of that. Saturdays are the only days she sends me outside because she gives the house tours. I’ve snuck into a tour or two. And I always appear at the part in Ms. Dunham’s speech about the ghost.
Yeah, she tells a story about how many years ago - depending how long it’s been at the time she’s telling the story - a ghost came to live in the walls of the manor. Ms. Dunham always says the ghost came here because she - yeah, the ghost is a she - is comforting my uncle for the loss of his wife. Apparently, he adored his wife. And that was usually the time I’d leave the tour. The story would turn sappy.
But all that talk about a ghost left me curious. Because every night in my room, just when I am nodding off to sleep, there’s a howling or wailing. Like someone’s crying. The few times I’ve brought it up with anyone in the house, they would start stammering and tell me I was crazy.
“It’s just the wind,” they all said. Sure, “just the wind”. It’s more than obvious there’s a secret. But I leave it alone.
Where is my uncle in all of this? Usually, he’s away on a trip. Whether it’s for business or pleasure, he doesn’t like being at the manor. He called me to his study around three months after I’d arrived. At first, I’d been really scared that I was in trouble for something. That was usually the reason ANYONE had ever called me into an office. But then Uncle Archie, as he wishes I call him, brought out a brand new soccer ball. He called it ‘football’, which I didn’t know at the time meant ‘soccer’.
I’ve since loved playing football. I say it like a Brit and I’m proud of it. Now and then, when he is home, Uncle Archie asks for dinner to be served in the dining room. We talk about what I’ve been up to and he always tells me to keep up the good work. And then he disappears into his room for the rest of the time he’s at home.
It’s when Uncle Archie IS home that “the ghost” cries and wails the loudest. And it’s the most devastating sound. It haunts even the bravest of sixteen-year-olds. I consider myself brave, but I feel like my room is the closest to wherever the ghost is hiding. And my room is LITERALLY the last one in the west wing of the manor. One night, I thought for sure I had heard the ghost crying, “Daddy!”
Since that night, I’ve tried to sleep with some kind of sound to block out the wailing. But it doesn’t stop me from sitting up and listening.
