**Diary Entry 12th October**
The phone rang as I stood by the stove, scrambling eggs. The kitchen smelled of butter and a pinch of thyme. Wiping my hands on a tea towel, I scowled at the unfamiliar number flashing on the screen.
Hello? I answered briskly, keeping one eye on the pan.
A calm voice replied, Mr. Whitmore, this is your family solicitor. Theres a matter of inheritance requiring your attention. Could you come by tomorrow morning to sign some papers?
I hesitated. My parents were alive and wellwhat inheritance could there be? Too puzzled to argue, I simply muttered agreement and hung up.
The next morning was damp, the kind of grey mist that clings to London like a second skin. As I drove through the city, confusion turned to irritation. The solicitor stood waiting at the office door, his expression unreadable.
Come in, Oliver. I know this is unusual, but its not the sort of thing to discuss over the phone.
The office was eerily quiet, the usual hum of activity absent. I sat opposite his desk, arms crossed.
This concerns your uncleAlistair Whitmore.
I dont have an uncle by that name, I said flatly.
Nevertheless, hes left you his entire estate. He slid an old key, a faded map, and an address across the desk. A house on the water. Its yours now.
Youre joking.
It stands in the middle of Lake Windermere, in the Lake District.
I picked up the keyheavy, tarnished. Id never heard of the man or the place. Yet something inside me stirred, curiosity outweighing doubt.
An hour later, Id packed a rucksack with essentials. According to the satnav, the lake was just over an hours drive away. How had I never known of it?
When the road ended, the lake stretched before mestill, glassy, shrouded in mist. And there, in its centre, stood the housedark, imposing, as though it had risen from the depths.
Elderly locals sat outside a nearby pub, nursing pints. I approached them.
Excuse methat house on the lake. Do you know who lived there?
One man set down his glass slowly. We dont speak of that place. Never go near it. Shouldve been gone years ago.
But someone mustve lived there?
Never saw a soul. Only heard boats at night. Supplies delivered, but no one knows by whom. And we dont ask.
At the jetty, a sign read Margarets Boats. Inside, a weary-eyed woman eyed me warily.
I need a boat to that house, I said, showing the key. Its mine now.
No one goes there, she said firmly. Frightens folksme included.
But I pressed until she relented. Fine. Ill take you. But I wont wait. Be back tomorrow.
The house loomed like a relic as we approached. The jetty groaned underfoot. Margaret secured the boat.
Here you are, she muttered.
I barely had time to thank her before she pushed off. Good luck. Hope youre still here tomorrow. Then she vanished into the mist.
Alone, I turned the key. The door creaked open.
Inside, the air was musty yet clean. Sunlight filtered through heavy curtains, illuminating portraits. One stood outa man by the lake, the house behind him. The inscription read: Alistair Whitmore, 1964.
The library walls were lined with books, margins crammed with notes. A study held a telescope and stacks of weather logsthe most recent, last month.
What was he watching? I whispered.
The bedroom held dozens of stopped clocks. On the dresser, a locketinside, a baby photo labelled Whitmore.
Was he watching me? My family?
A note on the mirror read: Time uncovers what was buried.
In the attic, newspaper clippings filled boxes. One circled in red: Boy from Kent vanishes. Found unharmed days later. The year1997. My stomach dropped. That was me.
In the dining room, a single chair was pulled out. On it lay my school photo.
This isnt just odd anymore, I muttered, head spinning.
I ate tinned beans from the pantry and retreated to a guest room. The sheets were crisp, as if waiting. Moonlight glinted on the lake, the house humming with quiet energy.
Sleep wouldnt come. Too many questions. Who was Alistair? Why had no one mentioned him? And why this fixation on me?
When I finally dozed, the house grew darkerthe kind where floorboards sound like footsteps, shadows like spectres.
A metallic clang jolted me awake. Another noiselike a door slamming downstairs. No signal on my phone. Only my own reflection, wide-eyed in the screen.
Flashlight in hand, I crept into the hall.
Shadows thickened. Books in the library sat slightly askew. The study door hung open. A cold draft seeped from behind a tapestry.
I pulled it asidean iron door.
No, I breathed, but my hand found the handle.
The door opened to a spiral staircase descending beneath the lake. The air grew damp, thick with salt and age.
Below, cabinets lined a corridor. Labels read: Genealogy, Letters, Expeditions. One drawer: Whitmore.
Inside, letters to my father.
I tried. Why wont you respond? This mattersfor Oliver
He didnt vanish, I whispered. He wrote. He wanted to know me.
At the corridors end, another door: Authorised Personnel Only. Whitmore Archive. No handlejust a palm scanner. A note beside it: For Oliver Whitmore. Only him.
I pressed my palm.
A click. Light flooded the room. A projector flickered to life, casting a mans silhouette on the wall.
Grey-haired, weary-eyed, he looked straight at me.
Hello, Oliver. If youre seeing this, Im gone.
Alistair Whitmore.
Im your true father. Your mother and I we made mistakes. We were scientists, obsessed with saving the world. She died in childbirth. And I I was afraid. Afraid of what I might become. So I gave you to my brother. He gave you a family. But I never stopped watching. From here. From afar.
I sank onto a bench, numb.
It was you all along.
His voice wavered.
I feared breaking you, but you grew strongkinder than I ever was. This house is yours now. A chance. Forgive mefor silence, for cowardice, for being near yet never there.
The screen darkened.
I dont know how long I sat there. Eventually, I climbed back upstairs. By dawn, Margaret waited at the jetty.
All right? she asked.
I am now, I said softly. I understand.
I went home. My parents listened in silence, then held me tight.
Forgive us, Mum whispered. We thought it best.
Thank you, I said. I know it wasnt easy.
That night, my ceiling was the same. But nothing else was.
Weeks later, I returnednot to live, but to restore. The house became the Whitmore Centre for Climate Research. Children laughed in its halls. Neighbours visited. No longer a vault of secrets, it breathed life again.
