Speaker 1: Calaroga Shark Media.
Speaker 2: Hello and welcome to Romance Weekly. This episode is titled
Whispers in the Dark, Part One, The Inheritance.
Speaker 1: I never believed in ghosts, not until I inherited Blackwood Estate.
My name is Elise Morgan, and three weeks ago I
was living my perfectly ordinary life in the city, working
as an art restorer, dating occasionally, and spending too much
on coffee. Then a letter arrived from a law firm
i'd never heard of, informing me that a distant relative,
a great uncle I didn't even know existed, had left
me his entire estate, including a sprawling Victorian mansion on
the coast of Maine. I remember laughing when I read
the letter, things like this don't happen to people like me.
But they verified everything, and a week later I found
myself driving up a winding coastal road, watching as Blackwood
Estate emerged from the mist like something from a Gothic novel.
The house was imposing, three stories of weathered stone and
dark wood, with a tower on one side and a
wrap around porch that had seen better days, the kind
of place that looks like it's watching you approach. I
sat in my car for nearly twenty minutes before I
worked up the courage to go inside. Mister Holloway, the
estate attorney, met me at the door with a heavy
iron key that looked more like it belonged to a
medieval dungeon than a house. He was eager to leave,
I noticed, kept looking at his watch, mentioning the long
drive back to Portland. He handed me a thick folder
of documents, muttered something about the caretaker coming by weekly,
and was gone before I could ask half the questions
swimming in my head. And then I was alone in
a house that creaked and whispered with every gust of
wind off the ocean. That first afternoon, I wandered from
room to room, running my fingers over dusty surfaces, opening
curtains to let in what little sunlight penetrated the heavy clouds.
The furniture was mostly covered with sheets, creating ghostly silhouettes
throughout the house. The place felt preserved in time, not
quite the nineteenth century, but certainly nothing newer than the
nineteen thirties. In the library, I found shelves of leather
bound books and a desk with papers still arranged, as
if someone had just stepped away. In the parlor, a
grand piano stood silent beneath its cover. The kitchen was
a strange mix of antiquated fixtures and appliances that had
been modern sometime during the Kennedy administration. But it was
the main staircase that drew me most, a sweeping curve
of dark mahogany leading to the upper floors. I climbed slowly,
aware of each step, groaning beneath my weight, as if
the house was recognizing me, evaluating me. The second floor
held bedrooms, one grand master suite, and three smaller rooms,
all with their own distinct character. The master bedroom featured
an enormous four poster bed, draped with heavy velvet curtains,
now faded but once a deep crimson. The attached bathroom
contained a claw foot tub big enough to swim in.
I chose one of the smaller bedrooms to sleep in
that night. Something about the master suite felt too intimate,
too presumptuous, as if I would be intruding on someone
else's space. I unpacked my suitcase and placed my toiletries
in the adjoining bathroom, making a small island of my
belongings in this ocean of someone else's history. By the
time darkness fell, I had managed to figure out the
ancient heating system, make a quick dinner from the supplies
i'd brought, and open a bottle of wine i'd picked
up on the drive. I sat by one of the
large windows in the library, watching the moon rise over
the ocean, casting a silver path across the water to
the shore below the house. I must have dozed off
in the chair, because I woke with a start. The
wine glass empty beside me, and the fire burned down
to embers. The house was utterly silent except for the
distant sound of waves, and yet I had the strangest
feeling that some thing had awakened me, a sound, a presence.
I shivered and headed upstairs to my chosen bedroom. The
house was cold now, and I hurried through my nighttime
routine before slipping beneath the heavy quilt on the bed.
Despite my exhaustion, sleep didn't come easily. Every unfamiliar sound,
the settling of old wood, the rattling of windows in
the sea breeze, jerked me back to wakefulness. When I
finally did drift off, my dreams were unusual, vivid in
a way I'd never experienced before. I dreamed I was
still in the house, but it was different, warmer lived in.
I was walking through the hallways, drawn towards something I
couldn't name. The air felt charged, as if a storm
was approaching. I came to the door of the master bedroom,
closed in my waking exploration, but now slightly ajar. A
warm light spilled from the crack, and I could smell
something woodsy and masculine, sandalwood perhaps, and beneath it the
metallic tang of the sea. I pushed the door open
in that dream, and the bedroom beyond was transformed. The
sheets on the four poster bed were turned down invitingly.
A fire crackled in the fireplace, and standing by the window,
looking out at the same moonlit ocean I had observed earlier,
was a man. He turned when I entered, and something
in my chest tightened. He was tall, broad shouldered, with
dark hair swept back from a face that managed to
be both classically handsome and utterly unique. His eyes caught
the firelight. Were they gray blue? I couldn't tell. Clothing
from another era, a white shirt open at the collar,
dark trousers, suspenders, the kind of casual elegance men don't
manage anymore. You came, he said, and his voice was
like warm, honey, rich and soothing. I've been waiting, dream
Me wasn't surprised. Dream Me moved toward him, as if
this midnight rendezvous was expected anticipated. I felt a surging
heat that had nothing to do with the fire and
everything to do with the way his eyes traveled over
my body, which I now realized was clad only in
a thin silk nightgown I definitely don't own in real life.
He reached for me, his hand cupping my cheek. His
touch was cool, but not cold, sending electric shivers down
my spine. Who are you, I whispered. His smile was slow, secretive.
You know who I am, Elice. This is my home,
and now it's yours. He leaned down, his lips hovering
just above mine, and I felt myself rise up on
my toes, desperate to close that final distance. And then
I woke with a gasp, my heart pounding, my skin
flushed and over sensitive. The room was dark and cold,
no trace of firelight or mysterious stranger, just me alone
in a strange house, tangled in sheets that seemed too confining.
I got up and went to the bathroom, splashing cold
water on my face. In the mirror, my reflection looked
altered somehow, my eyes too bright, my cheeks flushed, my
lips slightly swollen, as if I'd been kissed. I told
myself it was just the disorientation of sleeping in a
new place, the stress of all the sudden changes in
my life. I didn't get back to sleep that night.
The next morning I decided to explore the grounds. The
estate included several acres of land, most of it wild
and overgrown, sloping down to a private stretch of Rocky Beach.
The day was cool but clear, the kind of crisp
autumn weather that makes New England famous. I wrapped myself
in a sweater and walked the perimeter of the property,
trying to clear my head. Behind the house, I found
a small cemetery, just a dozen or so headstones, enclosed
by a wrought iron fence. Family plots like this aren't
uncommon with old estates, but something drew me inside the gate.
Most of the stones were old, dating back to the
mid eighteen hundreds, all bearing the Blackwood name, but one
stone was newer than the rest. The engraving still sharp
and clear. Alexander Blackwood eighteen ninety one to nineteen twenty,
not lost but waiting. Something about that epitaph sent a
chill through me. I knelt beside the grave, tracing the
letters with my fingertip. Alexander Blackwood. The name resonated in
my mind, stirring something I couldn't quite place. When I
returned to the house, I was determined to learn more
about the family whose home I'd inherited. The library seemed
the logical place to start. I spent hours going through
books and papers, piecing together the history of the Blackwoods.
They had been shipbuilders originally, then expanded into other industries,
always wealthy, often controversial. The last of the line, according
to what I could find, was indeed Alexander Blackwood, who
had inherited the estate in nineteen twelve. There wasn't much
about him specifically, though I did find a few newspaper
clippings mentioning his return from Europe after the Great War,
and then a brief obituary from nineteen twenty, stating only
that he had passed unexpectedly at his home. No cause
of death given, no surviving family mentioned. I was about
to give up my search when I noticed a small
door behind the library shelves, the kind that might lead
to a storage closet. It was locked, but I remembered
the ring of keys mister Holloway had given me. After
trying several, I found one that fit. The room beyond
was small, windowless, and filled with dust. But unlike the
rest of the house, which had been maintained to some
degree over the years, this space felt truly abandoned. Boxes
and trunks were stacked against the walls. A desk stood
in one corner, its surface covered with papers turned yellow
with age. I switched on my phone's flashlight moved carefully
into the room. The air was stale, difficult to breathe.
On one wall hung a cloth covered frame. Curious, I
pulled the covering away, releasing a cloud of dust that
made me cough. When the air cleared, I found myself
staring at a portrait a man in his late twenties
or early thirties, painted in the style of the early
twentieth century. Dark hair swept back from a strong, featured face,
eyes that seemed to capture the light even through the
layer of dust on the canvas. He wore formal attire,
a dark suit with a high collar, but there was
something in his expression that suggested restrained intensity, passion kept
carefully in check. I stepped closer, my heart suddenly racing.
I knew this face beneath the formal attire and serious
expression of the portrait, this was unmistakably the man from
my dream, Alexander Blackwood. I stumbled backward, my heel catching
on something, a trunk maybe, and I fell hard, my
head striking the corner of the desk. Pain exploded behind
my eyes, and for a moment everything went dark. When
my vision cleared, I was still on the floor of
the hidden room, but I wasn't alone. He stood in
the doorway, exactly as he'd appeared in my dream, casual shirt, suspenders,
that same intense gaze. He looked at me with concern,
then glanced at the uncovered portrait. You found me, he
said simply. I scrambled to my feet, ignoring the throbbing
in my head. Who are you? What is this? He smiled,
and the temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees.
I told you last night, Elise, this is my home,
he gestured to the portrait, and that is or was
me Alexander Blackwood, at your service. This isn't happening, I whispered.
I hit my head. I'm hallucinating, You're not, he said.
Stepping closer, I could see now that there was something
not quite solid about him. The edges of his form
seemed to waver slightly, like heat rising from pavement. And
there's no need to be afraid. I've been waiting for
you for a very long time, waiting for me. What
are you talking about. I'd never heard of this place
until three weeks ago. His expression softened. And yet here
you are, in my house, in my life, or what
remains of it. He reached out as if to touch
my face, just as he had in the dream, but stopped. Sure,
there are things you need to know, Elise, things about
this house, about what happened here, about why you're here now.
I backed away until I hit the wall. The portrait
of Alexander seemed to watch me accusingly. This isn't real,
You're not real, I assure you. I am quite real,
different from what I once was, but real. Nonetheless, his
voice had that same hypnotic quality from my dream. And tonight,
when you sleep, I'll show you just how real I
can be. He began to fade before my eyes, becoming transparent,
then nothing more than a shimmer in the dusty air. Wait.
I called out, surprising myself, what happened to you? How
did you die? His voice came from everywhere and nowhere,
just a whisper in my ear. That's what we need
to discover together, because I don't think I was meant
to die at all. And then he was gone, leaving
me alone with the portrait and the growing certainty that
whatever I'd inherited with Blackwood Estate was far more complicated
than just a house. I spent the rest of the
day in a daze, alternating between convincing myself i'd imagine
the whole encounter and frantically researching ways to cleanse a
house of spirits. By evening, I'd settled somewhere in the middle,
not fully accepting that I'd seen a ghost, but not
quite able to dismiss the experience either. As darkness fell,
I found myself drawn to the master bedroom, the room
that in my dream had been his. I stood in
the doorway for a long time before gathering the courage
to enter. The room was just as I'd left it
the day before. Sheets covering the furniture, curtains, drawn dust
motes dancing in the beam of my flashlight. I approached
the massive bed and slowly pulled away the sheet that
covered it. The bedding beneath was faded, but still beautiful,
dark blue silk that must have once been sumptuous. I
ran my hand over the surface, trying to imagine what
it would feel like to sleep here, to dream here.
Against all better judgment, I found myself preparing for bed
in this room instead of the one I'd chosen the
night before. I told myself it was just curiosity, just
a way to prove to myself that I'd imagined the
whole thing. But as I slipped between those cool silk
sheets and stared up at the canopy above, I knew
I was hoping to see him again, to dream of
Alexander Blackwood. And as I drifted towards sleep, I could
have sworn I heard his voice, soft and intimate in
the darkness. Welcome home, Elise, We have so much to
discover together.
Speaker 2: Romance Weekly is a production of Calaroga Shark Media executive
producers Mark Francis and John McDermott. Portions of this podcast
may have been created with the assistance of Ai
Speaker 1: Calaroga Shark Media