Speaker 1: Calarogu Shark Media.
Speaker 2: Hello and welcome to Romance Weekly. This episode is titled
Whispers in the Dark, Part two, The Visitation.
Speaker 1: I should have left Blackwood Estate that first day, any
rational person would have. But there's something about this house,
about him that keeps me here, like a moth drawn
to a flame, knowing the danger but unable to resist
the light. It's been a week since I discovered Alexander's
portrait and saw his ghost in that hidden room, a
week of restless days and extraordinary nights. That first night
in his bed changed everything. I'd fallen asleep, half expecting,
half hoping to dream of him again. What happened was
so much more. In the dream, I found myself in
the same bedroom, but transformed as it had been before,
warm lived in with firelight dancing on the walls. I
was wearing that same silk nightgown, my hair loose around
my shoulders. Alexander was waiting. He stood by the fireplace,
one hand resting on the mantle, watching me with those
intense eyes that seemed to shift between gray and blue.
You came back, he said, his voice both pleased and surprised.
I'm curious, I admitted about you about this house, About
why I'm dreaming of a man who died a hundred
years ago. He moved toward me with that fluid grace.
I was beginning to recognize. Are you certain this as
a dream? Elise? Before I could answer, he reached for
my hand. When our skin touched, it was like electricity
arking between us. His fingers were cool at first, then
warmed rapidly against mine. I gasped at the sensation. Does
that feel like a dream, he murmured, his thumb tracing
circles on my palm. I couldn't speak. Every nerve ending
in my body seemed to be focused on that single
point of contact. He stepped closer, his free hand coming
up to brush my hair back from my face. I've
been alone in this house for so long, he said, quietly,
watching people come and go, caretakers, the occasional relative checking
on their inheritance. No one stayed, No one could see
me until you Why me? I managed to ask. His
smile was both tender and predatory. I don't know yet,
but I intend to find out. He leaned down, and
when his lips met mine, it was like being consumed
by fire. I felt it everywhere a rush of heat
that made me dizzy. His arms encircled me, pulling me
against him until I could feel every hard plane of
his body. I wound my arms around his neck, surrendering
to the kiss, to the impossible reality of it. When
he finally pulled away, we were both breathing hard. Tell
me this isn't real, he challenged, his voice rough. I couldn't.
Everything in me recognized the truth that whatever was happening
transcended ordinary dreams, that Alexander Blackwood was more than a ghost,
more than a figment of my imagination. He led me
to the bed, and what followed was the most intense
experience of my life. His touch was everywhere, alternating between
gentle and demanding. He knew exactly how to make me gasp,
how to make me plead, and when finally we joined,
it was as if some circuit had been completed between us,
past and present, life and death, reality and dream, all
fusing into one overwhelming sensation. Afterward, as I lay in
his arms, watching the firelight play across the ceiling, he
told me about the house, how it had been in
his family for generations, how he had modernized it after
returning from the war, He spoke of his time in Europe,
the horrors he'd witnessed, the relief of coming home to
this quiet place by the sea. I had plans, he said,
his fingers tracing patterns on my bare shoulder. I was
going to transform this property, make it a place of
beauty and peace after all that ugliness. What happened? I asked,
His expression darkened. I'm not entirely sure. My memories of
my final days are fragmented. I know there was danger.
I know I tried to protect something important, and then nothing,
just darkness until I became aware again, trapped in this house,
watching the world move on without me. I wanted to
ask more, but dawn was approaching. I could feel it
tugging at the edges of our shared reality. You're leaving,
he said, not a question, but a statement of fact.
I'll come back, I promised, and as the dream faded
around me, the last thing I saw was his face,
hopeful and haunted in equal measure. I woke that morning
to find the sheets tangled around my body, my skin hypersensitive,
my muscles pleasantly saw as if as if what had
happened in the dream had physically affected me, And there
on my shoulder was a mark, a small bruise where
Alexander's fingers had gripped me in the height of passion.
Physical evidence of an encounter that should have been impossible.
That was a week ago. Every night since I've returned
to Alexander's bed, to his arms, each encounter more intense
than the last, each morning bringing more evidence that what's
happening transcends normal dreams. A pattern of fingerprints on my hip,
the taste of him lingering on my lips once, a
streak of coal dust on my back from where he'd
pressed me against the fireplace in our urgency. During the
days I've thrown myself into researching Alexander and the history
of Blackwood Estate, I found the local Historical Society, a
small operation run out of what used to be the
town hall. The curator there, a woman named Martha Hodges
in her seventies, was initially delighted to help until I
mentioned the name Blackwood. What's your interest in that family?
She asked, her, earlier warmth evaporating. I gave her a
simplified version of the truth that I'd inherited the estate
and was curious about its history. She studied me for
a long moment before sighing, well, I suppose you have
a right to know, Being the new owner and all.
She disappeared into a back room and returned with a
box of files. These are newspaper clippings, correspondents, and other
documents related to the Blackwoods, not much from recent decades.
The family died out, as I'm sure you know, I
spent hours going through those files, piecing together the history
of the family. The Blackwoods had indeed been shipbuilders, originally
becoming wealthy during the Hayden Day of Maine's maritime industry.
Alexander's grandfather had expanded into lumber and real estate. His
father had been something of a black sheep, spending more
time in Europe than at home, depleting much of the
family fortune. Alexander himself appeared to have been well respected,
a war hero who returned home to restore the family
name and businesses. There were several articles about his philanthropic efforts,
his plans to develop parts of his land into public gardens.
He was described as private but generous, a true gentleman
of refined taste, and in one Society column, one of
the most eligible bachelors on the coast, despite his mysterious air,
and then abruptly his obituary from November nineteen twenty, just
as I'd seen before, It stated only that he had
passed unexpectedly at his home. No details, no cause of death.
I asked Martha about it directly. The newspaper doesn't say
how he died. Was there an accident? She glanced around,
as if checking whether anyone could overhear, though we were
alone in the small museum. There's always been talk, she said, quietly,
nothing official, mind you, But stories get passed down. What
kind of stories? I pressed? Some say it was suicide,
that the war affected him more than people knew. Others
whisper about foul play. He'd made enemies in business, apparently.
And then there are the other stories, other stories, Martha
looked uncomfortable, local legends, superstitions. Some folks claimed he dabbled
in things he shouldn't have, old knowledge, the kind seafaring
men sometimes brought back from distant ports. You mean like
a cult practices, I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
I wouldn't know about such things, she said, primly, But
there were rumors, strange lights at the estate, Visitors who
arrived after dark and left before dawn. Items ordered from
foreign countries, artifacts, books in languages no one recognized. She
leaned closer, and after he died, people reported seeing him
or someone who looked like him, walking the grounds of
the estate. The property stood empty for years because no
one would buy it. My heart was racing. Do you
believe those stories? Martha straightened up. It doesn't matter what
I believe, but I will say this. That house has
never been good for anyone who lived in it, not
since Alexander Blackwood's time. She began packing away the files
with trembling hands. If I were you, my dear, I'd
sell it, take the money, and go somewhere sunny, somewhere new.
I thanked her for her help and left my mind
whirling outside. The day had turned gray and threatening, heavy
clouds hanging low over the harbor. It matched my mood perfectly.
I drove back to the estate, slowly processing what I'd learned.
By the time I turned onto the private road leading
to the house, rain was falling in sheets. The mansion
loomed ahead, dark against the stormy sky. For the first
time since arriving, I felt a flicker of fear, not
of Alexander. Never of him, but of what might have
happened in this house, of what might still be here,
lingering in the shadows. I parked and made a dash
for the front door, fumbling with my keys as rain
soaked through my jacket. Once inside, I stood dripping in
the foyer, listening to the silence of the house. It
felt different, now, watchful, almost as if the walls themselves
were aware of my new knowledge. Alexander, I called out,
my voice, echoing in the empty space, Are you here?
No answer came. I'd never been able to summon him
during waking hours. Our encounters remained confined to that dream
world we shared at night, But sometimes I felt his presence,
a subtle shift in the air that told me I
wasn't alone. Not today, the house felt empty, abandoned even
by its ghost. I spent the afternoon in the library,
going through more of the books and papers there, searching
for any clue about Alexander's dabbling in the occult. I
found nothing explicit, though several volumes on ancient mythology and
esoteric philosophy suggested his interests may have extended beyond the conventional.
As evening approached, I built a fire in the library fireplace,
and sat watching the flames, a glass of wine in hand.
The storm had intensified, wind howling around the eaves of
the house, rain lashing against the windows. It was the
kind of night where the barrier between worlds felt thin, permeable.
I must have dozed off, because I jerked awake to
find the fire burned down to embers and my wineglass empty.
The storm had passed, leaving an eerie silence in its wake.
Something had awakened me, a sound, a presence. I turned
toward the library door and saw a woman standing there, elderly,
dressed in clothing that might have been fashionable fifty years ago.
Her face was lined, but still handsome, her white hair
pulled back in a severe bun. You need to leave
this house, she said, without preamble, before it's too late.
I stood, my heart pounding. Who are you? How did
you get in here? She ignored my questions. He'll destroy you,
just as he was destroyed. It's what it wants, what
it's always wanted. What who wants? Are you talking about, Alexander?
A look of pity crossed her face. Alexander was a victim,
just as you'll be if you stay. He doesn't mean
to harm you, he never did, but he's bound to
this place, to its hunger. I don't understand, I said,
taking a step toward her. Please explain what you mean,
but she backed away. I've said too much already. It
knows I'm here. She glanced around, fearfully. Find his journal,
the hidden one that will tell you what you need
to know. Before I could stop her, she turned and
hurried down the hallway toward the front door. I ran
after her, calling for her to wait, But by the
time I reached the foyer, the front door was standing open,
cold night air rushing in, and the woman was gone.
I stepped onto the porch, looking out into the darkness.
The driveway was empty, no car, no footprints in the
mud that might indicate which way she'd gone. It was
as if she'd vanished into thin air. I closed and
locked the door, then leaned against it, trying to calm
my racing heart. Who was she, how had she gotten
into the house, and what did she mean about Alexander
being bound to this place? Find his journal, she'd said,
the hidden one. I spent the next few hours searching
the house, focusing on the master bedroom and the library,
places where Alexander might have kept personal papers, I found
nothing that resembled a journal. Exhausted and frustrated, I finally
returned to the master bedroom well after midnight. Despite the
strange warning, I couldn't bring myself to sleep anywhere else,
not when sleeping in his bed was my only way
to connect with Alexander to ask him about the woman's
cryptic words. I changed into my nightgown and slipped between
the sheets, hoping that tonight, like every night since my arrival,
I would find myself in that transformed version of this room,
with Alexander waiting for me. But sleep was elusive. I
tossed and turned, my racing with questions. Who was that woman?
What did she know about Alexander's death? What was the
it she claimed wanted to destroy me? Just as I
was finally drifting off, a loud crash from downstairs jerked
me back to full wakefulness. I sat up, listening intently.
It had sounded like breaking glass. Alexander, I called softly,
though I knew he couldn't manifest physically in the real world.
Silence answered me. Then another crash, this one closer, perhaps
on the stairs. Someone was in the house. I slipped
out of bed and grabbed the fireplace poker I'd brought
upstairs earlier. My phone was on the nightstand. I could
call for help, but the nearest police station was twenty
minutes away. I would be on my own until they arrived.
The floorboards in the hallway creaked slow, deliberate footsteps approaching
the bedroom door. I raised the poker, my hands shaking.
The doorknob turned slowly. The door began to open, and
then suddenly the temperature in the room plummeted. My breath
clouded in front of me. The door slammed shut with
tremendous force, followed by a sound like a body being
thrown against a wall and a cry of pain or surprise.
Alexander I whispered, knowing somehow that he was there, that
he was trying to protect me. The commotion in the
hallway continued, thuds, crashes, the sound of something heavy falling
down the stairs, then silence. I stood frozen for several
minutes before gathering the courage to approach the door. My
hand trembled as I turned the knob and peered out
into the dark hallway. It was empty, but the hall
table was overturned. A vase shattered on the floor, and
on the wall a smear of something dark that looked
horribly like blood. I followed the trail of destruction to
the stairs, then down to the foyer. The front door
stood open again, the night beyond black, and still on
the threshold lay a single object, a knife, its blade
gleaming in the moonlight. When I picked it up, my
fingers came away red. I closed and locked the door,
then leaned against it, my legs suddenly too weak to
support me, I slid down to sit on the floor,
the knife beside me, the poker still clutched in one hand.
Thank you, I said to the empty air, knowing Alexander
could hear me. You saved me. No response came, but
the air around me seemed to warm, slightly, wrapping me
in what felt almost like an embrace. I didn't go
back upstairs that night. Instead, I curled up on the
sofa in the library. The fire rekindled, the poker and
knife within reach. Despite the lingering fear, exhaustion eventually pulled
me under, and there he was waiting for me. In
that space between sleeping and waking, Alexander looked different, tonight,
more substantial somehow, but also agitated. He paced the length
of the bedroom, his form occasionally flickering like a candle
in a draft. Are you hurt? I asked immediately. There
was blood, not mine, he said, grimly, not yours either.
Thank God you protected me. He came to me, then,
his hands cupping my face with exquisite tenderness. Always protect you, Elise.
As long as I exist in any form, nothing in
this world will harm you. I leaned into his touch.
Who was it who broke in? I don't know. A man,
a stranger. His expression darkened, but I don't think his
presence was random. He came directly to your room, as
if he knew exactly where you'd be. There was a
woman earlier, I told him. She appeared in the library,
warned me that I was in danger. She said I
should leave the house. Alexander's form flickered more violently. What woman?
What did she look like? I described her as best
I could. He showed no sign of recognition, but his
agitation increased. She told me to find your journal, I continued.
She said it would explain everything about how you died,
about some danger connected to this house. He went very
still my journal. Do you remember it where you kept it?
He turned away, moving to the window to stare out
at the darkness. I remember writing in it, documenting my research,
my discoveries about the occult, I asked. The local historian
mentioned rumors. Alexander laughed, without humor. Not the Occult as
most would understand. It. Something older, something I found during
the war, a text hidden in the ruins of a
bombed monastery in France. It contained knowledge that had been
suppressed for centuries. He turned back to me, his eyes
burning with an intensity that made me shiver. I brought
it home, studied it, began to understand the true nature
of reality, the thinness of the veil between this world
and others? Is that why you can reach me in dreams?
I asked, Because of what you learned? Perhaps? He moved
toward me again, took my hands in his elise. I
need you to trust me. Whatever that woman told you,
whatever you might find in my journal, if it still exists,
promise me you won't leave, not yet, not until we
understand what's happening. I should have hesitated, should have questioned
why he wouldn't want me to find his journal if
it contained answers. But when Alexander looked at me that way,
I couldn't deny him anything. I promise, I whispered. Relief
washed over his face. He pulled me into his arms,
his mouth finding mine with urgent need, and just like that,
all my questions evaporated in the heat of his touch. Later,
as I lay in his arms, I noticed something I
hadn't before. A scar on his chest, just over his heart,
long and jagged. It looked like a knife wound. Is
this how you died? I asked, tracing it gently. His
hand caught mine, stilling it. I don't know, I told you.
My memories of those final days are fragmented. But there
was something in his eyes, a flicker of what fear guilt.
Before I could press further, he kissed me again, and
soon I was lost in sensation, all questions forgotten. It
wasn't until I was drifting toward wakefulness, the dream room
fading around me, that I heard his whispered words. Find
the journal, eleise, but be careful who you trust with
what you learn. Some secrets are dangerous, not because they're hidden,
but because others would kill to possess them. I woke
with the dawn, still on the library sofa, the house
was quiet, peaceful, even No sign remained of the night's intruder,
except the overturned hall table and the knife, now lying
on the coffee table where I'd placed it. I picked
it up, examining it in the morning light. It was old,
the handle carved from some dark wood, symbols etched into
the blade. Not a modern weapon. It looked more like
a ceremonial object. Alexander's words echoed in my mind. Find
the journal, be careful who you trust. I stood a
new determination filling me. I would find that journal, uncover
the truth about Alexander's death, about the danger that seemed
to surround this house, because now I had evidence that
the danger wasn't just supernatural, It was all too human.
Someone had tried to kill me last night, someone connected
to whatever secret Alexander had discovered a century ago. And
I was beginning to suspect that the handsome ghost who
visited my dreams wasn't telling me everything he knew.
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: Caloroga Shark Media