Tilbury House is my first short story. And re-reading it now, three years later, I realized just how much I’ve learned about writing. There is so much about this story that I’d like to change, so much that I could improve. However, it was a finalist for a short fiction contest. So, I’ll post it here exactly the way I submitted it.
While I consider myself a romcom writer through and through, one genre tends to continue to rear is head as ideas come to me: gothic. Gothic horror, gothic romance, etc. It’s one of my favorite genres to read, and why this genre seems to want me to write it so badly, I’ll never know.
Both of the short stories I’ve written are gothic in nature. Tilbury House is more along the lines of gothic horror- and now I’ve decided that I’m going to write a blog post about my love of gothic literature and make reading and watching recommendations.
Anyways, Tilbury House is inspired by Native American and Appalachian folklore. The idea that the mountains have a life of their own has always been very romantic to me. And the concept that not everything that lives in those dense woods is friendly is thrilling. And then there’s the fact that the Appalachian Mountains are older than bone- literally older than the evolution of bones- that really makes it so horrifyingly magical and mysterious.
I hope you enjoy Tilbury House ❤️
Tilbury house
I am in the business of resurrection.
I’m drawn to the decayed and derelict; the forgotten places call to me and I bring them back to life. This time, I fear I went too far.
I should have thrown away that letter, treated it like junk mail and never opened it. But I did. While I scanned the job offer, a check fluttered from it. $10,000. My heart started to beat out an unsteady rhythm as I read further. An old stone house in the Appalachian Mountains in desperate need of repair. No budgetary constraints. Travel expenses paid and lodging provided. The full payment for the job made my eyes water.
Without a second thought, I deposited the check. I breathed a sigh of relief knowing my account wouldn’t be overdrawn this month. In a recession, few want to pay the price of restoring historic buildings to their former glory. A moment later, my phone rang, and a lilting Southern voice spoke. “I see you’ve accepted the offer.”
“Excuse me?”
“My name is Thaddeus Tremain, Esquire,” the voice drawled. The name sounded fake. “My employer has sent you an offer, and I am assuming, based on the fact that their account is now $10,000 less, you intend to accept.”
“I do,” I stuttered. “How did you-”
“You put an ad out in an issue of This Old House. That’s how we got your information,” he replied.
I’d nearly forgotten about that ad. It did me no good at the time and it hadn’t been cheap either. The advance alone for this job covered that expense and then some. Guess it paid off after all.
“How soon can you start, Ms. Archer?”
“Immediately,” I told him.
“Excellent. I’ll have a car pick you up and take you to the airport at six tomorrow morning.”
“Wait,” I said. “Aren’t you going to tell me the flight information?”
“Ms. Archer, you’ll be flying private. There’s nothing for you to worry about except making this your best work. I’ll meet you tomorrow and we’ll go over details.”
He promptly hung up and a sinking feeling hit me. I had no idea where this house was or what shape it was in. What was I getting myself into?
***
At 6am sharp, a black sedan pulled up to my building and let out two short honks. A few minutes later we were pulling onto the tarmac alongside a small jet. Well, it could have been large as far as private jets go. I’d only ever flown whatever class is below economy.
I didn’t come from wealth. My mother and stepfather worked so much I hardly saw them, and we somehow still managed to be dirt poor. Our house was old, and they didn’t have the means to fix things. So, I’d used my high school shop department and figured it out myself. I replaced a few pieces of crumbling clapboard siding and rehung some crooked shutters. I thought they’d be proud. But my stepfather found it emasculating. What did it say about him that a 16-year-old girl was doing what he couldn’t? That only made me want to get better. I took a summer job assisting a contractor. After high school she hired me on as an apprentice. The rest is history.
Beside the jet stood who I presumed to be Thaddeus. He was dressed in a pale blue seersucker suit. He seemed ageless; his well-groomed beard of white stood out in high contrast against his smooth, tan skin. His drawl greeted me along with his outstretched hand, “Ms. Archer. Pleasure to meet you. Let’s head inside and get started.”
On board, he got straight to business. I barely had a chance to sit when several folders were thrust upon me.
“From what we can tell from archives in Philadelphia, a widower and Revolutionary War veteran named Jeremiah Tilbury selected this land as payment for his service. Most veterans were given plots of rich farmland in the Ohio Country, but Jeremiah requested a remote woodland plot. At the time, it was a two-day ride on horseback to the nearest town,” Thaddeus explained.
I was entranced. As an apprentice, I’d done colonial houses along the East Coast, but I’d never had the chance to sink my teeth into one this old on my own. And this would be a challenge, the house looked half caved in and nearly reclaimed by the forest.
Thaddeus continued, leafing through photos. “Mr. Tilbury is said to have built the house by hand, using local sandstone. Once he completed it, he sent for his daughter, Sarah.”
“How do you know all this?” I asked, incredulous.
“We have her diaries,” he replied. “They will be at your disposal so that you may immerse yourself in the history of the home. We hope this will aid your work.”
“Oh, it very much will!” I said excitedly.
“You’ll also be staying in the house.”
“I will?” I looked at it again. It was derelict. The only thing that should be living in there was a raccoon. Thaddeus opened another envelope and showed me the interior.
“Sarah’s bedroom appears to have been spared the wrath of time. We believe that when the roof caved in, the rubble closed off the room, protecting it from the elements. Diego, the foreman, has already done work on the house, making it structurally sound. We’ve set up all reasonable amenities.”
As I looked closer at the photographs, not only was Sarah’s room spared from decay, but it looked entirely preserved. “What else can you tell me about the history of the house?” I asked.
“When Jeremiah passed away, the house went to Sarah. She lived there until her death, on November 1, 1821. After that, there’s no record of it.” He sat back and folded his hands across his lap.
“What do you mean no record?” I asked.
“After Sarah died, it ceased to exist. My employer bought this land, hoping to make a country retreat, something akin to Fallingwater. When the land was surveyed, the house was found. There were no local records of it. We had to go to the National Archives to learn anything. Sarah’s diaries were invaluable. We believe it has been entirely unoccupied since her death.”
I blew out a breath. This would be the biggest job of my career. This would put me on the map. I felt goosebumps prickling across my skin.
After the plane landed, a Land Rover took us through winding country roads for hours. Some were paved, most were not. This place was far more remote than I’d imagined. I suppose the Appalachian Mountains were still one of the great wildernesses of this country.
I saw the pickups scattered amongst the trees before I saw the house. There were several men working, stripping vines from the stone walls and refueling the generator. A tall, tan man with a mess of black curls waved excitedly from the crooked porch. “That’s Diego,” Thaddeus said. “He’ll be your right-hand man. Anything you need, he’ll make it happen.”
Diego jogged energetically down the uneven steps, nearly stumbling. His jeans were worn and paint-splattered, a stark contrast to his immaculate white T-shirt. He came around to the back of the truck and helped me with my things. “You must be Sylvie!” he said. “I’m Diego. Come on, I’ll show you your new home!” Every sentence he said felt like it ended in an exclamation point.
The house had that familiar musty smell that so many old houses do. I inhaled deeply. A scent memory so strong it reminded me why I loved doing this job. Diego led me to Sarah’s bedroom. Most of the furniture was original except the bed, for which I was grateful. Rope and tick wasn’t notoriously comfortable. “Ok!” he said, clapping his hands. “We’ve put in a temporary structure to keep out the elements. You have AC,” he gestured to the window unit. “There’s a space heater, microwave, hot plate, and mini fridge.” He looked around. “Oh, we have a port-a-potty for you. And there’s a camp shower with hot running water. We’ll refuel the generator regularly. There’s clean drinking water in these jugs. We’re staying about an hour away. If you ever need anything from town, just tell me!”
“Wow,” I said, taking in the surroundings. “I don’t know what to say.”
“It’s exciting, isn’t it?” He beamed at me. I nodded, speechless. “Tell you what, no work today. You settle in. Maybe read some of Sarah’s diaries, carefully explore…” He handed me a hardhat. “We can touch base tomorrow and make a plan.”
That night, while eating my dinner of canned soup, I flipped open the first of Sarah Tilbury’s diaries and began to read. Sarah was excited about her new house but missed her father terribly while he was away.
Tucked in the pages of the diary were their correspondences. They were filled with lamentations on the death of Sarah’s mother. “I am sorry, dear child,” he would say. “It is my greatest regret that you’ll have no mother in this new home.”
***
I woke to the sound of whistling, then a knock on my door that I could only describe as cheerful, suggesting Diego. I hurriedly got dressed and splashed water on my face. When I opened the door, he was grinning at me. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“Of course not,” I lied, checking the time on my phone. It was dead. “What time is it?” I asked, as I plugged it in.
“Just before 10. By the way, the only thing your phone is going to be good for out here is telling time. No service in the mountains.”
We reviewed the work that had already been done and the goals of the project. We needed to modernize the house with all the luxuries of the 21st century while still honoring its history. No easy task in a building this old and worn. We formulated a plan and Diego and his men got to work under my direction.
***
Progress was being made. Sandstone from a local quarry had been shipped in and the masons were reconstructing the outer walls. Diego’s men came and went in weekly shifts. Just as soon as I’d get used to a crew, they’d switch out. Diego was the only constant.
His whistling became part of my day. Usually, it was a song from back home in Chile, but every now and then a Top 40 hit would get in his head. It wasn’t unusual to hear him whistling Taylor Swift. That morning, he’d barely gotten out two notes from “Antihero” before someone shouted angrily.
“Damn outsiders,” the man grumbled. “Y’all don’t know the rules. You’ll get us all killed!”
“Hey now, what’s the problem?” Diego asked placatingly.
“The whistling, they don’t like it,” the man growled.
A shiver ran up my spine at his warning.
“Who?” I asked.
“What lives out there,” he replied, gesturing vaguely.
“The animals?” Diego inquired.
“You two must be dumber n’ hell,” he scoffed. “There’s worse things than bears in these woods.” He turned to me. “You ain’t gonna last a minute out here lady. Best stay at the hotel with us.”
I furrowed my brow. “I’ve been here for a few weeks now,” I explained. “I’m doing just fine.”
I looked at Diego who seemed just as confused. “Vernon, I’m not going to whistle anymore, okay? Let’s just get to work.”
***
I didn’t want to admit it, but Vernon’s words had set me on edge. That night, I drew the curtains shut tight and hooked the back of a chair under the doorknob. As I tried to sleep, the sounds of the forest moved in on me; the chirping of the insects, hooting of owls, and occasional yip of a coyote. They seemed to surround me, to smother me. I closed my eyes and wrapped my pillow around my head, but sleep wouldn’t come. I flicked on the lamp and pulled out one of Sarah’s diaries, hoping that I might read myself to sleep.
“Father isn’t himself anymore. He is paranoid. Every sound terrifies him. He won’t let me go out after sunset. He adds bolts to the door. He hardly sleeps, staying up all night, pacing the floors until I think he might wear them through.”
Nope. I shut the book quickly and reached for another.
“Father has passed. Losing mother was painful, but now father? I cannot bear the loneliness.”
I flipped through the book, hoping to find a happier passage.
“A bird flew in through the open window today. A jay. He looked right at me and screamed, giving me an awful fright. She says she will protect me, my dear old house. She keeps father’s rules and does not let me out at night. I am no longer so lonesome.”
***
The house was coming to life before my eyes. The roof was fully intact and reclaimed flooring had been laid. The cellar kitchen was restored and the chimney’s mortar repaired. She felt whole.
One morning, Diego had brought me a few more supplies than normal. He said a storm was coming through. The spun-off remnants of a hurricane. There was a chance the mountain road would become impassable for a day or two. The generator’s fuel was topped off. I had an abundance of drinking water and non-perishables. The house and I were ready to weather anything.
That night the rain started. A heavy, steady drumming. I’d taken to listening to the radio in the evenings while studying Sarah’s books. The weatherman warned of heavy rain for the next two to three days as the slow-moving hurricane fizzled out. Sarah, it seemed, was fading as well.
“The Johnson boy came by the other day, selling their yield. I ordered some flour and beans. I asked him to send a doctor for me. I don’t sleep well; I’ve taken up daddy’s practice of pacing the floor at night. I pray to God, but I can’t seem to remember how anymore. The worse I feel, the louder She gets. She used to speak in whispers. Now I hear Her as though She were beside me.”
At first, I thought the lonely woman was personifying her beloved home. But the more I read, the more I believed Sarah was going mad. What had it been like, being so isolated from the world, relying on others for the necessities of life?
***
The next morning, I was awoken by a loud blaring noise coming from the radio, an emergency alert. A state of emergency had been declared for Southwestern Pennsylvania. Widespread flash flooding started not long after the rainfall began. Rivers were overflowing their banks. Roadways were impassable. The National Guard was rescuing people from their flooded homes. I mentally thanked Diego’s forethought. I should be good for at least a week up here with all the supplies he’d brought me. The rain still battered the side of the house. All I could do was make myself comfortable and wait for it to pass. I went back to Sarah’s diaries.
“The Johnson boy is lost. I can hear him in the woods, calling for me. The house tells me not to go. She says it isn’t him. Says the woods are playing tricks on me. She says that if I stay here, I will be safe. I don’t know who to trust anymore. I can no longer tell Her thoughts from my own. God help me.”
I frowned down at the book and looked around my bedroom, patting the wall behind me. “What do you think, old girl?” I said aloud. “Can you really talk?”
I found myself talking aloud more often as one day turned into two, then three. The radio told endless tales of worsening flooding and seemingly ceaseless rainfall. Outside, the downpour had become more of a drizzle, but that didn’t really matter to the bloated rivers in the valley below. “You’ll keep me safe, won’t you girly?” I said, stroking the wood beams. “What should we have for breakfast, my friend? Oatmeal or… oatmeal?” I’d ask.
I continued to read Sarah’s diaries, longing to know what was truly going on with this poor woman.
“I hear the Johnson boy every night. She tells me not to go. But I can’t stand it anymore. He’s lost and scared. She won’t let me open the door. If he calls again tonight, I am going to go to him. I will break a window if I must. As I write this, she is growing upset. She is pleading with me not to go. I hear him.”
This was her last entry, dated November 1, 1821. A shiver set into my bones as I recognized the date. If only these walls could talk. What would they say?
***
I was awoken by Diego’s whistling. I smiled sleepily, finally rescued. As I got out of bed, I realized it was still dark outside. I checked my phone, 3am. The whistle sounded again. Peering out the window, I saw nothing but darkness. I unlocked the front door, but it wouldn’t open.
No
A whisper came from behind me, somewhere in the house, and I whipped around. Nothing.
I tried the door again. Maybe the moisture in the air had caused it to swell. I pulled on the handle, rattling the door in its frame.
“Sylvie? Mi amor?” Diego’s voice called from outside. I looked out the window again and saw nothing but the black of the forest, in the mountains that were older than bones.
No
Then the lights went out and everything grew deathly silent. Nights up here were always filled with the humming of the generator and the din of the insects and birds. But now? The silence was deafening.
Outside, something called my name again, but this time it didn’t sound like Diego. My hair stood on end, and I watched the lock turn into place on its own.
I tried to steady my breath. Unsure if I should be more frightened of the thing outside or the thing inside. I slowly slid onto the floor, trying to make myself small.
No
I fell asleep, curled up against the front door.
***
I’d been stranded for over a week. I was starting to give up hope of rescue. My food stores were starting to run low despite rationing them. I’d contemplated foraging, but I know I’d end up like Christopher McCandless. He was smart about those types of things, and he still died. I didn’t stand a chance. The whispering voice spoke more often and it unnerved me.
If I could get to the highway, maybe someone could help me. I packed a bag and set out at dawn.
Stay.
I walked for hours without a break, hoping to make it to the highway before nightfall. But my progress was slow on the steep paths thick with slick mud. Parts of the road were completely washed out by gentle mountain brooks that had grown into raging rivers. I’d become so focused on my task, that I hardly noticed the setting sun. I heard Her calling me and I realized I would not make it.
Come back!
I turned around, trying to pick up the pace, but I was exhausted, the road remained difficult to travel. Dusk was settling into the woods, and I tried to ignore the pit of fear in my stomach.
Don’t answer them.
The sun sank lower and lower as I scrambled back toward Her.
Stay on the road. Don’t look in the trees.
I may not have understood Her advice, but I followed it. I kept my eyes on the path before me, illuminated now by only my flashlight, the new moon sky dark as pitch.
Then, I was careening forward. My foot got caught on a large rock hidden beneath the mud. The breath was knocked from my chest, and it was a moment before I could rise again. When I did, the woods were deathly silent. A chill ran up my spine. I heard a whistle, though I couldn’t tell from where it came. It seemed to echo within my own mind.
I ran until my lungs burned and my legs cramped. Adrenaline kept me moving when my body wanted to give up. The whistling seemed to be everywhere. Without and within. I glued my eyes to the road, afraid to look anywhere. My only goal was to get back to the safety of Her.
***
She spoke to me louder now, just as Sarah had said. She kept me safe, alive. A confused pheasant flew in through the open window, and desperate and hungry, I pounced upon it. A wild grape vine had snaked its way up Her side, slipping its nimble fingers between Her stones. They were sour, but they filled my belly.
***
The whistling came back, this time in the daylight. The creature only ever came at night. When I heard it, I dropped everything and ran for the safety of Her. I slammed the door and threw the latches. I lay on my belly on the floor, trembling
“Sylvie,” I heard from outside. It was back, trying to make me think it was Diego. Didn’t it know She had taught me its wily ways? A knock. “Sylvie, mi amor, are you okay? We’re here.”
A humming sound started. The generator was working again. “Sylvie, I’m going to break down the door, if you don’t open it.”
From my place on the floor, I saw an eye through the window. “Sylvie? Are you okay?” he shouted. Then, “Vernon! She’s in here, on the floor.”
It was him. It was really him! I stood up and ran to the door, unlocking it. I grasped the handle and pulled. It didn’t budge. “Please!” I shouted to Her, “Let me out!” I pounded on the door with my fists.
On the other side, Diego desperately tried to turn the handle, but couldn’t. “Stand back, Sylvie!” he called.
“Don’t hurt Her!” I yelled. She’d protected me. She’d saved me. “Don’t hurt Her!”
“Sylvie, you need to stand back!” Vernon said through the window.
I threw my body against the door. “No!” If they were going to attack Her, they’d have to go through me. I braced myself.
A loud crash came from the bedroom, and I screamed. Diego was climbing through the window. He wrapped me in his arms, and I writhed and fought him. “Okay Vern!” he called out as he wrestled me away from the door.
I could hear a saw being started up outside. “No!” I cried out. “Please no! Just let me go! Please! Don’t let them hurt you!”
For a moment, I thought I saw the door quiver, as though it might swing open of its own free will. But then I felt Her dig in harder than before. She’d sunk her claws into my mind and She was never going to let me go.
“Vern, hurry up!” Diego said.
The saw blade gnawed through the wooden door and I shrieked. I could hear Her screaming in my mind.
“Sylvie, look at me,” Diego said calmly. “I’m going to get you out of here, okay? I’m sorry it took us so long. I’ve got you now.”
***
The longer I am away from Her, the more distance between us, the less I feel Her influence. At first, I was under constant surveillance or else I’d try to find my way back. Was She that connected to Sarah too? The night Sarah died, had it been the thing in the woods? Or had it been Her. Did She dig her claws in so deep she broke flesh?
I can still hear Her, calling for me. A mother bemoaning the loss of Her child. I don’t know how far I’ll have to go to get away. Maybe Chile will be far enough.
stefakessler.com 