My name is Sam Montgomery. I’m eleven, and I live in Boston with my mom, dad, and older brother, Ethan. We’ve been in England for a week on a vacation Mom has been planning forever. She’s a history teacher, so this trip is her dream come true - everything we do has a historical angle she calls an “educational opportunity.” Dad stays easygoing about it, while Ethan complains like he’s been dragged here. I’m somewhere in the middle - curious, but not as excited as Mom.
We were driving through Yorkshire, the car winding along narrow country roads. Rolling green hills stretched out endlessly, dotted with stone walls and grazing sheep. The view felt timeless, like the land had barely changed in centuries. I pressed my face to the window, feeling small against a world that had seen so much more than I ever would.
"Who remembers what we talked about regarding Victorian architecture?" Mom asked from the front seat, her voice brimming with enthusiasm. She had a map spread across her lap, glancing up now and then. Vacation with her always came with pop quizzes.
"Big windows, lots of bricks, really stuffy rooms," Ethan said, dripping with sarcasm.
Mom sighed and gave him a look. "Very funny. Sam, do you remember?" She turned to me, her expression softening.
I thought for a second, then shrugged. "It’s about the details, symmetry, and showing off status. Not just bricks and windows."
Mom smiled, nodding. "Exactly. These homes were built to impress, to make a statement. Worthington Manor, where we’re headed, was rebuilt in the 1840s after a fire. The Worthington family owned this land for five hundred years. It’s a piece of history."
"Five hundred years," I repeated quietly, staring at the hills. It felt strange, imagining the people who had lived here before, waking up to this same view. It was like touching a fragment of their world.
"Are we almost there?" Ethan groaned, stretching his legs out as far as he could.
"Almost," Dad said, his calm voice steady as he navigated the narrow road. He smiled reassuringly. "Just a little longer."
Ethan slumped back with a dramatic sigh. "I just need to stretch my legs."
"Soon," Mom said, patting his shoulder. "Worthington Manor is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity."
"You say that about every historical site," Ethan muttered, though a small smile tugged at his lips.
"And I mean it every time," Mom said, nudging Ethan with a playful smile. "You'll thank me someday."
"Sure," Ethan replied, rolling his eyes as Dad chuckled softly.
"Sam, your mom has a point," Dad said, catching my eye in the rearview mirror. "These places stick with you, even if you don't realize it yet."
"I guess," I muttered, staring out at the rolling hills. Being here, surrounded by so much history, made everything feel heavier somehow - more significant.
Finally, Worthington Manor came into view: a sprawling estate of brick and stone, with tall windows glinting under the overcast sky. It looked both ancient and alive, as if it held onto every story it had witnessed. As we pulled into the gravel driveway, the crunch of the tires sent a strange shiver through me - a tug at the edge of my thoughts, like I knew this place.
"Wow," I whispered.
"It's bigger than I thought," Ethan admitted, his bored tone slipping.
"Imagine the stories these walls could tell," Mom murmured, her eyes bright as she stared at the manor.
"Yeah, ghost stories," Ethan teased, flashing me a grin.
"If it’s haunted, we’ll find out soon enough," Dad said with a wink. "Just don’t break anything."
As we stepped out into the crisp Yorkshire air, I pulled my sweatshirt tighter. Mom strode eagerly toward the entrance, and Ethan jogged ahead to get a better look. I hesitated, the manor looming over me, sending a chill down my spine. It felt like I was stepping into a story that had already started, and I was just catching up. "Do you think it's haunted?" I asked Ethan, half-joking.
"Oh, definitely," he said with mock seriousness. "Old manor, tragic past, creepy portraits - it’s got all the ingredients."
"Or maybe it’s just cool history," I shot back, smirking.
"Where's your sense of adventure, little bro?" Ethan nudged me with a grin.
"Right here," I said, matching his smile.
We joined the small group of tourists at the entrance, where a tour guide greeted us with a warm smile and a thick Yorkshire accent. Dressed in a long wool coat, she gestured toward the house as she spoke.
"Welcome to Worthington Manor, one of Yorkshire’s most treasured historical estates. Rebuilt in the 1840s after a fire, this manor has been home to the Worthington family for over five centuries," she explained. "Sadly, the family line dwindled after the Great War, leaving the house filled only with their stories."
"That’s so sad," Mom whispered, her eyes distant.
"So, is it haunted?" Ethan asked, trying to sound casual.
The guide smiled knowingly. "Some say the spirits of the Worthingtons still roam these halls. But who knows? Perhaps one of you will uncover the truth."
A chill ran down my spine as I glanced up at the towering windows. For a moment, it felt like something was watching me from inside. Ethan caught my eye, his grin widening, but I couldn’t shake the sensation. "Let’s head inside," the guide said, motioning us forward. "Places like this sometimes call to those meant to find them. Perhaps one of you is closer to its history than you realise."
The moment we stepped through the doors, I felt it again - a pull, a strange sense of familiarity. Rich wooden paneling lined the walls, and high ceilings loomed overhead, supported by thick beams. Heavy Victorian furniture - ornate tables, dark chairs, grand fireplaces - filled the rooms, as if the house clung to its past.
"Look at this," Mom said, pointing to an enormous grandfather clock. "An original piece, made in 1842."
I stared at the clock, something about it tugging at my memory even though I’d never seen it before. A sharp déjà vu washed over me, so strong it made me pause. "You okay, Sam?" Dad asked, nudging me gently.
"Yeah, just..." I hesitated, my gaze lingering on the clock. "Feels like I’ve been here before."
He smiled slightly. "That’s déjà vu, kiddo."
I nodded, but it felt like more than that - like a memory, not just a feeling. The air seemed heavy, whispering that I belonged here. As the group moved on, I drifted behind, taking in every detail - the polished wood, the scent of old books, the intricate carvings. I found myself wandering down a narrower hallway, away from the others.
At the end of the grand hall, the group turned left, but something pulled me in the opposite direction. The dim corridor felt untouched, the wallpaper faded and the air cooler. I passed doors with brass handles, each tempting me to peek inside, until I reached one slightly ajar, a sliver of light spilling through.
Glancing back, I pushed it open. The room inside was modest, not grand like the others - a lived-in bedroom with a four-poster bed and lace curtains filtering soft sunlight. A vanity table near the window was cluttered with antique hairbrushes and perfume bottles. I approached it, my eyes landing on a silver-handled brush engraved with initials: "C.E.W."
"Clara Elizabeth Worthington," I whispered, the name feeling oddly familiar.
Next to the brush was a small jewelry box. Inside, I found a locket with a miniature portrait of Clara - the same girl from the painting. Her watchful eyes seemed to look right at me, her soft smile tugging at something deep in my chest.
Footsteps echoed in the corridor. Panicking, I replaced the locket and hurried toward the door, but not before spotting a journal tucked under a pillow. Curiosity won out, and I opened it. One entry stood out:
"14th July 1881. Today, I felt a strange sensation, as if someone walked over my grave. Nurse says it’s the heat, but I can’t shake the feeling that something - or someone - is reaching out to me."
A chill ran through me. The words mirrored the strange pull I’d been feeling all day. "Sam?" Mom’s voice cut through the quiet, drawing closer.
I snapped the journal shut and put it back. Mom appeared in the doorway, her face a mix of relief and mild annoyance. "There you are! We’ve been looking everywhere," she said, stepping into the room. Her gaze swept over the space, her frown deepening. "This area isn’t part of the tour. You shouldn’t be here."
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