The Inheritance
Everyone involved in any type of implied or explicit sexual activity is a fictional, consenting adult 18 years of age or older.
The padlock clinks as it unlatches. I slip the key into my pocket and pull open the gate quickly. Rain falls from black storm clouds in ice-cold sheets around me, soaking through my flimsy windbreaker until I feel the chill in my bones. Blackwood Manor looms ahead of me. Imposing in an “old money” kind of way. I jog up the rain-slicked cobblestone driveway and around a fountain that doesn’t look like it has functioned in years. The property is sparse, and in some level of disrepair, but tidy.
The front door is rather ornate with decorative wood carvings and panes of stained glass. I grab the second key from my pocket and insert it into the door handle. I turn it and hear a click. Until now, there was a part of me that wondered if the letter I got was a prank, but I realize now that this is really happening.
I push open the door into a massive parlor that looks like the set of a movie. A large crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling, though cobwebs run between each fixture. Two staircases made of a dark wood on either side of the room curve upward toward each other, forming a landing that leads to the second floor. It smells a bit stale in here, as if no one had been here in a long time.
I start to walk into the manor, head swiveling as I take in the grandiose scene in front of me, when a knock behind me causes me to jump in surprise. “Anyone home?” a cheery voice asks over the pounding of the rain outside. When the source of the voice appears, my breath catches in my throat. Through the front door walks the most attractive man that I have ever seen. He’s young, tall, and lean, and he’s wearing an unbuttoned plaid shirt over a stained white undershirt. The plaid sleeves are rolled up, exposing the sinewy muscle of his forearms. Specks of dirt are visible on his skin. And his face? My god, his face. Blue-gray eyes twinkle at me, and his jawline is square in a way that would be intimidating on any other man, but on him it only adds to his smolder.
He approaches me with an outstretched hand. “Good afternoon, you must be Ren,” he says, flashing a perfect white smile. “I’m Rowan. I’m the groundskeeper here. I’m so sorry for the loss of Mr. Blackwood.”
I shake his hand, allowing my hand to linger just slightly longer than necessary. He already knows my name? “Nice to meet you. I am Ren,” I respond. “And thank you, although I didn’t know Mr. Blackwood at all.”
Rowan looks at me quizzically. “But you’re also a Blackwood?” he asks curiously.
“Yeah. I guess I was never introduced to that side of the family. I have no idea why he left the house to me.”
Rowan stares at me. His expression is light, but there are questions in his eyes I know he is dying to ask. “That is interesting, isn’t it?” he decides to ask casually.
I nod. “It came at the right time, honestly. I’ve been having some issues lately with school and all that.” I blink stupidly. I have no idea why I just admitted that to this near-total stranger.
Rowan nods understandingly. “I see. Were you given any information about the manor?”
I shake my head. “No, not really. Just that Sebastian Blackwood owned it and he willed it to me. Didn’t really mention anything else.”
I sense a shift in the conversation. A sudden heaviness in the air that contrasts with the politely curious expression on Rowan’s face. “I see,” he says again. “We were all devastated to learn of Mr. Blackwood’s recent passing. It was…very sudden.”
“Who’s we?” I ask.
Rowan’s eyes narrow slightly, almost imperceptibly. Enough that it’s like a dark shadow has fallen across his face. “The staff,” he says simply.
Staff? I guffaw at the idea of owning a house with a staff. I was starting to understand why my inheritance included a sizable bank account that stipulated it was to be used for “routine maintenance.” As if Sebastian knew I would be enticed to use the money for literally anything else. Like paying off a mountain of debt.
At the same time, however, I’m a bit confused. There’s a staff, yet the house looks like it’s been empty for months. The property is tidy, likely thanks to Rowan, but most of the fixtures seem to be run down. If this house has a staff, where are they? I’m about to ask when Rowan speaks.
“Well, I have taken up enough of your time, Mr. Blackwood—”
“Ren, please.”
Rowan nods graciously. “I have taken enough of your time, Ren. Please let me know if you need anything.”
“I certainly will, thank you,” I say quickly. As he turns, I let my eyes run the considerable length of his body. The plaid shirt hung a little too low to tell, but I have a suspicion that Rowan had a beautifully sculpted ass atop his long legs.
Just as Rowan steps through the front door, he turns back to me. “Oh, just so you know, the east wing is locked and no one has a key. Mr. Blackwood always said it was off-limits.”
“Uh, okay,” I respond, confused and a bit miffed. After all, it’s my house now. Why can’t I go wherever I want?
Rowan flashes one last smile and nods as he shuts the door behind him. I wander the ground floor of the house, including the kitchen, the dining room, and the living room. The sound of rain on glass follows me from room to room, refusing to let up. The house reeks of opulence, though it is rather dark and somewhat stuffy. Certainly not modern.
There are also some other—somewhat disturbing—details that I notice as I explore. For one, mirrors are covered by sheets throughout the manor. Even in an old house like this, that seems especially eerie. Perhaps Sebastian was paranoid, or got senile in his old age? At least, I assume he was old, given the house I’m walking through. I know that there are some old traditions in various cultures that cover mirrors for one purpose or another, but nothing else in here gives me weird occult or witchcraft vibes.
Occasionally, the odd creak echoes down the halls that sound suspiciously like footsteps, even though there is no evidence of anyone else in the house. A couple times, I even call out “Hello?” to no answer. Coupled with the mirrors, it makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
The other thing I notice is, the longer I look around, the more the manor feels familiar to me somehow. I feel like I know—instinctively—details about the house I have no way of knowing. Where the grandfather clock is in the living room, which door will lead to a bathroom, things like that. It’s eerie, like I’m connected to a house I’d never been in.
I make my way back to the parlor, and I’m surprised to see Rowan leaning against the center table. He cleaned up since he left. The plaid shirt is gone, replaced by a band t-shirt that fits snugly around his torso, and blue jeans.
I was right…those jeans barely contained his ass.
“Rowan, hi,” I call. “What can I do for you?”
Rowan looks at me, but the cheery, carefree look he wore earlier is gone. Instead, he looks anxious. “Hi, Mr. Black—Ren, I mean,” he says, chuckling nervously. “There was something else I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Sounds serious,” I say, laughing. The laughter quickly dies, though, when I realize that Rowan is, in fact, completely serious. “What is it?”
Rowan’s eyes are on me, and they are intense. “What?” I repeat a little sterner than I meant to.
“I think you should find another place to stay tonight,” Rowan finally mutters, his voice quiet and low. He glances nervously around him.
I blink, unsure I heard him correctly. “Excuse me?” I ask incredulously.
“Yeah, it’s just…there’s some things, Ren. About the house,” he says. He’s talking faster, as if he’s scared of being caught right now.
“What about the house?” I demand. Rowan shifts uncomfortably. He shoots a look over his shoulder, as if he’s expecting someone to be standing behind him. Confused as I am, a cold dread trickles down my skin, nearly forcing me to shiver. If he’s trying to scare me, he’s doing a damn good job.
“It’s—” Rowan starts, but then pauses. A strange look overcomes him, almost as if he’s listening to something far away. Then suddenly he’s…calm. His face rearranges into the easy, carefree expression I saw earlier. His voice returns to normal. “You know what? Forget it. It’s nothing.”
My skin prickles at his sudden change in demeanor. Even though he seems calmer and, frankly, more sane, I’m feeling less safe by the second. What just happened? Why did he want to warn me against staying in the house? And, more importantly, why did he stop? Before I can respond, he speaks again. “Have you seen upstairs yet?”
I shake my head blankly. He begins up the staircase and motions for me to follow him. I look at him a bit incredulously, wondering if he actually expects me to follow him after the bizarre exchange we just had. But he is persistent, wagging his finger at me in a way I can’t help but think is flirtatious.
My curiosity wins out. I follow Rowan up the stairs hesitantly. He leads me down a hallway to our left, pointing at various doors and describing their past use. Or, at least, the ones he knows. The house far predates his starting here. Eventually, we’re standing in front of the last door in this hallway. “This is the master bedroom,” he says. “Your room now, I assume.”
He turns the handle and allows the door to swing open. Inside is the biggest and grandest bedroom I have ever seen. The walls are lined with paintings lit by bronze sconces, interrupted only by dark bookcases that span from the floor to the ceiling. There is a door lined in gold trim on the wall to my right. A large, four-poster bed sits in the center of the room.
“Damn, I’ve never seen anything so fancy before,” I mutter.
“I have,” Rowan whispers into my ear, startling me. His fingers lightly run the length of my arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake. I turn to face him and realize he is standing mere inches from me, close enough to feel his breath on my face. He’s eying me with a sort of…hunger. The sudden turn of events makes my mind go blank. Is he hitting on me?
“You have?” I whisper back. His gaze trails along my body, slowly. Lazily. And he makes no effort to hide it. When he decides to finally look back up, he’s smiling at me. Then he shifts his gaze behind me.
To the bed.
“Looks comfortable,” he says, a devilish grin on his face. My eyes drop involuntarily to Rowan’s full, soft lips, and I wonder if I’m about to do something I’ll regret. With great effort, I pull my gaze back up to meet Rowan’s, and he makes the decision for me. “Glad I got the chance to show you around. Goodnight, Mr. Black—Ren, I mean.”
I stare after him as he walks out. “Goodnight,” I call halfheartedly, still reeling from what I can only assume are his multiple personalities. I sit on the trunk at the end of the bed, willing my body to cool off after it heated under Rowan’s intense stare. I look around the room once more, taking in a bit more detail, when I notice something odd. Something that does not seem familiar. On the wall, next to the door that leads to the hallway, is a painting in a dark, ornate frame. It appears to be a little worn, but is otherwise still in good shape. The painting is a portrait.
A portrait of me.
For the second time tonight, a cold chill spreads over my skin. I approach the painting slowly, as if something might jump out at me at any moment. But the closer I get, the more I am certain that this portrait is me. But that’s impossible, it has to be of someone that looked a lot like me. An ancestor, perhaps? Maybe this house was passed down through generations. For all I know, this is an old portrait of Sebastian, the previous occupant of this bedroom. Although, hanging a portrait of himself in his own bedroom seemed odd. Then again, nothing about this house strikes me as normal.
Convinced that this is a portrait of someone else that happens to resemble me, I turn out the lights and climb into bed. For a time, I toss and turn restlessly. I have always struggled to sleep in unfamiliar places.
Before I know it, it’s two o’clock in the morning. My mind is still racing with all the events of the day. Who is Rowan, and how did he know who I was? Why did he tell me not to stay here, and then lead me directly to my bedroom?
My eyes start to drift shut, and I pray I fall asleep. It was not to be, however, because now I can’t stop thinking of Rowan. His face and body, sure. But I also can’t help but wonder what he was so afraid of, and then suddenly…not so afraid of? Should I be afraid of it? Of him?
Just as the last thought crosses my mind, there’s a sound just outside my door. It doesn’t compute at first, what the sound is. When it does, I shrink into the covers a little bit further as I try to recall if I locked the door. Because the sound I’m hearing, just on the other side of the door, is unmistakable.
Footsteps.
