Chapter 1
Harkness House sat on a sprawling stretch of land on the outskirts of Westview, New Jersey. The Victorian-style manor loomed far back from the stone and iron gates, hidden behind a patch of overgrown trees that cast dark shadows across its heavily curtained windows. The house was the kind that inspired whispered stories among neighborhood children. To them, it was haunted, cursed—a place to be avoided at all costs. It's also the last place best-selling novelist Agatha Harkness ever thought she would see again.
Tires crunched on the uneven gravel as the sleek black car rolled to a stop, and Agatha's heart clenched as she looked out at the disrepair before her. The house seemed to stare back, its once-proud façade now weathered and tired, the curtains like ghosts staring and silently waiting. The paint was chipped and peeling, ivy crawling up its sides like greedy hands reaching for whatever they could take.
In her crisp white shirt and tailored coat, Agatha was a far cry from the girl who had once spent summers here under her grandmother's careful guidance—or the teenager who had endured her mother's watchful, judging eye. Now, she felt far too much like the house she saw: falling apart, broken, and worn down by years of neglect and sorrow, both inside and out.
Taking a deep breath, she steadied her nerves with a quiet reminder: She's gone, Agatha. That's why you're here.
It had only been three days since she'd received the call. With no siblings or other family, it was her agent and longtime friend, Lilia, who had broken the news.
"Evanora is dead," Lilia had said over the phone, her voice even and emotionless. "You're needed in Westview to settle the estate. I can have you there by Friday, if you'd like. Maybe getting away will help clear your mind... maybe help you write." Doubtful, but you couldn't blame a girl for trying, right?
Lilia, well-versed in the troubles of Agatha's past, knew better than to push her friend. She also knew Agatha's tendency to procrastinate, often promising to handle things 'later.' More times than not, 'later' never came. It was how they'd ended up in their current predicament: Agatha's deadline pushed back to the point of non-existence, and Lilia juggling increasingly frustrated calls from the publisher who was awaiting the manuscript.
The truth was, Agatha didn't care about the deadline. She didn't care about much of anything these days. The loss of her marriage had been a dull ache compared to the sharp, endless pain of losing her son, Nicholas. That grief had settled into her chest like a stone, weighing her down and swallowing any spark of joy or creativity. It had also been the final nail in the coffin of her long-time-loveless marriage. She had never truly loved Ralph, but image could be everything and she knew the glossy family photo on the back cover of her novel could fool nearly everyone. With Nicholas gone and her creativity zapped, she just didn't care to stay.
After agreeing to the trip, she'd spent that night soaking in a candlelit bath with a glass (or two three) of wine, reflecting on the faint pinch of guilt she felt for not feeling anything but hollow. She hadn't shed a single tear for her mother. She still cried for her Nicky.
Now, standing outside the house, she reached into her purse and pulled out a small envelope bearing her last name in unfamiliar handwriting which she assumed was the estate lawyer. Inside was an old key ring with three tarnished keys. One would open the front door. As for the others, she wasn't certain what doors they would open—and she wasn't particularly eager to find out.
The front door creaked as it opened, revealing an interior that looked frozen in time. Heavy furniture filled the space, dark polished wood and fabrics rich in color but faded with age. Dust lingered in the air and on the surface, catching the faint streams of sunlight coming in through partially curtained windows. It was a good thing she didn't have a dust allergy. Although Evanora had lived there up until the last week, it didn't look like anyone had spent time there in years.
Agatha left her suitcase by the door and wandered the halls, her fashionable heels clicking on the hardwood. She paused in the kitchen, running her fingers over a cool marble countertop (that was new) and laughing softly to herself. She realized that she'd been walking around like the ghost of her mother was about to pop out at her at any second.
She's dead, she reminded herself again. You're alone. She has no control anymore.
The first floor was just as she remembered, a maze of rooms with tall ceilings and heavy drapes. Her familiarity with the layout drew her back to the entryway and the staircase hugging the left wall. She glanced at her suitcase, sighed, and hoisted it up the stairs, cursing the fact there were no bedrooms on the ground floor.
The bannister was smooth under her fingers, polished to a dull sheen from decades of use. Each step up felt heavier but she was careful not to fall. There were already too many ghosts haunting this property.
She avoided the master suite, not ready to face it just yet, and instead ventured further down the hall to her old bedroom.
It was exactly as she remembered. The faded wallpaper with the delicate pattern of vines and flowers she had loved as a child, some of it faintly colored in with marker (she'd gotten in trouble for that). The window seat was still there, its cushion worn and faded. She leaned against the doorframe and closed her eyes, letting the memories play.
She was five, clutching Señor Scratchy, her favorite stuffed bunny. Her grandmother had lovingly sewn him from scraps of fabric and he was one of the only toys Agatha had. Then, she was ten, sent to spend the summer while her mother worked. That was the beginning of the distance between her and Evanora, a rift that would only deepen with time.
Another flash—sixteen. She stood in the kitchen, silent and numb, after whispering her final goodbye to the grandmother who had been more of a mother to her than her own ever was.
"Snap out of it, Agatha!" her mother had snarled. "It's a part of life! Sometimes, people die!"
That day, the words had struck her like a blow. Anger, sorrow, and hatred tangled in her chest, emotions taking root deep in the chambers of her heart.
Now, Agatha opened her eyes and stepped into the room. The memories lingered, but she brushed them aside. She moved her suitcase inside and walked to the window, looking out over the overgrown gardens below.
From here, she could see how much work the estate would need before it could be sold. The gardens were a tangled mess of weeds and brambles, the pathways nearly swallowed by nature’s relentless growth.
"I don't fucking have time for this," she muttered to herself, dragging her hands down her face. But even as she said it, part of her knew she would stay. Not for Evanora. Not for the house.
For the chance to confront her past and to finally make peace with it.