There’s a void in the records of this Estate around thirteen hundred. No, not in the made-up history that the Steward in the eighteen hundreds created out of whole cloth, a comforting lie that neatly created a history for us that didn’t on paper or in memory truly exist.
Something bad happened here, something that the Estate inhabitants wanted not a soul to hear about down the centuries. Something bloody, something abhorrent. Those of us who’ve The Sight, who can see the ghostly visions of the past, can’t have see anything that tells us what happened. No ghosts, no traces of anything happening. It’s not that we can’t see anything — it’s as if nothing happened at that point in time.
Even the old stone church, strangely built in the Viking way like a long boat made of stone and built likely in the twelve hundreds, simply leaves no impact upon the Grey that is the ghostly traces of what happened then. I even tried asking the Fae and they just look blankly at me as if the question itself makes no sense! Tamsin, the current hedgewitch and another one with The Sight, says that asking the owls what their collective memory happened also draws a blank.
The only physical clue to what happened is a burrow mound that the Estate ghosts and Irish wolfhounds won’t go near. It’s got magical wards on it that chill even me who has fought gods and demons and monsters down the centuries. Hell my ravens won’t even fly anywhere near it… Those who don’t have The Sight aren’t even aware there’s a burrow mound there — they just walk around it, not even noticing they’re doing so. We who know ’tis there think that’d be a very bad idea to disturb whatever lies sleeping there.
I didn’t say this was a comforting tale, so drank up your whiskey and I’ll have Reynard pour us another one. Sleep well tonight if you can…
