The fog was thickening. Amelia frowned at her phone’s unresponsive screen, shaking it as though that would force the maps app to load. The endless spinning wheel of "loading" did little to ease her mounting frustration. She’d been walking for what felt like hours along a path that should have brought her back to the manor by now. Her footsteps echoed too loudly in the eerie silence, and the damp chill in the air crept through her jacket.
This was supposed to be a simple morning run to shake off jet lag, not an adventure in confusion. She glanced around, the dense trees swallowing any trace of direction. Deciding to retrace her steps, she turned back the way she’d come, breaking into a jog to hasten her return. The exercise, however, did little to calm the prickling unease climbing up her spine.
The forest seemed alive now, the mist coiling around her like fingers. She checked her phone again. Still no service, and now her battery was lower than she’d thought. Cursing under her breath, she shoved the device back into her pocket. Her gut churned, not from exertion but from something less tangible: an almost primal sense of wrongness.
Then she saw them. The gates of Weatherby Manor loomed ahead, their iron bars gleaming faintly in the dim light. Relief surged in her chest, but as she drew closer, her steps faltered. The gates, wide open when she’d left, were now closed. Locked.
Her relief soured into dread. Something wasn’t right. The air seemed heavier here, tinged with an unnatural quiet. Beyond the gates, the manor stood shrouded in shadow. The familiar modern facade was gone, replaced by something more... ancient.
“Were you about to climb those walls, lass?”
The gruff voice made her jump, spinning on her heel to face the source. A man stepped out of the fog, torchlight flickering across his stern face. He wore chainmail beneath a heavy blue cloak, a sword hanging at his side.
For a moment, Amelia stared, dumbfounded. “You’re one of the actors, right?” she asked, her voice more hopeful than certain.
The man’s dark eyes narrowed. “Actors? Have you taken leave of your senses, woman? This is Weatherby Manor.”
His words struck her like a slap. “I... I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”
“Aye, there has,” he muttered, studying her with suspicion. “You shouldn’t be here.”
Before she could respond, he raised his voice, calling out. A second figure appeared atop the gate wall, a burly man with a thick beard and a helmet. They exchanged terse words, none of which Amelia could understand, before the gates creaked open. The first man gestured for her to follow, his demeanor wary yet commanding.
Inside the gates, the world seemed even stranger. The manor loomed larger than before, its walls draped in ivy and its windows darkened. The air smelled of earth and woodsmoke, the scent carrying an unfamiliar weight. Amelia glanced around, her heart racing. Was this part of some elaborate setup? Had she stumbled into a live-action roleplay event?
“You’ll wait here,” the man barked, leading her to a small room just inside the manor. “Someone will see to you.”
He left her by the fireplace, the door closing firmly behind him. Amelia sank into a worn armchair, her mind reeling. This was too detailed to be a coincidence, too immersive to be an accident. The crackling firelight cast flickering shadows across the room, the warmth doing little to ease her mounting anxiety.
Minutes later, the door swung open. A tall man entered, his presence commanding. His fine clothes, embroidered with intricate patterns, were unmistakably historical. But it was his face that stole her breath. She’d seen it before—in the portrait hanging in the manor’s modern lobby.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” the man said, his tone clipped. “Who are you?”
“Amelia Cosgrove,” she replied cautiously, standing. “I think there’s been a mistake. I—”
“You’ve traveled,” he interrupted, his words sharp and definitive.
“Traveled?” she echoed. “Look, I don’t know what this is, but I’d really like to—”
“You’ve come through time,” he continued, his expression unreadable. “From your future to our present.”
The words hung in the air, absurd yet chilling. Amelia shook her head, laughing nervously. “Time travel? That’s ridiculous.”
“It happens more often than you’d think,” he said dryly. “Sir Baldric, explain it to her.”
The man from the gates stepped forward, his stern demeanor softening slightly. “You’ve crossed into another time, Miss. It’s rare, but not unheard of. And it’s always someone like you—someone with Scottish blood.”
The room spun. Amelia gripped the back of the armchair, her legs unsteady. “This can’t be real. I was just—”
“Walking in the woods, no doubt,” the lord interjected, a trace of amusement in his voice. “That’s how it usually happens. The magic of this place calls to its own.”
Magic. The word felt foreign, ridiculous. Yet as she looked around the room, at the firelight playing across the antique furnishings, at the men watching her with grave sincerity, she couldn’t dismiss the possibility.
“Take me back,” she demanded, her voice shaking. “Whatever this is, undo it.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Baldric said quietly. “The crossing is one-way.”
Hours later, Amelia sat in a guest chamber, staring out the small window at the star-filled sky. Her mind buzzed with unanswered questions, but exhaustion weighed her down. Every instinct screamed for her to find a way out, yet a strange part of her whispered: Stay. There’s more to this.
And so, as the manor settled into silence, Amelia resolved to uncover the truth of Weatherby Manor and the world she now found herself in.
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