**Diary Entry 12th May, 2024**
The phone rang just as I was frying an omelette in my flat. The scent of garlic and butter filled the kitchen. Wiping my hands on a tea towel, I glanced at the screenunknown number.
Hello? I answered, keeping an eye on the pan.
Mr. Whitmore? This is your family solicitor. Youll need to come in tomorrow morning. Theres an inheritance matter requiring your signature.
I paused. My parents were alive and wellwho on earth had left me anything? I didnt bother asking questions, just muttered an agreement and hung up.
The next morning was grey and damp. Driving through London, my confusion turned to irritation. The solicitor, Mr. Harrington, was waiting at the office door.
Come in, Oliver. I know this is unusual. But if it were straightforward, I wouldnt have called you in.
The office was eerily quiet, just the creak of floorboards underfoot. I sat across from his desk, arms folded.
This concerns your uncleArthur Pembroke.
I dont have an uncle named Arthur, I said flatly.
Nevertheless, he left you his estate. He slid an old key, a faded map, and an address across the desk. A house on the water. Its yours now.
Youre joking.
It sits in the middle of Lake Windermere, in the Lake District.
I picked up the key. Heavy, tarnished, with intricate engravings. Id never heard of the man or the place. Yet something in me stirredthat reckless pull of curiosity.
An hour later, Id packed a rucksack with essentials. According to the satnav, the lake was just two hours away. How had I never known about it?
When the road ended, the lake stretched before mestill, glassy. And there, in its centre, stood the house: dark, imposing, as if risen from the depths.
Elderly locals sipped tea outside a lakeside café. I approached them.
Pardon methat house out there. Who lived in it?
One man set down his cup slowly.
We dont speak of that place. Never go near it. Shouldve been gone years ago.
But someone mustve lived there?
Never saw a soul come or go. Only heard boats at night. Supplies delivered, but no one knows by whom. And we dont care to.
At the dock, a weathered sign read *Margarets Boats.* Inside, a weary woman eyed me.
I need a ride to that house, I said, showing her the key. Its mine now.
No one goes there, she said flatly. Frightens folk. Frightens *me.*
But I insisted, and eventually, she relented.
Fine. Ill take you. But I wont wait. Ill be back tomorrow.
The house loomed like a relic. The jetty groaned underfoot as I stepped out.
Good luck, Margaret called as she motored away. Hope youre here when I return.
Thensilence.
The key turned smoothly. The door creaked open.
Inside, it smelled of aged wood and fresh air. Tall windows, heavy drapes, rows of portraits. One stood outa man by the lake, the house behind him. The inscription: *Arthur Pembroke, 1964.*
The library was lined with annotated books. A study held a telescope and stacks of journalsweather logs, observations, the most recent dated last month.
*What was he watching?*
The bedroom held stopped clocks. A locket on the dresser held a baby photo labelled *Whitmore.*
*Had he been watching me? My family?*
A note on the mirror read: *Time uncovers what was buried.*
The attic was crammed with newspaper clippings. One circled in red: *Boy from York vanishes. Found unharmed days later.* The year1997. My stomach dropped. That was *me.*
In the dining room, a single chair was pulled out. On itmy school photo.
This is beyond strange, I muttered, my head spinning.
I ate tinned soup from the pantry and retreated to a guest room. The bed was made, as if waiting. Moonlight glinted on the lake, the house humming with quiet energy.
Sleep wouldnt come. Too many questions. Who was Arthur Pembroke? Why had no one spoken of him? Why had my parents hidden this?
A metallic *clang* shattered the silence. I bolted upright. Another soundlike a door swinging open downstairs. No signal on my phone. Just my own wide-eyed reflection.
I grabbed a torch and crept into the hall.
Shadows thickened. The library books looked disturbed. The study door stood ajar. A cold draft seeped from behind a tapestry.
I pulled it asidean iron door.
No, I whispered, but my hand moved anyway.
The door opened to a spiral staircase descending beneath the lake. The air grew damp, heavy with salt and age.
Below, a corridor of cabinets stretched before me. Labels read: *Genealogy, Letters, Expeditions.*
One drawer was marked *Whitmore.*
My hands shook as I opened it. Insideletters. All addressed to my father.
*I tried. Why wont you answer? This is important. For Oliver.*
He didnt vanish, I breathed. He *wrote.* He wanted to know me.
At the corridors end, another door: *Pembroke Archives. Authorised Personnel Only.* No handlejust a palm scanner. A note beside it: *For Oliver Whitmore. Only him.*
I pressed my hand.
A projector flickered to life. A mans silhouette appearedgrey-haired, weary.
Hello, Oliver. If youre seeing this, Im gone.
Arthur Pembroke.
I am your birth father. You shouldnt have learned like this, but your mother and I made mistakes. We were scientists, obsessed with saving the world. She died in childbirth. And II was afraid. Afraid of failing you. So I gave you to my brother. He raised you well. But I never stopped watching. From here. From afar.
I sank onto a bench, numb.
All this time it was you.
His voice wavered.
I feared ruining your life, but you grew into a good manbetter than I deserved. Now this house is yours. A chance. Forgive mefor silence, for cowardice, for being near but never *there.*
The screen darkened.
I dont know how long I sat there. Eventually, I climbed back up. At dawn, Margaret waited at the dock.
You all right? she asked.
I am now, I said softly. I understand.
I went home. My parents listened in silence. Then they hugged me.
Forgive us, Mum whispered.
Thank you, I said. I know it wasnt easy.
That night, my room felt the same. Yet everything had changed.
Weeks later, I returned to the lakenot to live, but to restore. The house became the *Pembroke Centre for Climate and Heritage.* Children laughed in its halls. Locals visited. The ghosts were gone.
Now, its alive again.
**Lesson learned:** Some secrets are kept out of love. But truth, no matter how buried, always finds its way to light.
