Dearest Mother,

Since you've asked, the blond man's name is James H. Thompson. I am unsure why you want to know the name of the man your son has ungodly thoughts of. As the days go by, I get to know him more and more. My days are mostly consumed with cleaning up after our guests. However, during meal times, I can't help but speak with him. 

James is a quiet man with an honest chuckle. He works as a blacksmith, giving his large frame an enormous build. He always wears his hair in a ponytail. I must admit; I grow fonder and fonder of him with each sunset that passes. And I am not the only one! Angelica told me the other day that she likes him. I've caught her clinging to the poor man's ankles more than once. He always wears the same sheepish grin when I catch the two of them. Being a distant uncle, I think he would be a good fit to raise the young girl. 

Both Angelica and I are not as fond as the other residents. 

The first to arrive was a tall widow by the name of Ruth. Miss Ruth, as she requested I call her, is Angelica's cousin. Unlike some of the others, the paperwork and family portraits prove her claim. I am not, well, quite as fond of her. I will leave it at that.

The Londoners are named Barnabus and Edward. The two young men spend most of their time passed out in the yard, bottles strewn between them. Miss Ruth may vazey and obnoxious, but I'd take her any day over drunks. Every time I see either one of their pale faces, a headache immediately starts to ail me. I do wish you'd visit soon- and bring ale. We're out.

Of course, the last guests that I have yet to speak of are the Stanburys. Sir Stanbury is a widower with five children. His dear wife passed away a few months after the birth of his youngest son. Besides James, he may be the only guest I admire. Anna does her best to help with his children. The eldest Stanbury child, Charles, is a mere fourteen years old. Despite his few years, he is an honest boy. Between him and Anna, his siblings are managed. 

For now.

I must say...I'm not sure how serious I should take the final Blackwell letter. For the first week or so after the Lord and Lady's death, Angelica was silent at night. Utterly, completely silent. Perhaps this was my grace period. Because soon after, just as I had begun to fall into a new routine, she began to cry. Loudly. Exactly as the grandfather clock strikes two.

It doesn't happen every night. But at least twice a week, I am summoned by shrill tears to her room. Our guests, with three notable exceptions, are understanding of the crying. I've begun to bring my overcoat with me on these visits. Her room is normally cold, but it is freezing at night. I shudder at the thought of what Angelica must see in her mind's eye to cause such screeches.

It must just be a coincidence, right? A child of her age is fragile and will be disturbed by the death of her beloved family. But exactly as the clock strikes two? As I wait in my room for two o'clock to pass, I read and reread the letter. How could they have seen the future? If this happened while the Lord and Lady were still alive, I would've heard her nightly cries beforehand.

Could the Blackwells have been involved in something...unnatural?

Your son,

Percy Kenneth Brookwood.