William stares up at Wentworth Manor and steps deeper into the creek, the rushing water gathering beneath the cuffs of his jeans. He squints and tilts his head, just as he did as a child, attempting to find the figure in the attic window. Alas, like last time and the hundredth time before that, he is unable to see the ghost Uncle Rick warned him about.

“Too bad,” Rick would say, smoking his cigar on the balcony. His hair and scruffy chin, once bright red, eventually became a shock of white. “Ghosts don’t pick on good boys like you.” He would take a drag and smile. “Only the bad ones.”

William sighs, dragging himself out of the stream and back up the hill. It’s been years since he visited the Manor, but the dirt beneath his feet and shadow of the mountains on his back feels familiar.

“The mountains were a place of escape for rich people in Boston,” William’s father would say. He trimmed the grapevines as William, somewhere between twelve and sixteen years old, lay slumped in a patio chair. One of the dogs would lie beside him in the shade of the lattice, spots of sunlight on his fur. “They didn’t have air conditioning back then, and when the Polio epidemic came, they wanted to take refuge in a place where they could breathe easily without risking their health.”

William got tired of this story for a while, after hearing it over and over again as he followed his father from one side of the estate to the next, mowing the lawn, pruning the bushes, adding mulch to the flowerbeds. It was a lecture far easier to memorize than any he attended in school, and he could recite it bullet by bullet.

The Manor was a bed and breakfast for the Massachusetts elite. They would drive up on the weekends in their long, fancy cars and park them in a horseshoe-shaped carriage house where William’s father stored his tractor and landscape equipment. They would spend their days hiking the White Mountains and traversing the Pemigewasset River and returned in the evening for a blissful supper and warm bed.

The Manor housed gambling addicts of the 1890s, booze runners of the Kennedy variety in the 1920s, and mafia mobsters of the 1950s. Some said a woman suffering from hysteria hung herself in the attic after her husband took her north to get fresh air. “Bullshit,” said Uncle Rick. “She threw herself out the window. Onto the patio, near the chimney. They dug up sand from the creek to sop up the blood.”

William’s father was never happy with his brother’s curt conversations. Nevertheless, the two maintained the estate together for decades, keeping the Manor open for daily visitors and weekly guests, much to the dismay of Uncle Rick’s wife.

“Is the Manor really haunted?” Underwhelmed guests would ask William when he was a boy, solely for their own entertainment.

“Yes,” William would say, every time, without fail. Though he had never seen a glass fly off a table or a door slam by itself, he was fully aware the Manor was haunted: just not by the woman in the attic.

“You know, this is the hotel that inspired Steven King to write The Shining,” Uncle Rick would tell the guests. He would loiter beside them in the Great Room, wearing a button-down with fading stripes, his thrift store attempt at business casual. William’s father would shake his head, never indulging in Rick’s white lies.

William nearly laughs at the memory as he slips through one of the glass doors beside the patio, entering the Great Room. He brushes his finger against the stiff furniture. Even beneath the protective linens, the antique wood and fabrics are dusty.

William’s father had gotten sick in the wintertime, and the Manor did not reopen that summer, nor the summer after that. Mrs. Murdoch took in the Labradors and William focused on finishing his degree. Money had been set aside so landscapers would keep the grass cut, but otherwise the estate was untouched. It had always been a space where time refused to exist.

Though the sky is still blue in summer twilight, William heads to bed. The drive up Route 3 has drained him. He has to force the door to the master bedroom open with his shoulder. The room is as grim as he remembers, the dark wallpaper watching him from all angles. His father hated this room. He could’ve renovated it, but he preferred to spend his time keeping the yard presentable.

As William draws the heavy curtains and turns off the lights, he wonders if there was another reason the father left the bedroom the way it was— if he preferred to preserve the old wallpaper and furniture in the only room untouched by outside hands.

***

William wakes to the sound of rain against the roof. He pulls himself out of bed and towards the windowsill, peering outside to see the rain falling over the expanse of grass, overgrown and irregularly green from years of improper care.

In the spring, Uncle Rick would dig out a Wiffle bat from the garage and pitch a few balls for William. William was never a good batter, but his father’s dogs would get ecstatic at the prospect of a flying ball. The games would always end with fetch. William would let the Labradors chase after him while Uncle Rick cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “sic him, Tozier!”

The dogs would tackle William into the freshly mowed grass, leaving green stains on his knees as Tozier covered his face in slobbery kisses.

Tozier, the yellow fur of his face now gray, was probably lounging beneath Mrs. Murdoch’s kitchen table, licking up the remains of teatime. William reminds himself to give her a visit and take the dogs back; it feels like forever since he has seen them.

William checks his watch. If he was younger, he would dread seeing nasty weather on this specific day. He gets dressed in his shirt, jeans, and sneakers from the day before. Ignoring the bathroom mirror, he descends to brew a cup of coffee. He takes it to the Great Room and pulls a heavy armchair up to the glass doors, checking the time every now and again. Finally, he discards the empty mug on the floor.

The rain starts to gather at the edges of the Manor’s gravel walkway. The sky, a singular shade of gray, disappears into a cloud of fog that covers the view of the mountains. William opens the door, the smell of the rain washing over him quicker than the water. He walks through the garden, the soles of his sneakers wading through puddles, and finds a patch of pink tulips. He picks the flowers, soiling his hands with wet dirt. As he leans up, he looks over the empty hills at the meadows flattened with the weather.

His hair is plastered to his face, rain dripping off his eyelashes and rolling down his cheeks. The flowers itch in his hand. He continues deeper into the gardens, disappearing into the shrubbery.

The stone patio sits in the center of the hedges, slick slates held together with moss, the iron furniture casting shadows of rust. The grapevines weave overhead on the lattice, the fruit already heavy. The fountain overflows, forming a mirror with a dripping granite frame. William peers in and faces his weary and dark reflection, not recognizing the young man staring back.

He turns, and then he is facing her; the lonely look in her marble gaze, hand outstretched only to receive nothing. She holds her skirts in her other hand, ready to run, but she has nowhere to go. William smiles.

He places the flowers gently in her palm and watches the marble beneath her fingertips peel away. The warm color of her flesh returns, her hair softening and thinning in the rain. William holds out his hand. “Good morning,” he says. She looks at him, looks up at the sky, and grins.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve felt the rain on my skin,” she says, taking William’s hand. Her hand is warm, though already clammy. She steps down from the pedestal and analyzes William’s face. “You look tired,” she says.

“I am,” he says. “But I’m alright.”

She furrows her brow. “You look… older, William,” she says.

William smiles sheepishly. “It’s been four years, Claudia.”

Her eyes widen. “Four?”

William nods. “I’m sorry,” he says, “for being gone for so long, but… things have gotten complicated, busy, and…” his voice drifts off. “I’m sorry,” he repeats.

“Complicated?” Claudia asks. “In what way?”

“Rick and my father,” says William, “They passed away.”

Claudia’s face shifts, sympathy replacing fear. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she says, pressing her hand to William’s shoulder. “Oh, Lord. You’re alone, aren’t you? Is that the matter? Have you spent four years alone?”

“I came back for you,” William says. “You’ve spent four years alone, too, even if you don’t know it.”

Claudia forces a nod. “I’m getting cold,” she murmurs, shivering in the downpour.

“Yes,” says William. “Let’s go.”

Together, they weave their way through the garden and up to the Manor. William tosses his weight against Great Room’s glass door and it rattles open. He pulls an armchair close to the fireplace for Claudia. She sits down in her sopping clothes, leaning forward to watch William root through a box of kindling.

“Birch,” he murmurs, tossing out thin logs of white-barked timber. “Of course, there’s only birch left.” He sighs, leaning back on his heels. Claudia tries to hold back a smile. “The fire won’t stay lit with this,” he says.

“There was always firewood in the basement when I came to visit,” says Claudia. “They kept it there in the winter.” She brushes wet locks of hair from her face.

William nods. “Let me go check,” he says.

Claudia gets to her feet. “I will come with you,” she says. “I can show you where it is.” Her sopping dress drips on the floor.

“Let me get you a towel first,” says William, starting out of the great room. Claudia follows suit. He opens a closet in the hallway and pulls a gray towel off a large stack. He drapes it around Claudia’s shoulders.

“This way,” she says, turning with a flourish of fabric into a dark alcove. William pulls the beaded chain above her head and light washes over a dusty set of wooden stairs. Claudia descends without another word.

William takes a flashlight off a table at the end of the stairs and flips it on, casting it over stacks of old books, framed artwork hidden from the sun, and furniture covered in cobwebs. “I’m sure you didn’t expect your first day back after four years to be spent digging in the basement,” he says, looking under a table.

Claudia drifts into a doorway to their right. “Time doesn’t pass when I’m a statue,” she reminds him. She enters a large space that seems to lie underneath the great room. Through the beam of William’s flashlight, she darts towards the boiler. She grabs a cut piece of timber and holds it up to the light.

William hands the flashlight to Claudia and stacks up all the firewood he can carry. “Do you miss your family?” he asks.

“I don’t have much time to,” Claudia admits. “And after spending so many days with you— or, as you see it, years— you’ve become like my family.”

William smiles in the dark. “I’m going to age faster than you know. One day you’re going to wake up and I’m going to be gone.”

He watches Claudia’s face drop in the dim light. “Like your father?” she whispers.

William doesn’t respond, beginning back up the stairs. Claudia follows. “I’m sorry,” she says. She is again met with silence. “We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

They reach the top of the stairs and are met with the natural, gray light of the stormy morning. William reaches over her shoulder and turns off the light. “It’s alright,” he says. “I’m not really sure what I’m thinking.” He enters the great room and places the firewood down. “I might just be anxious, thinking about how I’ll get this place back up and running myself. Back in the day, there was Dad and Rick… now I’m alone.” He turns to Claudia, drying her hair with the towel. “Well, not completely alone. Not all of the time.”

“That is a perfectly reasonable thing to be worried about,” says Claudia, sitting in the armchair. “What do you mean, ‘getting this place up and running?’ Has it closed?”

William picks up a piece of pinewood and places it in the fireplace. “Yes,” he says quietly. “A pandemic broke out last spring, a respiratory disease.”

Claudia watches him crumple up a newspaper. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she says.

“You don’t have to apologize,” says William. “I know there were similar pandemics during your time. Polio and all that. It’s a natural thing that happens when you’re human, I guess,” he sighs, reaching for the lighter. “I’ve never understood why, though. Why we have to experience so much suffering. There have been thousands of deaths in the past days, and there will be thousands more.”

He lights an edge of newspaper. The flames lick at the bottom of the wood, slowly taking their time to catch.

“Was that what happened to your father?” Claudia asks.

“No,” says William, “it was cancer. But I was terrified about what would happen to him. The hospitals hardly had enough beds, enough staff to watch over him. I thought he would catch it, that he would die alone, but…” he turns away. “It was alright in the end. He went peacefully.”

Claudia stands up from the armchair and sits down next to him. She takes the towel from her shoulders and drapes it over his own. “I’m glad to hear that,” she whispers. “He was lucky to have a son that loved him so dearly. A son who happily takes over the family business, a business with so much history that others just ignore.”

“I lost him,” says William, turning to Claudia, “and I didn’t want to lose all of you too.”

Claudia smiles, taking his hand. “I’m glad,” she says, “after everything, we still have this place.”

“Do you miss your family?” William whispers.

“Sometimes,” Claudia says, “but I understand how the estate works. We must form a connection to the Manor while we’re alive in order to stay here after we pass. The rest of my family didn’t. To them, the Manor was a building, a place to stay during the summer. It is much more to me; it is a story. It is a living, breathing thing, and while others think it is miniscule in their lives, I know that I am a miniscule part of the Manor’s history.”

William wraps the towel tighter under his chin. When Claudia stayed at the Manor, she wasn’t aware that the statues in the garden came to life once a year. William’s family kept the Manor’s secret from the guests for hundreds of years, but it still feels odd to think that their visitors don’t know about the Manor’s real ghosts.

“I’m glad you’re here,” William says absent-mindedly.

“I’m glad you’re here too,” says Claudia with a grin. “I remember when you were this tall.” She holds her hand up to her shoulder. “You had curly hair and the biggest smile—”

William laughs. “You must’ve known my dad and Rick when they were little kids too, didn’t you?”

“Rick was a troublemaker,” she says, “he was always hiding under the porch or in a tree somewhere. Sometimes it would take your grandfather hours to find him. He would smoke on the roof to avoid getting caught.”

A smile spreads across William’s face. “What about my father?” he asks.

“He was always quiet,” Claudia says. “He carried stacks of books around everywhere he went. He never had much to say. He was too busy studying.”

“So not much changed.”

Claudia laughs. “I guess not. Your father was a great man, William. He was caring and humble. You remind me of him in many ways.”

“I hope he was proud of me,” says William.

“I can’t think of a single reason why he wouldn’t be.” Claudia says.

William smiles. “Would you like some hot chocolate?”

“Absolutely.”

They fall asleep on the floor, empty mugs beside the dying fire. William wakes to birdsong and sunlight filtering through the large windows of the Great Room. He turns to Claudia and pulls the towel closer to her shoulders. She shifts, reaching for it. William’s heart stills when he notices her marble fingertips. Gently, he shakes her awake. “It’s time to go,” he whispers.

She sits up. “Okay,” she says sleepily, getting to her feet. She walks to the window and stares out over the gardens. “It’s a beautiful day.”

“I’m sorry that the weather was so bad,” says William.

“It’s alright,” says Claudia. “There will be sunny days eventually.” She traces a tree on the windowpane with a gentle finger. The marble clinks when it hits the glass.

They step out of the Great Room and back through the gardens, over the slate of the patio, past the hedges, the grapevines, the fountain. William takes Claudia’s marble palm and helps her back on the pedestal.

“Thank you,” he says, “for being there for me.”

She does not respond; her body has returned to stone.

Suddenly nauseous, William turns and sits on the edge of the fountain, skimming his hands across the water. His reflection in the water looks just as tired as the day before. He does look older.

When he was young, he would sob into his father’s shirt when the visitors’ bodies grew pale, when they froze over in marble. “It’s alright,” his father would say, patting his head. “It doesn’t hurt them. They’ll be back next year.”

“That’s too long,” William would sniffle.

“The years are only going to feel shorter,” his father chuckled. He placed a trowel in his son’s hand. “Come help me plant flowers for Mr. Harland.”

William had cast a glance towards Mr. Harland, unmoving on his pedestal, a book in his stone hands. “How many ghosts are there?” William had asked his father.

“Ghosts? We don’t call them ghosts, William. They’re still living, aren’t they?” William’s father had pulled a bag of potting soil over his shoulder. “They’re former residents of the Manor. There are eight. We must welcome them, or they will remain stone until next year.”

Eight statues, eight individuals that came back to life on the same day every year, just to return to marble in the morning. William grew up with them as if they were family. He learned that Mr. Harland fought for the Union in the Civil War and that Mrs. Steiner had taught Henry Wadsworth Longfellow how to spell.

Mrs. Steiner would always join Uncle Rick in vigorous conversation about things that hadn’t aged well: words, foods, national borders. Rick is silent now, buried somewhere between the White Mountains and Boston alongside his wife, probably happy that the phone calls demanding him to come home have finally stopped. Tears fill William’s eyes as he pulls himself to his feet, staring at the patio slates, still dark with the previous day’s rain.

Before he leaves the garden, a flash of white catches his eye. He turns, knowing there shouldn’t be a statue in that location. Nevertheless, a marble sculpture he has never seen before stands in an offset alcove amongst the hedges.

The older man, chiseled in lifelike detail, holds a shovel in one hand. He is stout with broad shoulders and calloused hands. William recognizes the thin wrinkles on his face and the softness in his eyes that, a year ago, would’ve been a bright blue.

Tears gather in William’s eyes.

“Hey, Dad,” he whispers.