Dr. Ashford struggles to enjoy her morning tea as she sits behind her desk, her fingers lightly tapping the dark, polished wood. In front of her lies half a dozen open files, their pages marked with handwritten notes and carefully annotated reports. Her eyes move slowly from one to the next, her perplexity growing.
With all the patients now present, the experiment can finally begin. This should fill her with satisfaction. Yet, it doesn't.
She crosses her arms and sinks back into her chair, her gaze lost in the papers. The sessions from the past weeks have failed—a truth she still finds hard to accept. Every patient, every attempt, has been nothing but a sequence of unfulfilled promises. The method isn't flawed; the issue lies more with the participants—and the ongoing lack of full cooperation from their "host."
She grimaces slightly. Gathering the patients has never been a problem: a few carefully chosen words and a calculated patience to coax their agreement were always enough to convince them to join these so-called "therapeutic" retreats. No, the issue always comes back to the mental resilience of the only real subject of their study.
At first, she saw it as a challenge, a complex lock to be opened with the right key. She believed that with enough time, she could push him to open up, to let go, to surrender. But he's proven particularly stubborn, and time is running out. Her superior wants results. This place, this carefully selected group, this meticulously planned week… It all has to succeed. Otherwise…
Ashford shakes her head to dispel the thought. She must stay focused. Sitting upright, she grabs the file lying at the top of the pile. Maya. Her finger traces the familiar lines, following the text with an almost mechanical slowness. A simple life, unremarkable. A young woman no one would have noticed.
She twirls the photo stapled to the top of the file between her fingers. A delicate face, her hair cascading in blonde waves over her shoulders, blue-gray eyes that seem to hide a quiet determination, shining like mirrors. Without her misadventure, she would have remained in the shadows.
Ashford pauses on this thought. Her thumb taps the photo as she recalls last night's unsettling moment. After escorting Maya to her room, Ashford had gone upstairs to see their "host." She'd always made it a point to do this whenever a new guest arrived, to announce their presence. Yet, only Maya's name had elicited a reaction.
She'd seen the tension in his gaze. The subtle agitation of his hands. Not anger, nor casual curiosity, but something more... visceral. A strange vibration in the air, as if that single name had awakened something. Why?
Ashford sets the file back on the desk and stares at it for a moment. An idea begins to take root in her mind—tempting, but risky. Should she confront them? Would that be enough to provoke a breakthrough with their host? It might break the deadlock. But it could also fail miserably.
She shakes her head gently. No. Not yet. No rushing. If she's misinterpreted his reaction, she'd only make things worse. For now, observation is key. Maya, after all, is a pretty young woman, with a sunny face and, Ashford suspects, a charming smile when she lets it bloom on that reserved expression. A distraction, at most.
But then why the shiver? Why the palpable unease from him?
Ashford snaps the file shut with a brisk motion. At that moment, a sharp, rhythmic knock echoes. The door opens slightly, allowing one of her assistants to step in.
"Breakfast is served, Doctor."
"Thank you, Jeff. Let's give them some time to eat in peace, so they can relax a bit before we begin. We'll start the first session right afterward. Make sure everything is ready in the lounge."
Jeff nods slightly before leaving the office. Ashford finally rises, smoothing the folds of her skirt with an absent-minded gesture.
The real work begins now.
Maya carefully descends the service staircase, her fingers grazing the cold, polished wood of the railing. The faint scent of wax mixed with the distant aroma of warm bread guides her steps as she emerges into a small, dark hallway, lined with closed doors. She spots those leading to the reception room and the winter garden, their dark wood imposing and mysterious, and quickly heads toward the dining room.
She rubs her eyes with a tired hand, her head still heavy with the blurry remnants of the night before. She barely slept, having only half-dozed, her attention on high alert at every sound. The sensation of an invisible presence lurking in her room kept her on the edge of sleep. She had woken up, heart racing, convinced someone was there. But as she scanned the room, her gaze had only caught on the towel that had fallen from the mirror. A cold shiver ran through her as she picked it up to replace it, the reflection of her own face almost too familiar at that moment. The rest of the night was a frustrating battle against a sleep that refused to fully arrive.
She shakes her head, leaving those thoughts behind as she reaches the dining room. The atmosphere of the room is muted, punctuated by the soft clink of cutlery against porcelain and the murmur of quiet conversations. The soft light from the chandeliers, combined with the brighter light filtering through the tall windows, bathes the room in a warm, almost welcoming ambiance.
Maya immediately spots Fred, sitting at a table in the corner with a cup of tea in his hand without him seeming to drink it. The slight curve of his smile stretches his features as he talks with obvious enthusiasm to a man who seems much less willing to engage. The other man, younger, with a closed expression and tousled hair, nods occasionally, his gaze fixed on his plate as though searching for an escape. Fred, unperturbed, continues speaking, his animated gestures adding a strange dynamic to the scene.
At a table near the center, a woman in her forties glances furtively around, her eyes narrowed. Her slightly wavy brown hair frames a sharp, alert face, and a nearly intrusive curiosity is evident in her movements. Maya notices she isn't really eating, absentmindedly fiddling with her toast while quickly jotting down notes on a tablet.
A little further away, a young woman, barely an adult, occupies a table by the window. Her long brown hair is gathered in a braid, and she keeps her head lowered, focused on her bowl of cereal. She radiates an obvious shyness, her gaze darting away, almost embarrassed when her eyes briefly meet Maya's.
Near another window, somewhat surprisingly, an Anglican priest in a white collar is absentmindedly tapping on his phone. The morning light illuminates his carefully combed gray hair, and his glasses slide slightly down the bridge of his nose. He appears serene, but something in his stillness seems almost too perfect, as if he's forcing a calm he doesn't truly feel.
Maya hesitates for a moment before making her way to an empty table, weaving her way through this strange collection of souls. Barely seated, a man approaches her with a plate full of toast, scrambled eggs, and some fruit.
"Good morning. I'm Bob, one of Dr. Ashford's assistants. May I offer you our house tea? We make it with specific plants that help with the sessions."
"Uh... yes, why not?"
He tilts his head slightly with a wide smile and steps away, returning a moment later with a steaming teapot and a cup, which he places in front of her.
"Don't drink it too quickly, so the plants are properly absorbed. You'll benefit more from their relaxing properties."
Maya feels a bit uncomfortable, but the tea, though strong and rather bitter, isn't unpleasant, softened by honey. Before she can take a bite, the young brown-haired woman gets up and approaches timidly. She holds her bowl between her hands, her fingers nervously playing with its surface.
"Can I... sit?" she asks with a very pronounced and awkward French accent, her words hesitant but clear.
"Of course."
"I'm glad... I'm not alone," she inhales deeply, visibly nervous, but forces a sincere smile.
"Me too. I'm Maya."
"Camille."
"Nice to meet you. It's a bit... intimidating, all of this, isn't it?"
Camille nods, seeming to search for her words.
"The weather, especially. I'm not used to it being this cold. And the days are so short here... It's dark before we've even finished lunch," she pauses, her eyes momentarily lost in the view beyond the window. "But I like the winter landscapes. The hills, the bare trees... It's quiet."
Maya follows Camille's gaze, lost in the foggy windows of the dining room, where the gray winter seems to stretch on endlessly.
"Have you lived in England long?"
"Three years. I was an au pair for a year, while I got my student visa."
"And do you like it here? Besides the weather, I mean."
A brief laugh escapes Camille, but her smile quickly fades, replaced by a shadow of sadness.
"It's... hard. I miss my family. But they're really proud that I'm studying here, so..."
"You don't go back to visit them?"
"Not often," Camille shakes her head, biting the inside of her cheek. "I'm afraid if I go back to France, I won't come back here. They'd be so disappointed. But it's hard. My therapist says I'm still in the acceptance phase... that I can't move forward because of... my trauma. Maybe I'm beyond help."
She barely whispers the last words, steeped in a mix of shame and resignation. She crosses her arms, curling in slightly. Maya recalls what Dr. Leclerc told her: all the patients here share a similar situation.
"So we're two!" she exclaims with an encouraging smile, hoping to lighten the mood. "If it helps, my psychiatrist thinks exactly the same about me. He thought this week would do me good."
"I hope so..." Camille offers a hesitant smile, though her shoulders remain slightly hunched.
"It will be okay. We're all in the same boat, right?"
Camille lets out a nervous laugh, and her face briefly lights up before becoming serious again.
"You know, I feel stupid... I had a panic attack the first night," she nervously plays with her spoon, avoiding Maya's gaze. "This place reminds me of a hotel where I stayed. Actually, it's where I had my... accident. I... I can't stand being in a hotel anymore since then."
Her voice trembles slightly as she says the last word. She swallows hard before timidly raising her eyes to meet Maya's.
"Why am I telling you all this?" she murmurs, clearly embarrassed.
Maya freezes, Camille's words echoing in her mind like a painful reverberation. A hotel. For a year, she has been reliving nightmare scenes in a setting strangely similar to what Camille describes. Is it just a coincidence... or something more? She opens her mouth, ready to ask a question, but doesn't get the chance. A warm but authoritative voice interrupts their exchange.
"Good morning, everyone!" Dr. Ashford exclaims as she enters the dining room with a professional smile.
She radiates confidence, her presence calming the conversations like a hand gently placing a lid on a boiling pot. She steps to the center of the room, her heels echoing softly on the tiled floor.
"If you've finished your breakfast, I invite you to head to the lounge, where we'll begin the first session of the week. And feel free to try our house tea, specially prepared by my assistants. Camille, Fred, may I speak to you for a moment?"
Camille glances at Maya and offers a small apologetic smile before standing.
"Thank you for listening," she murmurs with a slight wave of her hand before following Ashford.
Maya watches the three figures walk away, feeling a strange weight pressing on her chest. She tries to return her focus to her plate, but finds she's barely touched her meal. Her appetite has completely vanished, chased away by an unease she can't define. She sighs and at least decides to finish her tea. The warm liquid offers a semblance of comfort, but the bitter aftertaste of the last sips surprises her. A grimace crosses her face as she sets the cup down with a hint of disgust.
Around her, the others begin to move. The woman is the first to stand and head toward the lounge, followed by the quiet young man Fred had been trying to engage in conversation. Maya stands as well, adjusting an imaginary crease on her shirt. Her feet drag, her mind foggy, and she follows the others, letting the priest finish his meal behind her.
When she enters the lounge, she stops short, dazzled by the stark contrast between this room and the rest of the castle. While most of the rooms she has seen so far exude a dark, European opulence, this lounge stands out with an exotic, luminous charm, evoking another time and another continent.
The floor, dark and shiny, appears to be made of ebony or teak, and each step resonates softly in the space. The furniture, carved mahogany, exudes timeless elegance: cane-backed chairs, streamlined dressers, and coffee tables with twisted legs. The walls, painted in an off-white that captures and reflects the light, create a striking contrast.
The ceiling is high, enhancing the sense of airiness and space. Large arched windows line the wall, their light, gauzy curtains in neutral tones swaying gently with the movements in the room.
Braided sisal rugs cover parts of the floor, adding a rustic and warm touch to the overall feel. Carefully placed wicker baskets serve as discreet storage for newspapers. Cushions, richly adorned with patterns and shimmering embroidery, are scattered on the armchairs and sofas.
Special care seems to have been taken with the accessories. A shelf contains a collection of perfectly polished gemstones in the shape of small spheres, from a lapi lazuli in sparkling blue gold to a stone so black it seems to absorb light. On a nearby buffet, atypical mirrors that fit in the palm of a hand glisten under the diffused light, catching the rays of pale sun streaming through the windows. Baskets filled with preserved flowers, ferns, and small palms decorate the corners of the room, bringing a touch of life.
It feels like a true personal museum. A display case holds what appear to be ancient objects: yellowed maritime maps, a brass sextant, and what looks like a ship's logbook. On another table sits a meticulous model of a colonial ship, its white sails seemingly deployed for a distant journey. Framed photographs in sepia tones on the walls depict what appear to be landscapes and scenes of life in India. At the back of the room, a large Punkah fan hangs from the ceiling, still but imposing, offering a glimpse of the colonial opulence of days gone by.
Maya feels both fascinated and bewildered. The woman with the wavy hair casually leans against the arm of a wicker sofa, watching her with an intrigued smile.
"Impressive, isn't it?"
"Yes, veryI didn't expect... this."
The woman eyes her from head to toe, as if searching her memory, her eyes narrowing slightly.
"Tell me, haven't we met somewhere before?"
"No, I don't think so," Maya frowns, trying to search her memory, but no image comes to mind.
"Harriet Lloyd," the woman offers her hand confidently. "Freelance journalist."
Maya freezes imperceptibly, her body stiffening at the word "journalist." She recalls all those sensational articles, invasive interviews, and unwanted exposure. However, she nods, shaking the extended hand.
"Maya."
Harriet observes her for a moment longer, as if the name is sparking something in her mind.
"Maya, Maya... Yes, that rings a bell. Are you sure we haven't met before? Well, never mind. Tell me, do you have Indian roots?"
"Uh... no... Well... my grandparents lived in India for a long time," the question catches her off guard, and she blinks, searching for her words. "My name was my grandmother's idea."
Harriet flashes a satisfied smile, crossing her arms as if this answer confirms some personal theory.
"The name Maya comes from Sanskrit, you know? It's an ancient language from India. It means 'illusion.' It's also another name for the Hindu goddess Lakshmi."
She turns slightly and points to a nearby display case containing finely detailed bronze statuettes. Her fingers brush the surface of the glass, stopping on a figurine of a woman with four arms, sitting on an open lotus flower, her face bearing a benevolent smile.
"The goddess of wealth, prosperity, fortune, fertility, royal power, abundance, and beauty. With a name like that, you must be a very lucky young woman."
Maya offers a polite smile, the kind she gives when she doesn't know what to say. Luck? Surviving a sociopath—does that count as luck? She nods cautiously, avoiding a direct answer.
"Are you a patient here too?"
Before Harriet can respond, the man casually leaning against the fireplace intervenes. He lights a cigarette with a careless gesture, his features marked by blatant insolence.
"Isn't it obvious? We're all here for the same thing, right?" he says with a sharp sarcasm. "And honestly, if every conversation is going to turn into a history lesson, I'm going to check out pretty quickly."
Harriet slowly turns toward him, her eyes shooting daggers, but she keeps her tone cold and controlled.
"It would be better for everyone if you could avoid smoking inside… or speaking."
A mocking smile forms on the man's lips.
"Oh, sorry, madam journalist," he exhales a puff of smoke and shrugs. "You can go whine to the shrink if it bothers you. And for the record, I don't talk to mosquitoes who think they're writers. You must've invented some little dramas to be able to hang around here, huh? Just to write some dumb article about these kinds of seminars."
Maya feels a wave of unease wash over her, her muscles tensing as she throws nervous glances between Harriet and the man. She seriously considers leaving the room before things escalate further. The woman, though clearly annoyed, responds with a sharp retort, her lips curling into a bitter smile.
"And it seems pretty clear you're here because you really need help."
The man furrows his brow, his gaze hardening.
"You'd better shut up…" He points a threatening finger at her.
Harriet, seemingly indifferent to his threat, wraps an arm around Maya, a gesture both protective and conciliatory.
"Ignore him. I read everything I could about this place before coming. You know, Blackmere Estate was bought by a rich owner from an 18th-century trading company after he made his fortune in India."
She stops in front of a large portrait hanging on the wall, depicting a stern-looking man dressed in dark, imposing European clothes. Before him, sitting with remarkable grace, is an Indian woman in a bright red sari, staring at the viewer with something sad in her gaze. The man's hand rests on her shoulder in an authoritative gesture, suggesting they were married.
"And here is Henry Hall. Quite a noble name, isn't it?" Harriet lets out a tired, almost theatrical sigh. "If only he'd refrained from reproducing, none of us would be here…"
Maya flinches violently at the mention of the name Hall, surprising the journalist with her reaction.
"You didn't know? Blackmere Estate is the ancestral home of the Halls."
Maya stands frozen, stunned. The blood rushes to her temples, making her thoughts muddled. Harriet, frowning, gently adds,
"You are here for the therapy week, aren't you?"
"Yes, but…"
The man by the fireplace abruptly interrupts her sentence with sarcasm.
"Come on, it's pretty obvious, no need to beat around the bush," he sneers. "If we're all stuck here together, it's because we- and the patients from previous seminars- have all had the immense honor of crossing paths with the very charming, unforgettable Jimmy Hall. May he burn in hell."
Maya feels the ground wobble beneath her feet, nausea rising in her throat. Jimmy Hall. Like a cruel joke, the name resonates in her, bearing a weight she struggles to bear. When Dr. Leclerc had spoken about "similar patients," she never imagined this.
"You didn't know?"
"Oh, of course she didn't know!" The man by the fireplace bursts out laughing. "Did you see her face? She's literally falling apart."
Maya opens her mouth to retort, but no words come out. The dizziness intensifies. At that moment, Fred enters the room, quickly scanning the scene. His jovial expression immediately turns serious. He steps toward Maya, positioning himself between her and the others, a discreet but clear human shield.
"You could've been a little more delicate, Simon."
"It's not my job to play therapist," the man rolls his eyes, exasperated. "And honestly, we've already got enough to deal with, with the girl who constantly walks around looking like she's about to hang herself."
"If I were you, I'd think twice before continuing to run your mouth," Fred turns to him, his tone once jovial now replaced by a chilling firmness, his voice cutting like a blade.
Then, he turns back to Maya, his voice softening again, respectful.
"Come on," he says gently, placing a light hand on her back without quite touching her. "Do you want to go somewhere a little quieter?"
Maya nods faintly, letting him guide her to a calmer alcove. There, Fred crouches slightly to her level, searching her eyes.
"Are you going to be okay?" he murmurs with concern.
Maya takes a deep breath, trying to calm the panic that threatens to overwhelm her.
"I... I don't understand why I'm reacting like this. In reality, it doesn't change anything, right?"
Fred nods with compassion.
"It's normal. I was surprised too when I learned why Ashford chose this place for her seminars. When I asked her, she said something like 'learning to listen to the ghosts.' Some psychological jargon I don't quite get."
He offers her a small reassuring smile.
"But if it helps, know that Jimmy Hall never lived here. The current owner is a distant cousin he probably never even met. You're safe here, Maya. And I'll make sure it stays that way."
His words, though simple, manage to calm the whirlpool of panic inside her just a little. She nods, slowly regaining her breath.
"Thank you," she whispers, trying to regain some composure, then, after a moment, dares to ask a question. "You too... you met him, didn't you? Jimmy Hall?"
Fred stays silent for a moment, his eyes lost on a vague point beyond her. Then, slowly, he nods.
"Yes. But... it's not the time to talk about it."
Dr. Ashford enters, followed by the priest and Camille, the latter's eyes red, the clear traces of tears still visible on her face.
Ashford, however, seems to notice nothing of the tense atmosphere that hangs in the room. She smiles enthusiastically, clapping her hands with almost theatrical speed, a determined look in her movements.
"Alright! Shall we get started?"
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