He inherited a house standing in the middle of a lake Yet what he found inside completely changed his life.
The phone rang in the flat just as Edward Whitmore was frying bacon at the stove. The scent of butter and sizzling rashers filled the kitchen. He wiped his hands on a tea towel and frowned at the unfamiliar number flashing on the screen.
Hello? he answered curtly, keeping an eye on the pan.
Mr. Whitmore, this is your family solicitor. Youll need to come in tomorrow morning. Theres a matter of inheritancesome papers to sign.
Edward hesitated. His parents were alive and well, so who could have left him anything? He didnt ask questions, just muttered an agreement and hung up.
The next morning was grey and drizzly. As Edward drove through the sleepy lanes of Surrey, his confusion turned to irritation. The solicitor was waiting at the office door.
Come in, Edward. I know this seems odd, but its not an everyday sort of matter.
The office was unusually quiet. No clerks, no ringing phonesjust the creak of floorboards underfoot. Edward sat opposite the desk, arms folded.
This concerns your uncleAlbert Graves.
I dont have an uncle Albert, Edward said flatly.
Nevertheless, hes left you his estate. The solicitor slid an old key, a yellowed map, and an address across the desk. A house on the water. Its yours now.
Youre having me on.
Its on Lake Windermere, in the heart of the Lake District.
Edward picked up the key. It was weighty, etched with faded designs. Hed never heard of the man or the place, yet something in him stirredthat reckless pull of curiosity.
An hour later, his rucksack held a jumper, a flask of tea, and a packet of biscuits. According to his satnav, the lake was just an hours drive. How had he never known it was there?
When the road ended, the lake stretched before himstill, glassy, shrouded in mist. In its centre stood a housedark, imposing, as if rooted in the water itself.
Elderly men nursing pints sat outside a waterside pub. Edward approached them.
Pardon me, he began, that house out therewho lived in it?
One of them set his glass down slowly.
We dont speak of that place. Never have. Shouldve been gone years ago.
But someone mustve lived there?
Never saw a soul come or go. Only heard boats at night. Supplies got delivered, but no one knows by who. And we dont care to find out.
At the jetty, a faded sign read: *Maggies Boats*. Inside, a weary-looking woman eyed him.
I need to get to that house, Edward said, showing her the key. Its mine now.
No one goes there, she replied sharply. Folk are scared of it. So am I.
But Edward wouldnt budge. After some back-and-forth, she finally relented.
Fine. Ill take you. But Im not waiting. Ill be back tomorrow.
The house loomed over the water like a relic from another time. The wooden dock groaned under his weight. Maggie tied the boat with practised hands.
Here we are, she muttered.
Edward stepped onto the rotting planks, but before he could thank her, the boat was already pulling away.
Good luck. Hope youre here when I come back, she called before vanishing into the mist.
Now he was alone.
The key turned with a satisfying click. The door creaked open, revealing a dim interior that smelled of old books and damp wood. Heavy curtains framed vast windows. Portraits lined the wallsone in particular caught his eye: a stern-faced man by the lake, the house behind him. The inscription read: *Albert Graves, 1964*.
The study was crammed with books, margins scrawled with notes. A telescope stood by the window, alongside stacks of weather logsthe most recent dated just weeks ago.
What was he watching? Edward whispered.
The bedroom held dozens of stopped clocks. On the dresser, a locket lay openinside, a babys photo labelled: *Whitmore*.
Was he watching me? My family?
A note on the mirror read: *Time unearths what was buried.*
In the attic, boxes of newspaper clippings lay scattered. One was circled in red: *Boy from Canterbury vanishes, found unharmed days later.* The year1997. Edwards blood ran cold. That was him.
In the dining room, a single chair was pulled out. On it rested his school photo.
This isnt just odd anymore, he muttered, his head spinning.
He wolfed down tinned beans from the pantry and retreated to a guest room. The sheets were crisp, as if waiting. Moonlight rippled on the lake, making the house feel alivebreathing with the waters rhythm.
Sleep wouldnt come. Too many questions. Who was Albert Graves? Why had no one spoken of him? Why had his parents never mentioned an uncle? And why this eerie fixation on *him*?
When exhaustion finally claimed him, the house grew darker stillthe kind where floorboards creak like whispers and shadows move on their own.
A sharp *clang* jolted him awake. He sat bolt upright. Another soundlike a heavy door swinging open downstairs. Edward grabbed his phone. No signal. Only his wide-eyed reflection stared back.
Torch in hand, he crept into the hall.
Shadows thickened. The librarys books sat slightly askew, as if recently handled. The study door hung open. A cold draft seeped from behind a tapestry he hadnt noticed before.
He pulled it asidea heavy iron door stood behind it.
No, he breathed, yet his fingers found the handle.
The door groaned open, revealing a spiral staircase descending beneath the house, beneath the lake. The air grew damp, thick with the scent of iron and saltlike stepping into the past.
Below stretched a corridor lined with filing cabinets. Labels read: *Family Trees. Letters. Expeditions.*
One drawer bore his name: *Whitmore*.
Edward tugged it open. Inside lay lettersall addressed to his father.
*I tried. Why wont you answer? This matters. For Edwards sake*
So he didnt vanish. He wrote. He wanted to know me, Edward whispered.
At the corridors end stood another door: *Graves Archive. Authorised Personnel Only.* No handlejust a palm scanner. A note beside it read: *For Edward Whitmore. Only him.*
He pressed his hand to the scanner.
A click. The room lit softly. A projector flickered to life, casting a mans silhouette on the wall.
Grey-haired, weary-eyed, he looked straight at Edward.
Hello, Edward. If youre seeing this, Im gone.
The man introduced himself: Albert Graves.
I am your true father. You shouldnt have learned like this, but your mother and I made mistakes. We were scientistsobsessed with saving the world. She died bringing you into it. And I I 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.
Edward sank onto a bench, numb.
It was you all along.
The recorded voice trembled.
I didnt want to ruin your life, but youve grown strongbetter than I ever hoped. Now this house is yours. A chance to start anew. Forgive mefor silence, for cowardice, for being close yet never there.
The screen went dark.
Edward didnt know how long he sat in the quiet. Eventually, he climbed back upstairs. By dawn, Maggie waited at the dock. She took one look at him and frowned.
You all right?
I am now, he said softly. I understand.
He went home and spoke to his parents. They listened in silence, then held him tight.
Forgive us, his mother whispered. We thought it best.
Thank you, Edward said. I know it wasnt easy.
That night, he lay in bed. The ceiling hadnt changed. But nothing else felt the same.
Weeks later, he returned to the lake. Not to live there, but to restore it. The house became the *Graves Centre for Climate Research*. Childrens laughter filled its halls. Locals visited with curiosity. The house was no longer a secretjust a place of life, at last.
