August disappeared far too quickly.

It feels as though I had barely settled into the month before it was already slipping away, carrying summer with it. It was a strange few weeks in many ways — warm days, changing plans, ordinary moments, and an undercurrent of uncertainty in my personal life that made parts of the month feel far less settled than I would have liked.

But some months are better left behind.

I don’t feel the need to carry August’s uncertainty into September with me. Whatever it was supposed to teach me, whatever questions it raised, I’m quite happy to leave them scattered somewhere among the last long evenings of summer.

Because now, it is September.

Meteorological autumn has officially arrived, and this is the point in the year when something in me seems to exhale.

I have always loved autumn. There is something about the gradual turning of the world that feels comforting to me — the first coolness in the morning air, darker evenings drawing in, trees beginning their slow transformation from green to amber, copper and gold. Mist hanging over fields. Rain against the windows. Woodland paths disappearing beneath fallen leaves. Candles lit a little earlier in the evening. Jumpers coming out of cupboards again.

Autumn has a quietness that summer never quite manages.

Summer always feels as though it expects something from us — that we should be outside, travelling, celebrating, making the most of every precious hour of daylight. Autumn asks for nothing. It simply arrives, softens the light, cools the air and reminds us that change can be beautiful too.

And perhaps that is exactly what I need this year.

September also means I finally get to start counting down properly to something I have been looking forward to for months.

At the beginning of October, I’ll be heading off on my Mediterranean cruise. Barcelona. Marseille. Genoa. Rome. Palermo. Ibiza. Even writing the names makes it feel a little more real.

There will be Barcelona with its colour and architecture; Marseille and the blue of the Mediterranean stretching beyond the harbour; Genoa with its narrow Italian streets and old-world grandeur; Rome, where history seems to exist around every corner; Palermo with the heat, noise, beauty and faded splendour of Sicily; and finally Ibiza, offering one last taste of island sunshine before heading home.

And between them, there will be the sea. Days waking up somewhere new. Standing on deck with nothing but blue stretching towards the horizon. Watching coastlines appear in the distance. Leaving one city behind in the evening and opening the curtains the following morning to discover another waiting outside.

There is something wonderfully romantic about travelling that way — moving slowly through the Mediterranean while everyday life temporarily becomes very far away.

So I’m quite content to say goodbye to August. It brought some lovely moments, but it brought uncertainty too, and I don’t particularly want to take that part of it with me.

September feels different. Autumn is beginning. The leaves will soon turn. The evenings will grow darker. The air will sharpen.

And somewhere beyond all of that, October is waiting — with a ship, six beautiful destinations, the Mediterranean Sea and, hopefully, a whole collection of memories I haven’t made yet.

For now, I’m counting down the days.

Paid Subscribers

I have noticed my small but steadily growing group of paid subscribers, and over the next few months, I want to try to make it more worthwhile for you.

First of all, I’ve decided to offer paid subscribers a free PDF copy of my poetry and prose collection, Small Stories, as a little thank you. It feels right to give something back to the people who choose to support my writing more directly, and I hope it gives you something to curl up with as the evenings begin to draw in. I appreciate every subscriber's support, but those of you who choose to pay hold a special place in my heart.

September Prompts

This month’s prompts are centred around emotion, healing, sadness, growth and the subtle shift into autumn — a little less about perfect endings, and a little more about making peace with where we are.

So September begins with cooler air, changing leaves, new words to write, old things to leave behind, and something wonderful waiting just over the horizon.

I think I’m ready for it.

If you want, I can also blend this directly into the full August/September piece so it reads as one seamless post rather than an added ending.

Poetry Prompts

• September, take what I no longer need

• Making peace with endings

• Learning not to disappear

• The grief I never named

• Shedding the remnants of summer

• The cost of staying soft

• I owe myself an apology

• Leaves like little goodbyes

• When beauty begins to decay

• A tenderness I cannot explain

• Under an amber sky

• The weight of almost

• Only the moon will ever know

• When the shadows lengthen

• A mouthful of broken promises

• Things I mistook for love

• A quieter kind of gold

• Where I abandoned myself

• Some scars still speak

• I am allowed to change my mind

Happy writing!

Jo xo

Morning has come, and everything feels less frightening in daylight.

Not normal, but I don’t think Greyhaven will ever feel normal. It does feel less frightening though.

I woke to the sound of the sea. For several moments, I didn’t know where I was. I lay beneath my coat, staring upwards at an unfamiliar ceiling where the plaster had cracked into delicate tributaries while I listened to waves breaking against the cliffs below.

Then I remembered. Greyhaven. The portrait. The noises upstairs. The voice.

And Nick finding me standing outside the locked door at the end of the corridor, one hand pressed against it, although I had absolutely no recollection of walking there.

I haven’t written about that yet. I don’t particularly want to. Nothing happened. That is the important thing.

At least, nothing else happened.

Nick found me before I opened the door—not that I could have opened it anyway, because the handle wouldn’t turn—and after that he became adamant that we were going downstairs. There was no discussion. No exploration. No searching for mysterious women whispering behind locked doors. We went downstairs immediately. I didn’t argue.

The strange thing is that I slept remarkably well afterwards. Nick did not. I could tell as soon as I looked at him this morning.

He was sitting beside the window, staring out at the sea with a mug clasped between his hands. He’d managed to coax the camping stove into life and make coffee, although where he’d found the motivation I don’t know. His hair was sticking up at the back, and there were shadows beneath his eyes.

“You look terrible,” I told him.

He looked over his shoulder. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Good morning to you too.”

I pushed myself upright, every muscle protesting after another night on the floor. “Did you sleep?”

“Like a baby.”

“Liar.”

He took another sip of coffee. “Like a baby with chronic insomnia.”

I smiled. It felt strange. I realised I hadn’t done it properly since we arrived. Perhaps in weeks.

Maybe Nick noticed too, because something softened briefly in his expression before he looked back towards the window.

Morning had transformed Greyhaven. Sunlight would be overstating matters. The sky was pale and overcast, and the sea had turned the colour of pewter, but enough light entered through the tall windows to push back the shadows that had seemed so oppressive during the night.

The drawing room looked almost beautiful. Dusty, neglected, cold—but beautiful. I could suddenly imagine curtains at the windows. A fire in the enormous grate. Books on tables. Lamps glowing in corners. Perhaps flowers.

Life. My life. The thought gave me an unexpected little thrill.

I wrapped my coat around myself and joined Nick at the window.

“You really are staying,” he said.

It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.”

He sighed. “Ellie—”

“I’m not leaving because a house creaks at night.”

“It wasn’t the bloody house creaking and you know it.”

“Old houses make noises.”

“You were standing outside a locked room at one o’clock in the morning listening to a woman who wasn’t there.”

That silenced me.

Nick turned towards me. “And there was the portrait.”

“I know.”

“And the wardrobe.”

“I know.”

“And that bell.”

I looked at him. “I know, Nick.”

His jaw tightened. I hated seeing him worried. More than that, I hated knowing I was responsible for it.

“I’m not saying any of this is normal,” I said eventually. “I’m saying there has to be an explanation.”

“Such as?”

I opened my mouth. Nothing came.

Nick raised his eyebrows. “Exactly.”

“Fine. I don’t have one yet.”

“Which is why I don’t like leaving you here.”

I glanced at my watch. “You don’t have a choice.”

His expression told me he knew that. He had already taken more time away from work than he should have, helping me move. He had responsibilities. A life. A job which, unlike mine, he had not impulsively abandoned because a possibly haunted house had summoned him to the Northumberland coast.

That sounds significantly worse written down. Perhaps I should stop writing things down. Mum would disagree.

Nick spent another half-hour inventing reasons not to leave. He checked the doors. Then the windows. Then the camping stove. Then the doors again. He made me promise not to go upstairs alone, which I agreed to with absolutely no intention of keeping that promise.

He made me promise not to try to open the locked door. That one I might keep. For today.

“Phone signal’s rubbish,” he said for approximately the fourth time as we stood in the entrance hall.

“I know.”

“If you need me, walk into the village.”

“I know.”

“And don’t—”

“Go upstairs, investigate unexplained noises, conduct séances, summon demons or sacrifice goats.”

He stared at me. “I was going to say don’t do anything stupid.”

“That covers most of it.”

His mouth twitched despite himself. Then he pulled me into a hug. It caught me by surprise.

For a moment, I stood stiffly in his arms before allowing myself to relax against him. Nick smelled of cold air and coffee and something reassuringly familiar.

“You don’t have to prove anything by staying here,” he murmured.

“I’m not.”

“Aren’t you?”

I pulled back. “No.”

He studied my face, then nodded. “I’ll come back Friday evening.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.” There was something almost stubborn in the way he said it. “I’ll bring tools. And proper bedding. And I’ll see if I can get someone out to look at the electrics.”

“Nick—”

“Friday.”

I gave in. “Friday.”

He kissed my forehead. It was such an old, familiar gesture that it hurt a little. Then he left.

I stood in the doorway watching his car disappear along the narrow drive until the trees swallowed it. And then I was alone. Completely alone. For the first time since arriving at Greyhaven.

I expected to be afraid. Instead, I felt something perilously close to contentment.

The first thing I did was announce to the house that I intended to clean it. I don’t know why.

“Right,” I said, standing in the entrance hall with my hands on my hips. “If we’re going to live together, you’re going to have to meet me halfway.”

Silence.

“Good.”

I felt ridiculous. Then something creaked overhead.

I looked up. “Don’t start.”

Nothing else happened. I have decided this is how I shall deal with Greyhaven. If it intends to behave like an unreasonable elderly relative, I shall treat it accordingly.

The trouble was that I had virtually nothing with which to clean.

I found an ancient broom in a cupboard beside the kitchen, but most of its bristles had fallen out. There were several buckets, all of questionable structural integrity, some rags that I wouldn’t have touched without gloves, and a collection of glass bottles beneath the sink containing liquids I strongly suspect would now be prohibited under several international treaties.

So I made a list. Food. Milk. Teabags. Bread. Butter. Eggs. Something resembling an actual meal. Washing-up liquid. Bleach. Disinfectant. Sponges. Cloths. Rubber gloves. Bin bags. Furniture polish. Dust masks. More bin bags. Possibly holy water.

I crossed out the last one. Then added it again. Just in case.

It was only when I picked up my handbag and reached instinctively for car keys that did not exist that I realised I had a problem.

I don’t have a car. This had somehow escaped my consideration when I decided to uproot my entire life and move to the edge of nowhere.

Nick had driven us here both times. Yesterday, I had sat beside him while the removal van carried my worldly possessions ahead of us. At no point during any of this had I apparently stopped to wonder how I intended to buy milk once he went home.

Brilliant.

I went outside and stared along the drive. The village was only a few miles away. At least, I thought it was. And so I walked.

It was further than I remembered. Or perhaps distances feel considerably shorter when one is sitting in a heated car rather than battling a coastal wind determined to strip the skin from one’s face.

The road wound away from Greyhaven through scrubland and fields bordered by dry-stone walls. There was very little traffic. Twice, cars passed me, and both drivers slowed enough to look. Not at me. Back towards Greyhaven.

I told myself I was imagining that.

The sea accompanied me for much of the journey, appearing intermittently between the hills—a dark, restless presence beneath a colourless sky. After perhaps forty minutes, the road began to descend. The village appeared below.

It is beautiful in a bleak, weather-beaten sort of way. Grey stone cottages cluster around a narrow main street that slopes towards a small harbour. Chimneys lean against the wind. Fishing boats sit beyond the harbour wall, bobbing restlessly on dark water. There is a pub called The Mariners Rest, a post office, a tiny pharmacy, a church whose tower appears considerably older than everything surrounding it, and a general store with fruit and vegetables displayed optimistically beneath an awning despite the threatening sky.

The bell above the shop door rang when I entered. Conversation stopped. Actually stopped. There were only four people inside, but all four turned to look at me.

I stood there with my handbag over one shoulder and my hair probably resembling a bird’s nest after the walk.

“Morning,” I said.

A woman behind the counter recovered first. She was perhaps sixty, with iron-grey hair cut neatly around a round, pleasant face.

“Morning, love.”

Everyone else continued staring. I collected a basket. The conversations resumed as I walked further into the shop, but they were quieter.

It took approximately forty seconds before someone approached me.

“You’re up at Greyhaven.”

Not a question. I turned. An elderly man wearing a flat cap was studying me.

“Yes.”

He nodded slowly. “Hartwell?”

“Yes.”

Another nod. “Margaret’s girl?”

Everything inside me went still. “Mum?”

The man seemed surprised by my surprise. “Margaret Hartwell. Your mam.”

“You knew her?”

Before he could answer, the woman behind the counter called sharply, “Arthur.”

He glanced towards her. “What?”

“Leave the lass alone.”

“I’m only talking.”

“You’re interrogating.”

He looked mildly offended. “I knew your mother,” he told me anyway. “Long time ago.”

My heart had begun beating harder. “When?”

But the woman behind the counter intervened. “Arthur.”

This time there was warning in her voice. Something passed between them. Arthur’s expression changed.

“Another time,” he muttered, before shuffling away.

I stood beside a display of tinned soup feeling as though someone had opened a door and immediately slammed it in my face.

The woman behind the counter avoided looking at me. I continued shopping. What else could I do?

By the time I reached the till, my basket was overflowing.

“Starting from scratch?” the woman asked.

“Something like that.”

She began scanning my shopping. “You’re Eleanor, then.”

Apparently introductions are unnecessary here.

“Ellie.”

“I’m Jean.” She smiled, and this time it seemed genuine.

“Don’t mind Arthur. He likes knowing everyone’s business.”

“He said he knew my mum.”

Jean’s hands paused. Only briefly. But I noticed.

“Most people knew most people round here, once.”

“Mum lived here?”

She resumed scanning. “For a while.”

My pulse quickened. “At Greyhaven?”

Jean looked at me then. Really looked. There was something in her expression I couldn’t identify. Pity, perhaps. Or concern.

“You should ask Mr Bellamy about all that.”

“The solicitor?”

“He’ll know what’s yours to know.”

What’s mine to know. A peculiar choice of words.

Before I could question her further, the shop bell rang. Jean looked towards the door and something about her immediately changed. Her shoulders loosened.

“Morning, Daniel.”

“Morning.”

The voice was male. Deep. Unhurried.

I turned. And—

Well.

This is irritating. Because I would prefer to write that he was entirely unremarkable. He wasn’t.

He was tall, with dark hair slightly too long, as though haircuts occurred whenever he remembered rather than according to any particular schedule. He had the sort of face that probably benefited from not smiling very often: angular, slightly weathered by the outdoors, with dark brows and an expression that suggested he found most things mildly amusing.

Including, apparently, me.

His gaze moved from my face to the mountain of shopping covering the counter. Then back again.

“Greyhaven?” he asked.

I stared at him. “Does everyone know?”

One corner of his mouth lifted. “Pretty much.”

“Wonderful.”

He walked towards the counter and placed a newspaper beside my shopping. “New people don’t exactly slip in unnoticed.”

“I’m beginning to realise that.”

“Especially not when they’ve moved into Greyhaven.”

There it was again. The name. Spoken differently this time. Not fearfully, but with significance.

I folded my arms. “And what’s wrong with Greyhaven?”

Jean suddenly became very interested in arranging my tins.

Daniel looked at her, then at me. “How long have you got?”

I disliked him immediately. “I’m sorry?”

He shrugged. “Depends which version you want. Haunted. Cursed. Murder house. Witch house. Take your pick.”

Jean sighed. “Don’t.”

“What?”

“She’s been here five minutes.”

“Better she knows.”

“I do know,” I said.

Both looked at me. I regretted speaking.

Daniel’s amusement faded slightly. “What do you know?”

“Enough.”

Something in his expression sharpened. I didn’t like that either.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning it’s none of your business.”

The amusement returned. Infuriatingly.

“Fair enough.” He picked up his newspaper.

I turned back to Jean. “How much?”

She gave me the total. I paid, and then encountered my second practical difficulty of the day.

I had bought far too much. Far, far too much. Apparently, while wandering around the shop, I had forgotten that I would need to carry everything three miles back to Greyhaven.

Jean packed six bags. I stared at them.

“Problem?” Daniel asked.

“No.”

He glanced at the bags. “Looks like one.”

“I’ll manage.”

“Of course you will.”

There was something about the way he said it that made me want to hit him with the furniture polish.

I ignored him. “Jean, do you happen to have the number for a local taxi?”

Jean looked almost apologetic. “We haven’t got one.”

“A taxi?”

“A taxi service.”

I stared at her. “None?”

“Not since Barry packed it in.”

I didn’t bother asking who Barry was. “When did he pack it in?”

“Two years ago.”

Of course he did. I sighed. “Right.”

I looked at my six bags. Perhaps I could make two journeys. That would involve twelve miles of walking.

Perhaps the pub knew somebody who I could pay to give me a lift. I sighed again, experiencing a sudden overwhelming feeling of loneliness.

“Someone’ll take you,” Jean said. “Let me ask about.”

“No, honestly, I’ll—”

“I’ll take you,” Daniel said smoothly.

I turned away dismissively. I didn’t like this arrogant man. “No.”

His eyebrows lifted. “No?”

“No, thank you.”

“You’re going to walk?”

“Yes.”

“With those?”

“Yes.”

“Three miles?”

“If necessary.”

“In that?”

He nodded towards the window. Rain had begun streaking the glass.

Excellent. This was getting worse by the minute. If only I’d thought ahead.

“Yes,” I said stubbornly.

He stared at me for a moment, then laughed. Actually laughed.

I bristled. “I don’t see what’s funny.”

“Nothing.”

“You clearly do.”

“You’re going to walk three miles uphill carrying six bags of shopping in the rain rather than accept a lift from me.”

“Correct.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t know you.”

“Daniel Mercer.”

He held out his hand. I stared at it.

“There. Now you know me.”

Jean laughed. I looked between them, wishing Nick was with me. I needed backup.

Daniel’s hand remained extended. Eventually, against my better judgement, I shook it. His palm was warm and rough.

“Ellie Hartwell.”

“I know.”

Of course he did. I withdrew my hand.

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“You can drive me.”

His smile was unbearably satisfied. “Try not to sound too grateful.”

Daniel drives an old Land Rover that smells faintly of mud, leather and dogs, although no dog was present.

My shopping went in the back. I sat in the passenger seat, and immediately regretted every decision that had led me there.

There are few experiences more awkward than accepting a favour from someone one has spent the previous ten minutes being deliberately unpleasant to.

Daniel, unfortunately, appeared entirely comfortable. He started the engine.

“Seat belt.”

I glanced at him witheringly, already strapping myself in. “I know how cars work.”

“Good start.”

I looked out of the window, unsure what it was that rubbed me up the wrong way about this man and unwilling to examine the feeling any closer.

The village slipped behind us. For several minutes, neither of us spoke.

Then Daniel said, “So why Greyhaven?”

I sighed. “I inherited it.”

“I know.”

I turned sharply. “How do you know that?”

He glanced at me. “Village.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.”

“You people are incredibly strange.”

“You moved into Greyhaven.”

“Everyone keeps saying that as though it explains something.”

“It explains quite a lot.”

“Such as?”

He didn’t answer. I studied his profile.

“You believe the stories.”

That wiped the smile from his face. “What stories?”

“The ones you mentioned in the shop.”

“Do you?”

“I asked first.”

His hands shifted slightly on the steering wheel. “I believe houses remember things.”

My stomach tightened.

Mum.

Houses are like people. They remember who loved them.

I looked at him. “What did you say?”

He glanced over. “Nothing profound. Old places carry history. That’s all.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“That houses remember.”

He frowned. “I didn’t. It’s just an expression.”

No. It wasn’t. Not to me. I looked away.

“Your mother used to come into the village.”

My head snapped back towards him “What?”

He kept his eyes on the road. “Margaret.”

“You knew her?”

“Not really. I was only young.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I saw her.”

“When?”

He hesitated. “A long time ago.”

“How long?”

“Ellie—”

“No. Everyone keeps doing this. Arthur knew her. Jean knew her. You knew her. And every time I ask a perfectly reasonable question, everyone suddenly develops an inability to speak.”

“I didn’t know her.”

“You just said—”

“I said I saw her.”

“When?”

He exhaled. “When I was a kid.”

That surprised me. “Here?”

“In the village.”

“Did she live at Greyhaven?”

For a moment, he said nothing, then relented. “I think that’s something you need to ask Bellamy.”

I stared at him. “Oh, for God’s sake.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

“You’ve inherited more than a house.”

The words settled unpleasantly between us.

“What does that mean?”

Daniel’s jaw tightened. “Nothing.”

“It clearly means something.”

“I shouldn’t have said it.”

“Well, you did.”

He didn’t answer. I folded my arms.

“I preferred you when you were just annoying.”

“Give it time.”

Despite myself, I almost laughed. Almost. Then, Greyhaven appeared ahead.

The house rose darkly against the grey sky, perched above the cliffs. Daniel slowed. His entire demeanour changed. It was subtle but I noticed.

The humour disappeared. His shoulders became slightly rigid. His gaze remained fixed on the house.

“You’ve been inside,” I said.

It wasn’t a question. He looked at me.

“No.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

“You looked at it like—”

“Like what?”

I didn’t know. Like he recognised it on a deeper level. Like he feared it. Like he hated it.

“I don’t know.”

He turned onto the drive. The Land Rover bumped slowly along the overgrown track.

“How long has it been empty?” I asked.

“Nearly twenty years.”

“Who lived here last?”

He didn’t answer.

“Daniel.”

Nothing.

“Was it Mum?”

His hands tightened around the wheel. That was answer enough.

My heart began to pound. “Stop the car.”

“What?”

“Stop.”

“Ellie—”

“Stop the car.”

He braked. We were still perhaps a hundred yards from the house.

I turned towards him. “My mother lived here.”

He looked ahead.

“Didn’t she?” I persisted.

There was a long silence, interspersed by the rain tapping insistently on the windscreen.

Finally, he said, “You need to speak to Bellamy.”

I laughed. There was no humour in it.

“Unbelievable.”

I reached for the door.

“Ellie.”

“What?”

“Don’t go digging into Greyhaven on your own.”

I stared at him. “Excuse me?”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. This is my house.”

“I know.”

“My family.”

“I know.”

“So whatever happened here is my business.”

His gaze met mine. Grey-green. No amusement there now. “That’s exactly what worries me.”

For one strange moment, neither of us moved. Then I got out.

He drove the remaining distance to the house because apparently even after our argument he wasn’t going to make me carry six bags up the drive.

We unloaded them without speaking. At the front door, I took the final bag from him.

“Thank you for the lift.”

It sounded painfully formal.

“You’re welcome.”

He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. I expected him to leave. He didn’t.

“What?”

“Lock the door tonight.”

I almost laughed. “Why?”

“Just do it.”

“Are the ghosts known for trying the handle?”

His expression didn’t change. That extinguished my amusement.

“Daniel?”

“I’ll see you around, Ellie.”

Then he walked back to the Land Rover. I watched him leave.

I don’t like him. I want that written down clearly. Daniel Mercer is irritating, evasive, arrogant, overly familiar, and apparently incapable of answering a straightforward question.

He is also hiding something.

And I intend to find out what.

I spent the afternoon cleaning the kitchen aggressively.

There is something wonderfully therapeutic about attacking decades of grime when one is furious. I opened every window I could. The house protested. Doors banged. Curtains billowed. Dust rose in enormous clouds.

At one point, something scurried beneath a cupboard and I screamed loudly enough to embarrass myself despite being entirely alone.

It was a mouse. I apologised. To the mouse.

Apparently loneliness has arrived quickly. But as the hours passed, something remarkable happened. Greyhaven began to change. Only slightly. A patch of tile appeared beneath decades of grime. Wood emerged from beneath dust. The kitchen table, which I had assumed was grey, turned out to be a deep honey-brown.

I found blue-and-white china stacked inside a dresser. I washed it. I don’t know why. I have my own plates. But these felt as though they should be used.

By late afternoon, I made tea in one of the old cups. I sat at the scrubbed kitchen table and ate biscuits from Jean’s shop while the sea thundered beyond the walls.

And I felt happy. Not completely. Grief does not disappear because you’ve polished a table.

Mum is still gone. There is still a hollow place inside me where she should be. But for the first time since she died, that hollow place didn’t feel like the entirety of me.

There was something else beside it. Purpose, perhaps. I think Mum would have liked this kitchen.

No. That isn’t right.

The thought came so quickly that I stopped with the cup halfway to my mouth.

Mum did like this kitchen. I knew it. Not thought. Knew.

An image flashed through my mind. Mum standing at the sink. Young. Younger than I ever remember her. Her hair loose down her back. She was laughing. Someone stood beside her.

A woman. Grey hair—

I stood so abruptly that the chair scraped backwards across the floor. The image vanished. I remained there, staring at the sink. Nothing happened. Eventually, I sat down again.

I am becoming accustomed to impossible things alarmingly quickly.

It is evening now. The kitchen is clean. Not completely, but enough.

Tomorrow, I intend to tackle the drawing room. After that, perhaps the entrance hall.

I am deliberately not thinking about upstairs.

Nick rang when he reached home, and I had enough of a signal for him to get through. He made me promise I had not opened the locked door.

I told him I hadn’t. That was true.

He asked whether anything strange had happened. I said no. That was considerably less true.

I didn’t tell him about Arthur. Or Jean. Or what Daniel said about Mum.

Especially Daniel.

There was no reason to mention Daniel. None whatsoever.

I have been thinking about him, though. About what he said.

Greyhaven has been empty for nearly twenty years. My mother lived here. I am almost certain of that now.

So why did she leave? Why did she never tell me about Greyhaven? Why did she raise me without ever once mentioning this place?

And why does everybody in the village seem to know more about my mother than I do?

I have decided that tomorrow I will telephone Mr Bellamy. I am tired of being told there are things I don’t understand while everyone around me apparently understands them perfectly well.

This is my house. My family. My history. I have a right to know.

There is one other thing. I almost don’t want to write it down. But Mum always said that the things we are most reluctant to record are usually the things that matter.

So.

When I finished cleaning the kitchen, I emptied the dirty water from the bucket and carried everything into the cupboard beneath the stairs. There are shelves inside that I hadn’t noticed before. Most contain useless things. Old candles. Rusty tools. Bottles. A cracked hurricane lamp.

But on the highest shelf, pushed far towards the back, I found a photograph. It was lying face-down. There was no frame. Just an old photograph, curled slightly at the edges.

I wiped the dust away. Three women are standing outside Greyhaven House. The photograph must have been taken years ago. One of them is the old woman. I know it is. She is younger than the woman from my dreams, but unmistakable. The same wild grey hair. The same eyes. The same face from the portrait upstairs.

Beside her stands another woman. Much younger. Perhaps twenty. Perhaps twenty-five. Dark-haired. Smiling.

Mum. My mother. I recognised her immediately. She looks happier than I have ever seen her.

The third person is a little girl. Maybe four years old. She is holding Mum’s hand. On the back, written in faded blue ink, are four words.

Margaret, Eleanor and Rose.

I have stared at them for almost an hour. Margaret is Mum. Eleanor is the old woman, according to the portrait upstairs. Which leaves Rose. The child.

I don’t know who Rose is. But there is something else. Something far worse. I recognise the little girl’s dress. Pale yellow. Tiny embroidered flowers around the collar.

I had one exactly like it when I was small. There is a photograph of me wearing it somewhere among Mum’s things. I remember because Mum used to say it was her favourite picture of me.

I have retrieved the box. The photograph is here beside me now. I am looking at both photographs as I write this. The dresses are identical. Not similar. Identical.

And the little girl standing outside Greyhaven House—

Rose—

looks nothing like me.

I follow whispers in darkness
through corridors of sleep

where every shadow
wears a familiar face
and every silence
knows too much.

Something waits
behind the locked rooms
of my memory—

not quite a ghost,
not quite regret,
but close enough
to keep me awake.

Written for ’s gothic prompt, “whispers in darkness”.

Jo xo

I am a storm of chaos
and I am deceptively calm—
this darkness in me
is like a sacred balm;

I am echoing corridors;
I am smoke-filled rooms—
my thoughts converge 
like a crowd 
in the gloom;

I am a bottomless chasm 
of all the things
I have seen—
the hurt, the betrayal,
the silence between;

you may see me,
but I am rarely perceived—
scratch at the surface 
but these depths
will always deceive. 

Written for ’s gothic prompt, “echoing corridors”.

Jo xo

Ravens at dusk
circle the roofline
like thoughts I cannot silence.

I watch them gather
against a bruised sky,
black wings cutting
through the last of the light.

There are ghosts in this hour—
old names, old wounds,
old versions of myself
I thought I had buried.

Still, I stand beneath them,
quiet and unafraid,
while night closes in
and the ravens carry
what remains of me
into the dark.

Written for ’s gothic prompt, “ravens at dusk”.

Jo xo

I am learning to linger
in quiet mornings,
in the warmth of sunlight,
in moments that ask nothing
but that I remain.

For so long,
I rushed through healing
as though it were somewhere
I could arrive.

Now I understand—

some wounds soften slowly,
some strength returns in silence,
and sometimes, becoming whole
means staying still
long enough to feel it.

Written for my prompt “learning to linger”.

Jo xo

I felt it before I understood—
the quiet loosening,
a distance opening
where warmth had been.

It didn’t end all at once.

It was the fading light,
the words left unfinished,
the silence growing
between one breath and the next.

That was the beginning of goodbye—

not a door closing,
but the slow realisation
that I had already begun
to walk away.

Written for my prompt, “the beginning of goodbye”.

Jo xo

This Is How July Left Me

July arrived in a blaze of sunshine and, for the most part, refused to let go. It was a month of golden evenings, warm air that lingered long after dusk, and days that seemed to stretch a little further than they had any right to. It felt as though summer was making up for lost time.

It was also the month I turned fifty—a milestone that arrived with less fear than I had imagined and more gratitude than I expected. There was something quietly reassuring about standing on the threshold of a new decade and realising that life still has the capacity to surprise you.

For a little while, it did.

There was the tentative beginning of a romance, the excitement of getting to know someone again, and the cautious hope that perhaps some stories deserve a second chapter. Not every chapter unfolds as we’d imagined, though. Sometimes crossed wires, mismatched expectations, and words left unsaid are enough to change the direction of a story before it has really found its feet. Disappointment has a way of arriving quietly, leaving behind more questions than answers.

Even so, I don’t want that to be the thing that defines July.

I want to remember the warmth on my skin, the laughter, the long sunsets, and the reminder that hope is still capable of finding me, even if it doesn’t always stay.

And now there is August.

August has always felt different to me. Softer somehow. More reflective. The frantic excitement of early summer begins to settle into something quieter, as though the season itself pauses to catch its breath. The evenings slowly lengthen, the light takes on a richer hue, and there is a gentle sense that change is waiting just beyond the horizon.

I don’t know exactly what August will bring, but I find myself stepping into it with cautious optimism. I am carrying the lessons July gave me without allowing them to become burdens. I’m choosing to believe that not every unanswered question needs an answer, and not every ending is a failure.

Sometimes, summer isn’t about holding on.

Sometimes, it’s about learning to linger in the light for as long as it lasts.

August Prompts

As always, here are my monthly prompts. If you do choose to write for them, please tag me so I can show some love.

This is how July left me

The beginning of goodbye

Sunlight with an ache

Golden melancholy

I bloom in late summer

Brambles and blackberries

Fading into amber

When the light grows quieter

The art of holding on

I am learning to linger

A heart at summer’s end

The road that led me here

You underestimated me

The hush before September

Where hearts begin to soften

I carry August with me

The person I almost became

Warm winds and whispered change

I will always be enough

The moon told me to do it

Happy August!

Jo xo

I don’t know whether my hands are shaking because I am frightened or because I am finally beginning to understand that something is terribly wrong. Perhaps both.

I am writing this sitting on the floor of the upstairs corridor because Nick insisted that we stop for a moment and collect ourselves.

His exact words were, “Let’s not be the idiots in a horror film.”

Under normal circumstances, I might have laughed. Instead, I find myself staring at the page and wondering whether I am losing my mind.

The portrait exists. That much is undeniable. Nick saw it too. He read the plaque himself.

Lady Eleanor Greyhaven.

I keep writing the name because some part of me refuses to accept it.

Eleanor.

Not a common name. Not impossible, obviously, but unusual enough to unsettle me. And yet that isn’t the part that frightens me most.

The part that frightens me most is that, when I looked at her face, I recognised her. Not as one recognises a stranger seen in passing. Not even as one recognises somebody from a dream. I knew her. The certainty was immediate and absolute. As though I had forgotten somebody important and then suddenly remembered.

I have no explanation for that. The rational part of my brain is attempting desperately to provide one. Coincidence. Suggestion. Grief. Exhaustion. But every explanation feels thin and fragile compared to the certainty I experienced standing in that room.

I knew her.

And somehow— Somehow she knew me.

I realise how absurd that sounds. If anyone ever reads this journal, they will think I have completely lost touch with reality. Perhaps I have. God knows the last few weeks have hardly been normal.

Mum dies. I inherit a house I never knew existed. I begin dreaming of places I have never seen. An old woman appears outside my office. A pencil writes by itself. I abandon my life and move into a crumbling mansion on the edge of the Northumberland coast.

When written down like that, insanity seems a perfectly reasonable diagnosis. Yet the house remains. The portrait remains. And Nick heard the sound from the wardrobe. That matters. Because if he heard it too, then it wasn’t simply inside my head.

I asked him. Twice. The second time, he became annoyed. Or maybe fearful.

“Ellie,” he said, “yes, I heard it.”

I think he was trying to reassure me. Instead, it made me feel worse. Because now there are only two possibilities.

Either something made that sound. Or somebody did.

Neither explanation is particularly comforting.

We are still upstairs. Nick has decided to inspect the room properly while I write. I can hear him moving around occasionally. Floorboards creaking. Doors opening. His voice muttering to himself.

Practical noises. Normal noises. I cling to them.

The bell has not rung again. I am almost grateful for that. The sound felt wrong. Not loud, or dramatic. Simply old. Ancient. As though it belonged to another century and had somehow wandered into ours.

I felt it in my chest more than I heard it. Like a summons. Or a warning. I don’t know which. Perhaps both.

Something else has been troubling me. The trail in the dust. I didn’t mention it to Nick because it sounded ridiculous, but the more I think about it, the less sense it makes.

The marks led from the door to the bed. Only one way. Not there and back. Just there. As though whatever made them entered the room and never left.

I keep trying to convince myself that there is a perfectly sensible explanation. But every explanation eventually runs into the same problem. The dust. The room has clearly been untouched for years. Possibly decades. Yet somebody has been cleaning the face of that portrait. I know they have. Everything else was filthy. The frame. The wall. The furniture. Everything. Except her face. It was almost spotless. And I cannot stop thinking about that.

Who would come all the way to Greyhaven House simply to clean a portrait? The question feels important. I just don’t know why.

A moment ago, I glanced up from this page and realised something else. The corridor is exactly as I saw it in my dream. Not similar. Exactly.

The torn wallpaper. The shape of the windows. Even the position of the portraits. I knew it immediately. I knew which door led to the room with the rocking horse before we reached it. I knew which floorboards would creak. I knew where the staircase turned. I knew. And I should not. I should not know any of these things.

I am writing quickly now because I can hear Nick returning. Actually— No. The footsteps have stopped. I thought he was walking towards me, but they stopped several seconds ago.

I have just looked up. The corridor is empty. Nick isn’t here. Perhaps he went back into the bedroom. Perhaps—

Wait. I can hear someone speaking. Very faintly. A woman’s voice. I cannot make out the words. It seems to be coming from somewhere further along the corridor. From the direction of the locked door at the very end. The one we haven’t opened yet.

I called Nick’s name. He didn’t answer. I am going to find him.

And before I put this journal away, I want to write one final thing.

I am no longer entirely certain that the house is trying to frighten me.

The thought should be comforting. It isn’t. Because if Greyhaven House is not trying to frighten me, then perhaps it is trying to welcome me.

I don’t know how long I stood staring at the portrait.

The room seemed suspended outside of time. The sea still crashed against the cliffs beyond the windows. The torch in Nick’s hand still cast its pale beam across the room. Dust still drifted lazily through the air. Yet everything felt strangely distant. Muted. As though the house had drawn a curtain around us.

“Ellie.” Nick’s voice sounded far away.

I forced myself to look away from the old woman’s face. Immediately, the sensation lessened. The room snapped back into focus.

“What is it?” he asked.

I swallowed. “That’s her.”

“The woman from your dreams?”

I nodded.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. Then Nick stepped closer to the painting. The torchlight travelled slowly over the frame. The craftsmanship was exquisite. Dark wood carved with twisting vines and strange flowers that I did not recognise. Tiny faces seemed hidden amongst the leaves, emerging only when the light struck them from certain angles.

The woman herself appeared to have been painted many years ago. Perhaps centuries. And yet her eyes seemed impossibly alive. Grey. Intelligent. Patient. Waiting.

“Family resemblance,” Nick murmured.

I blinked. “What?”

He shifted the torch towards me. The comparison hit me instantly. We were not identical. Not even close. Yet there was something in the shape of the eyes, the angle of the cheekbones. A familiar line in the jaw. The sort of resemblance that might pass unnoticed between strangers but becomes obvious once pointed out.

Cold prickled across my skin. “No.”

But the denial sounded weak. Nick didn’t argue. He simply looked back at the portrait. And then he frowned.

“Ellie.”

“What?”

“The plaque.”

I hadn’t noticed it before. A small brass plate sat beneath the frame, tarnished almost black with age.

Nick wiped away dust with his sleeve. Letters emerged. The engraving was difficult to read at first. Then, my stomach dropped.

LADY ELEANOR GREYHAVEN 1847–1899

For a second, I genuinely thought I might be sick. We shared a name. Eleanor. My name. My exact name.

The room seemed suddenly smaller. The walls closer. The air thinner.

“Who is she?” I said, my voice small.

Nick stared at the plaque and shook his head slowly.

A floorboard creaked somewhere behind us. We both spun around. There was nothing there. The room remained empty. The moonlight lay silver across the floorboards. The bed stood silent beneath its decaying canopy. The trail through the dust remained exactly where we had first seen it.

And yet. something felt different. The room no longer felt unoccupied.

I became aware of the wardrobe standing against the far wall. A vast oak thing with mirrored doors. Its reflection caught a sliver of moonlight.

The glass looked almost black. I don’t know why I walked towards it. Only that I needed to. Every instinct told me there was something important about it.

The closer I got, the colder the room became. By the time I reached it, my breath was visible.

Nick noticed. “What the hell...”

His voice trailed away as I placed my hand against one of the mirrored doors. The wood felt freezing. The handle colder still.

A sudden image flashed through my mind. It wasn’t imagination, or memory. It was something else.

A young woman standing before this very wardrobe. Dark hair pinned up. Wearing a cream-coloured dress. Her hands were shaking, and she was crying.

The sensation hit so hard that I staggered backwards. The image vanished.

“Ellie!” Nick caught my arm. “What happened?”

I stared at him. My heart was hammering. “I saw something.”

The words sounded ridiculous. Yet they were true.

“I think...” My voice faltered. “I think she was afraid.”

“Who was?”

I looked towards the portrait. The old woman watched us. Patient as ever. Waiting.

Then another sound echoed through the room. From inside the wardrobe. A single dull thump.

Both of us froze. The sound came again. Slow. Heavy. As though something inside had shifted its weight.

Nick’s torch beam trembled slightly. For the first time since I’d known him, I saw genuine uncertainty in his eyes. Neither of us moved. The wardrobe stood motionless. Silent. Then, there came a third thump, followed by a long scraping sound. Something dragging across wood.

Every rational explanation deserted me. The house seemed to hold its breath. The sea roared beyond the windows.

And then, from somewhere deep below the foundations of Greyhaven House, a bell began to ring. One slow note. Ancient. Mournful.

The sound rolled through the walls. Through the floorboards. Through my bones. And as it echoed around us, I realised something with absolute certainty.

The bell was not announcing our arrival. It was announcing that something had awakened.

I have lived between
the tides of grief and grace—
pulled toward the depths
one moment,
lifted by light the next.

Some days, sorrow arrives
like a storm-driven sea,
cold and relentless against my shore.

Other days, grace finds me quietly—
in birdsong,
in sunlight on water,
in the simple act of carrying on.

I no longer fight the currents—
I let them shape me;
let them teach me
that healing is not the absence of grief,

but learning how to float
between the waves.

Written for my prompt “the tides of grief and grace”.

Jo xo

July is my birthday month—in fact, today is my birthday. I’ve finally reached half a century, and life is changing in ways I never expected. But I am deliberately refusing to look too far ahead, and am enjoying new developments as they arrive.

July has always been my favourite month.

Perhaps it is because it arrives carrying summer in both hands. The days stretch lazily into the evening, sunlight lingering long after it should have faded, warming gardens, beaches, and familiar streets. The air feels softer somehow, scented with freshly cut grass, sun-warmed flowers, and the promise of long, unhurried days.

But July has never been just a month to me. It is a celebration.

The first few weeks are filled with family birthdays, each one a marker in the calendar, gathering us together year after year. Cards appear on mantelpieces, cakes are shared, candles are blown out, and laughter seems to come more easily. Nestled amongst them is my own birthday, another thread woven into the fabric of a month already rich with memories.

Perhaps that is why July feels different from every other month. It holds sunshine and nostalgia in equal measure. It reminds me of childhood summers that seemed endless, of family gathered around garden tables, of warm evenings that invited you to stay outside just a little longer.

For me, July is not simply a month. It is a feeling—a season of light, celebration, and togetherness that returns every year, familiar and welcome as an old friend.

And what better way to celebrate my birthday than to bring you my brand new poetry prompts.

July Prompts

Sunlight through old wounds

The tides of grief and grace

Saltwater and old scars

Where the summer takes me

July remembers everything

What the moon asks of the sea

The shape of solitude

Wild at the edges

I am the ocean at high tide

A field of forgotten things

The depths beneath my silence

Holding onto hope

Is it love or am I insane?

Grief is a constant companion

Heat and honeyed memories

Gilded mornings

You are not your pain

The alchemy of attraction

Conversations with your ghost

A forest of quiet dreams

As always, if you choose to write for the prompts, please tag me and I’ll show you some love.

Jo xo

I spend so much of my life
looking ahead—
toward the next task,
the next worry,
the next thing that needs my attention.

But on Litha,
I try to pause.

I sit in the warmth of the sun,
listen to the bees among the foxgloves,
and let myself notice
how green the world has become.

For a moment,
I stop measuring my life
by what remains undone.

Instead, I give thanks
for all that has survived the winter,
for all that has grown quietly,
and for the simple gift
of standing beneath a midsummer sky.

Blessed Litha, everyone. Today is the summer solstice here in the Northern Hemisphere— or midsummer, or whatever you choose to call it. And in the UK, it’s hot, hot, hot. ☀️

Jo xo

My greatest enemy
does not lurk in graveyards
or wait beneath the moon.

It lives within the house of my mind,
wandering candlelit corridors,
trailing shadows through every room.

It knows where the old wounds are buried.
It knows which memories still ache
when touched.

It speaks in familiar voices,
whispering every doubt
I have ever tried to silence.

The creature I fear most
wears my own face.

And that is what makes it dangerous—
it knows the way inside.

Nothing scares me more than my own mind and its ability to destroy itself so completely.

Jo xo

The scent of grief lingers,
a faint recollection
of all I’ve lost.

I encounter it in familiar places—
in old photographs,
in forgotten conversations,
in the silence left behind.

It arrives without warning—
one minute, I am fine,
and then, I step into memory,
enveloped by a reminder  
I thought I’d left behind. 

The odour is softer now,
but I still recognise it—
that quiet trace of absence
following me home.

I wrote this for a prompt on Instagram. Hope you like it.

Jo xo

I stopped asking for better 
when I discovered
that it wasn’t something
I would ever receive;

I stopped giving second chances,
when after the third,
                                   fourth,
                                             fifth time,
I realised
it would be easier just to leave;

I stopped opening my heart 
when all it resulted in was pain;

I stopped extending my trust 
when I was taught
that it would only be broken again;

I’ve been shaped by 
a lifetime of disappointment—
of hurt and of regret—
and although I may have forgiven,
I will never, ever forget. 

Just a few of the things that we learn from life.

Jo xo

I do not know how long I stood there staring up into the darkness.

The staircase seemed taller than it had before. Not physically taller, perhaps, but somehow more imposing. The shadows gathered thickly upon the landing above, warding off the weak beam of Nick’s phone torch.

“Ellie?” His voice sounded distant.

I realised I had not moved. “Sorry,” I muttered.

Nick offered a thin smile. “You don’t have to apologise every five minutes.”

I almost smiled back. Almost. Then, another creak sounded overhead. Not from the landing. Somewhere further back.

A room opening onto the corridor beyond. We both heard it. The expression on Nick’s face shifted ever so slightly. Not fear exactly, but the reluctant acknowledgement that something had happened which neither of us could immediately explain away.

“Right,” he said, clearing his throat. “Let’s go and look.”

The climb felt strangely familiar. My hand slid along the banister and memories brushed against me—not true memories, but impressions. A child running ahead. A woman calling after her. Laughter echoing through the stairwell. The sensations vanished as quickly as they came.

Halfway up, the temperature changed. The air became noticeably colder. I felt it settle against my skin like damp cloth.

“Do you feel that?” I asked.

“Yeah.” Nick frowned. “That’s odd. I wonder if there is a window open.”

We reached the landing. The corridor stretched away into darkness. The wallpaper here was worse than downstairs, hanging loose in strips that swayed gently despite the absence of any discernible breeze. Portraits lined the walls between doors. Their faces were obscured beneath layers of dust, yet I had the distinct impression of being watched.

The torchlight passed over them and shadows seemed to shift.

Nick pointed towards the far end. “There.”

One of the doors stood slightly open. Only an inch, yet I was certain it had been closed when we explored earlier.

“I don’t like that,” Nick said quietly.

Neither did I. And yet I found myself walking towards it. Each step produced a soft creak from the floorboards beneath my feet. The house seemed to listen, seemed to be holding its breath.

The gap between door and frame widened gradually as we approached, revealing only darkness beyond.

I reached it first. My hand settled against the aged brass handle. The metal felt warm. Not room temperature. It felt warm like skin.

I snatched my hand away.

“Ellie?”

“It’s warm.”

Nick looked sceptical. Then he touched it himself.

His expression changed instantly. “Oh.”

For several seconds, neither of us spoke. Finally, he pushed the door open.

The hinges made no sound. The room beyond was enormous. A bedroom. Moonlight spilled through tall windows overlooking the sea, illuminating a vast four-poster bed draped in rotting curtains. Dust lay thick across every surface.

Yet one thing stood out immediately. The dust had been disturbed. A single trail crossed the floor, beginning at the door and ending beside the bed. As though something had walked into the room recently.

Or crawled.

Nick’s torch followed the marks. “Probably rats,” he said.

His voice lacked conviction. I wasn’t listening. My attention had fixed upon the far wall, where a portrait hung there. It was large, dominating the room. It depicted a woman. Her paint-dark eyes seemed fixed upon me. Grey hair spilled around narrow shoulders. Paper-white skin. Withered hands.

The old woman from my dreams.

My breath caught. “No,” I whispered.

The room tilted slightly around me. Not because I was afraid, but because I knew her. Not her name. But I knew her. The same way I knew the staircase. The same way I knew where my books belonged. The same way Greyhaven had recognised me.

Behind me, Nick said something. I did not hear it. The painted woman was smiling. Not kindly, or even cruelly. But expectantly.

And for the first time since arriving at Greyhaven House, I noticed something I should have seen immediately. The portrait was covered in dust. Everything in the room was covered in dust. Everything except the woman’s face. As though someone had been carefully cleaning it, and recently.

A sound came from inside the wall behind the bed. Three slow knocks. Then silence.

The smile in the portrait seemed to deepen.

And somewhere beneath the floorboards, deep within the bones of the house, something answered with a single, steady heartbeat.

I have always understood
the language of waves and wind
on a deeper level. 

There are no words,
but the sea teaches surrender,
and the wind reminds me
that nothing is meant to stay still forever.

When my thoughts become tangled,
I return to the shoreline,
where the waves speak in repetitions,
and the wind carries away
all that I no longer need to hold.

And ’though I cannot translate
their wild, wordless dialect,
something in me always listens—
something in me always understands.

Written for my prompt “the language of waves and wind”.

Jo xo

I walk a shoreline of ghosts,
where the sea keeps returning
what I thought I had lost.

The waves scatter fragments—
a name, a memory,
pale as sea mist;
the faint outline of a life
I no longer belong to.

Everything here is half-remembered,
softened by salt and distance,
yet still capable of aching.

I wander the water’s edge,
gathering nothing,
keeping nothing.

Some things are meant to remain
out beyond the breakers,
where the tide can claim them
and the living can move on.

Written for my prompt “a shoreline of ghosts”.

Jo xo