The Night Curse (Book one)

Dawn breaks, rousing me from my bed.

For a second, I anticipate Austin’s bellowing voice scolding me for oversleeping, but as my eyes adjust to my new environment, I realise that I’m all alone. Part of me misses my brother’s whines and demands, and another larger part of me takes stock of my envious situation. I have a cottage all to myself on the Harling Estate. God is good.

I’ve never lived away from my family before. Farm life is predictable, albeit exhausting, but it’s the only life that I’ve ever known. My mother died shortly after giving birth to me, and my father has never remarried. We’ve been each other’s constant companion and confidant. Not that we confine in each other often. Some things are easier left unsaid.

According to Austin, when mother died, father put all his focus into the farm, mostly leaving Austin and I in the generous hands of neighbours. As soon as we were old enough to raise a picket, we followed in his footsteps, burying our unspoken sorrows into the soil we raked.

I thought I knew all there was worth knowing—content on the path my life was heading. A reliable, honest, simple life. Then, my world was turned upside down.

Father finally told me what mother died of or rather who she died from.

A Dreamwalker.

The story spoke to folklore and magic. Unbelievable if it wasn’t true.

A nameless lady, with unnatural pools of violet eyes, befriended my kind and trusting mother. Father said that mother took pity on the woman because she had a child and was frightened of being taken. This was when King Prospero ruled over England, and he wanted to capture and control every Dreamwalker that he could find.

Even though our family had a history of Dreamwalker hunting, father had yet to succumb to our family’s tradition, and like mother, agreed to help the woman and daughter by allowing them to take refuge in our home.

But after my mother gave birth, word spread that we were harbouring a Dreamwalker, and fearing treason, she asked the lady to leave. The next day, father couldn’t wake my mother.

Evelyn was her name—my mother was called Evelyn.

Father signed up with The Freemasons that day and has never looked back.

And now I too am a hunter.

I just need to find my target, Amelia.

Such a decidedly innocent name for a devil child. If that is her name.

Thoughts of how she came to be ruminate in my head. I’d only met one daughter of the Lord and Countess Harling… Lady Clemintine. If they were keeping a Dreamwalker, who was she to them?

It doesn’t matter. The result will still be the same. No matter how high they built their walls or how much they spent on bribes, they cnever protect a Dreamwalker from their ultimate fate. Not when the Queen herself has made it against the law for them to live.

As I button my shirt, braces still hanging by my thighs, a loud thud resonates through the walls. I bound down the stairs, taking two steps at a time. Upon opening the door, I see the butler from yesterday with a servant pole-straight by his side.

“Good morning, Mr Elworth. I hope we didn’t disturb you,” the butler says. The servant carries a bucket and cleaning suppliers in her hands, and I remember his promise to restore the cottage.

I run my fingers through my tousled hair, having yet to comb it. “Not at all…” I feel rude to ask him for his name on our second meeting, but the word escapes me.

The butler registers my insinuation. “Hugo and this is Anne. She’s come to clean and tidy your domain while you’re surveying the land.”

I usher her inside and Anne sidesteps passed me, no purple hues in sight.

“Would you like a tour of the grounds now?” he asks, motioning his palms to the gardens.

I’ve yet to eat breakfast, but the offer seems more like a request, so I accede, taking my coat from the hook on my way out into the fresh air.

Dew speckles the grass outside my porch, like freshly fallen rain. The growing sun is blinding as it creeps through the woodland, covering all it touches with a metallic sheen. Songbirds sing in staccato symphonies, and I admire them as a flock take flight across the golden sunrise.

“The grounds stretch two and a half acres in total. An acre is reserved for forest and the family’s crypts, but the remaining land is split up into three main areas,” Hugo begins, his oiled boots crunching against the gravelled path. “Your house is situated within the old gardens, The Wildling gardens as we call them, where we keep our allotment and grow select flowers to supply bouquets for the manor. Here you may test out new breeds of seeds. If you want to purchase anything to support your work, all you need to do is ask me, and I’ll be happy to put in a request with Lord Harling.”

My breath forms like steam in the early morning frost. “Thanks.”

We continue along the path as it veers off, away from the manor. “The second section is known fondly as The Lilypond.”

A hedge opens up to a unflowered yet lovely sanctum. Although most of the plants have yet to bloom, those which stay fertile yearlong are dotted about in various arrays of green. Shades of sage, pine, and kelp, as diverse as the garden itself, fill the voids of flowers.

As the name suggests, central to it all is a glorious lilypond, peaceful and calm amongst the fauna. I go to take a seat on the bench overlooking the water when Hugo begins taking the next path towards the manor. Row after row of tangled branches straddles the sides of the widened path, regal with the manor framed at its end.

“The last is Countess Harling’s prestigious Rose Garden, made of hundreds of different coloured roses.”

I can only imagine how impressive the roses look in all their glory. “It’s stunning,” I volunteer, unable to close my jaw.

Hugo’s gaze narrows. “Of course, the gardens look their best come Spring, as you’d expect.”

I clear my throat, straightening my stance. “What I mean to say is that the architecture of the place, the landscaping, it’s simple yet elegant. The Harlings have blended wildness with order.”

Hugo nods favourably, digesting my words. “Until Spring, the garden needs general maintenance. Your tools are in the shed by your property. It opens with the same key as your front door.”

Hugo stares at me, his mouth pulled in a tight line, reminding me of a soldier. “Is there anything else that I can help you with?” he asks.

I open my mouth, the name Amelia an invisible weight on my tongue. Sense forces it shut, and I shake my head, extending my hand instead. “Thank you for your time, Hugo.”

Hugo’s footsteps crunch towards the manor, his black suit bold against the light scenery. Despite my groaning stomach, I return to the trail and head towards the woodland, recalling Mr Fletcher’s account of Amelia’s sleepwalking. As soon as I make it past the first line of trees, the air grows denser—oppressive. Many still hold their leaves, dampening the sun’s glare and casting shadows across the forest floor. Every stride is followed by the snap of twigs, and I keep checking over my shoulder for some unsuspected stalker.

Eventually, the manor fades, and all I see is bark. My hands can’t help but acknowledge them as I push on, searching under the darkening canopy. Slowly, a patch of flat earth emerges in the distance. My feet increase with speed, the twigs breaking like gunshots with every step.

And then… light, air, freedom.

The clearing isn’t large. It’s the size of a room, but with the cloudless sky above, it opens up like a breathing hole underwater. Strangely, I feel the need to lie down and stare at the endless blue. Closing my eyes, I envisage her mimicking my position on the grass.

What was she doing here?

No visitor would feel inclined to stumble upon this section of woodland when there are so many other, more dedicated places, to relax on the estate.

She left the comfort of her bed to come here, lie here, clearly needing some semblance of escape but without the risk. And the Harlings allowed it, despite the consequences.

An unsettling thought attempts to worm its way free.

My lids burst open, the sea of blue enveloping my senses.

Amelia is a Harling.