Page 1 of When You're Forgotten

PROLOGUE

James Penrose stood in the wide doorway of Brynmor Hall, one hand resting against the carved oak frame as he took a measured drag from his cigarette.He was fifty-three years old, though the lines on his face and the subtle stoop of his shoulders made him appear slightly older.His hair, once dark, had gone silver at the temples in the last few years, and he wore a tailored tweed jacket that had served him well through many a Welsh winter.Tonight, the jacket shielded him from the crisp April breeze that drifted across his estate, carrying with it the soft smell of damp grass and the threat of an oncoming chill.

Outside, the final hues of dusk clung to the sky, a deepening purple stretched over the rolling landscape.If there was one time James cherished most, it was this fleeting hour of transition—the hush between day and night when the world seemed to hold its breath.The solitude calmed him far more than the social demands of the day.Usually, the manor's staff would still be bustling around, but he had dismissed them the day before.His wife and their two children were away visiting relatives in Devon, leaving him sole master of Brynmor Hall for the next couple of days.He had seized the opportunity for solitude the moment the idea took shape.Things were on his mind.Things that threw dark shadows on his mood.Things that stretched out like spider legs across his soul.

Brynmor Hall itself rose behind and above him like a silent sentinel, its tall stone walls tracing centuries of family history.Out front, an impeccable lawn fanned out, meticulously mown and vibrant green even in the dim light.A gently curved gravel path cut through the grass, leading to a circular fountain that was currently still—he had asked the staff not to run it until they returned.The lawn gave way to a ring of ancient woods—gnarled oaks and looming pines that bordered the estate.Beyond the treetops, the rugged silhouettes of the Welsh mountains framed the horizon, their peaks lost in the twilight haze.It was a breathtaking tableau, one that had sustained generations of his ancestors, binding them to this place.

James took one last drag, exhaling slowly.As the night encroached, he reveled in the rare, absolute quiet.No children’s laughter or staff footsteps to break the calm.Even the birds settling into the woods behind the manor had gone silent.He flicked the cigarette ash onto the smooth stone step, about to turn inside, when a sudden movement on the lawn snatched his attention.

He squinted.At first, he thought it was a deer emerging from the tree line—a not uncommon sight at dusk.This shape, however, moved oddly, padding forward on all fours.He blinked, expecting to see antlers or some flash of white tail.Instead, the figure seemed low-slung, half-crawling in a disturbingly fluid way.A chill lanced through him, raising the hair on the back of his neck.

He swallowed, eyes straining to track it in the fading light.The shape edged closer, hugging the dark pockets along the hedge.His pulse beat in his temples; he felt the distinct prickle of being watched, though the creature’s face—if it had one—remained lost in shadow.He exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, and in that small moment of distraction, the figure vanished.Gone, as though it had melted into the gloom.

Shaken, James ground out his cigarette underfoot.A childish urge screamed at him to run inside and slam the door.Muttering a quiet curse, he listened for any sign of an intruder—footfalls, panting, a crack of branch—but heard only the hush of the Welsh evening.No hint of the bizarre shape remained.

Stepping briskly back into the foyer, he pulled the massive door shut with an echoing thud, turning the iron key to secure the lock.Normally, he would have felt safe in his ancestral home, but that crawling silhouette troubled him deeply.The heavy hush of the hall’s interior didn’t help.With his family gone and all the servants dismissed, the manor’s echoing corridors felt suddenly ominous, as though they might swallow him.He began to wonder if the solitude he required for a specific task was worth the risk.

A wave of discomfort tight in his chest, James ascended the main flight of stairs.The wide, carpeted steps were flanked by mahogany banisters polished to a mirror sheen.Rows of ancestral portraits seemed to watch him pass.Their painted eyes, stern or sorrowful, glinted eerily in the low lamp glow from the chandelier overhead.He paused at the top of the stairs, glancing back as if expecting the shape to have followed.Of course, there was nothing there—only the yawning silence of the foyer below.

He shook off the unease, continuing down the corridor toward his study.Dimly lit lamps revealed the proud decor of Brynmor Hall: antique side tables with potted plants, a few crystal vases reflecting that faint light.At every step, he had the nagging feeling that someone, or something, trailed behind just out of sight.Turning on his heel, he caught only flickering shadows.

Somewhere past a half-closed door, a soft shuffle or drag drifted to his ears.He froze.It wasn’t the typical groan of old pipes or floorboards; it was too deliberate, too nearby.He steadied his breathing, stepping forward to peek into a guest bedroom.The overhead light flickered on, revealing a spotless bed, duvet neatly folded, nightstand uncluttered.Nothing out of place.No sign of anyone.His heart hammered as he stepped back into the hallway.He forced a laugh, which sounded hollow against the silence.It’s just nerves, he told himself.The odd shape on the lawn had gotten under his skin.

At last, he reached his study, a place he hoped would offer some comfort.The moment he entered, he slammed the door shut behind him, turning the latch.The study was a world of wood panels and old leather, with two aged armchairs arranged near a cold fireplace.His large desk in the center was tidy—he prided himself on organizational discipline.High shelves on every wall brimmed with hardbound volumes, the collected works of classic authors and genealogies of the Penrose line.

He moved to a sideboard and poured a finger of single malt into a crystal tumbler, lifting it to his lips.The whiskey’s warmth coursed through him, chasing off some of the tension.Sighing, he wandered to the shelves, searching for a distraction in the spines of his books.One collection caught his eye: W.W.Jacobs’s ghost stories, bound in a somber red cloth.He drew a volume free, but an immediate shiver traced his spine.After what he’d seen outside, ghost tales would be the last thing to calm him.With a quick shake of the head, he returned the book to its place.

Scanning a lower shelf, his gaze lingered on an ancient family ledger, reminding him of his father's dire tales about Brynmor Hall.Supposedly, their ancestors haunted these corridors, vowing vengeance on any descendant who besmirched the family name.As a boy, James had been terrified by such talk.His father likely meant it as a cautionary tale, good old-fashioned scare tactics to keep a rebellious son in line.Nevertheless, it unsettled him now, in the hush of an empty manor.

A noise from the hallway—closer this time—yanked him from his memory.It was a muted bump, then what sounded like a door hinge squeaking.Tense, James went to the study door and opened it a crack.The corridor was unlit except for a single lamp at the far end.All seemed still.Yet a strange, cool breeze wafted past him, stirring the edges of the rug.That meant somewhere, a window or door stood open.

He grimaced.He had asked the servants to lock and shutter everything before leaving.Another bump echoed, like a door swinging shut.He jerked fully into the corridor, heart racing.Was someone inside?An intruder?The notion flooded him with alarm.Brynmor Hall had no shortage of valuables—antiques, paintings—ripe targets for thieves.

A sudden slam rang out, resonating off the walls.James’s breath caught in his throat.He physically jumped, nearly dropping the whiskey tumbler.That was definitely a door closing with force.He felt a stabbing sense of vulnerability.He had no staff to call on, and his wife wasn’t here.

Without delay, he set the glass down on a small table and hurried toward the gun room.Built beneath the main staircase, it was a locked chamber lined with racks of hunting rifles.Flicking the light switch, he found everything in its usual place—at first glance.With trembling fingers, he selected a sturdy hunting rifle from the largest case.Relief wavered through him, only to vanish a second later when he opened the ammunition box.It was empty.He scrabbled through drawers and compartments, only to discover not a single bullet left.

A chill swept up his spine.Someone had deliberately removed the ammunition, leaving him defenseless.This was no coincidence.Fear shot through his veins as he snatched his cellphone from his pocket and dialed the local police.His voice wavered.

“Police, fire brigade or ambulance?”the operator answering asked.

“Police,” James said, still gripping the gun.

“You’ve reached the police, what’s the nature of your emergency?”another operator asked.

“There’s been a break in at Brynmor Hall, I am in the house with the intruder,” he said.

"I understand, sir.We'll send a car over.In the meantime, please do not engage with the intruder.Find somewhere to hide and stay on the line," the operator said.

“Thank you,” he said.“But I have a panic room, so I’ll make my way there.I won’t have a phone signal.”

He hung up, adrenaline pumping.James knew it would be about half an hour before any car showed up.God only knew what would happen to him in that time, He needed to get to the panic room.The sense that he was being stalked thickened, pressing on him like a physical weight.

He dashed from the gun room, the click of his shoes echoing.Torchlight from outside flickered across a window, or perhaps it was just his imagination.The corridor felt labyrinthine, every corner a potential hiding place for the intruder.His father’s ghost stories sprang unbidden to mind, though he doubted any spirit meddled with bullets.This was flesh and blood.

He made for the rear corridor, where the family’s secure panic room lay behind a false panel.His chest tightened as he heard footsteps rush behind him—footsteps far too close.A glance over his shoulder confirmed his worst fear: a tall, dark figure sprinting after him, face half-obscured by shadows.James’s heart threatened to burst.The figure closed in, arms outstretched.

They collided near the hidden doorway.James’s useless rifle clattered to the ground as the attacker slammed him into the wall.Gasping, James twisted free, snatching the hidden latch.The door swung open.A savage jolt of pain seared his shoulder when the intruder seized him again, but James managed to fling himself into the panic room, tumbling onto the floor.

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