The Secret Cult Chronicles of the Decaying Lake Manor

Elliott stopped, placed the basket at the base of a tree, took the key from George, and went to open the heavy door.

"Squeak—"

The door slowly opened, and a musty smell wafted out.

George stood outside the door, looking at the chapel illuminated through the stained glass windows, and frowned slightly.

His keen spiritual senses told him that something was amiss inside the chapel.

But I can't quite put my finger on what's wrong with him, which is very frustrating.

Sybil stood motionless at the door. When Elliot opened the door and saw that the young master and young lady were both standing still, he did not move either.

In the end, it was George who broke the silence.

"Let's go in."

The interior of the chapel is not spacious.

A circular altar area occupies the center, with a row of outdated wooden benches on each side.

Several religious-themed oil paintings hung on the wall, their paint already beginning to crack and peel.

The morning light filtering through the surrounding woods appeared even dimmer in front of the stained-glass window, casting a thin and lacking warmth.

The arrival of the group seemed to have stirred up a lot of dust, which now danced in the limited light.

George glanced around the chapel and then left Eliot inside.

"Let's go to the back," he whispered to Sybil.

Sybil nodded.

Without saying much, the two walked around the side of the chapel, where a small cluster of tombstones came into view.

Family cemetery.

This place has clearly been carefully maintained; although the tombstones are ancient, they are not disturbed by weeds or vines.

The tombstones were all made of dark marble, though their styles varied, and the graves were covered with neatly trimmed lawns.

The largest main tomb is located in the center of the cemetery, towards the rear. It is the final resting place of the successive heads of the De La Porte family—in fact, only two generations of viscounts are buried here.

What they were looking for was at the front of the cemetery, slightly to the west.

A simpler tombstone than the surrounding ones stands in front of a low grave.

The stele bears a simple inscription:

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

Deepest remembrance

Lady Edlina de la Porter

My beloved wife and mother

1835–1859

The spirit that moved prophets and great sages has been used by the world to move her amplified.

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

Simple and elegant, even the cherub relief below the name has clean lines, contrasting with the intricate heraldic or biblical reliefs on some of the surrounding tombstones.

It looks similar in style to the tombstones of the previous two viscounts.

George looked at the tombstone.

In the original owner's memory, this was what the grave looked like five years ago when he received an urgent letter and rushed back for the funeral.

At the funeral, the Viscount remained silent, all the relatives wept, Sybil cried so hard she almost fainted, and Frederick... stood aside as if stunned.

Everything was dignified, proper, and in accordance with etiquette; there was nothing unusual about it.

But now, standing in the wooded cemetery after the rain, feeling that inexplicable "something was wrong" coming from the direction of the chapel, George's doubts deepened.

Sybil stepped forward, knelt before the tombstone, and placed the lilies and irises in her hands on the stone slab in front of the tombstone.

George stood two steps behind her, his hands clasped in front of him, remaining silent.

The wind rustled through the trees. The sound of the waves on the distant, decaying lake grew faint and distant.

After a long while, Sybil finally spoke.

Her voice was soft, with a slight, almost imperceptible tremor, yet exceptionally clear:

"George...do you believe Mother died of a sudden illness?"

This question came somewhat suddenly, but it hit exactly what George was thinking.

Fortunately, having had prior experience communicating with the butler, George was somewhat prepared.

He slowly knelt down beside his sister and looked at his mother's tombstone.

"Why do you ask that?" he responded with a question.

Sybil sighed.

"Because...because she didn't die like that." Her voice lowered. "I always felt that something was wrong."

George turned to look at his sister. The morning light shone from her side, casting shadows on her face and obscuring her expression.

"Tell me," he encouraged gently, "what's wrong?"

Sybil paused for a moment, seemingly organizing her thoughts.

"My mother was indeed in poor health during her last days. She was always very tired and her complexion was not good," she said slowly.

"But she was in very good spirits. No, not just 'good'... she was in excellent spirits, very energetic and excited."

She looked up and met George's gaze.

In those blue eyes that always held a hint of melancholy, a stubborn determination to get to the bottom of things had now appeared.

Just like in the original owner's memories.

"Despair, fear, struggle, and anxiety... she had none of the emotions a patient should have. You know, someone truly facing impending death should show some emotion on their face. But my mother didn't; she was as peaceful and happy as ever."

"She also discussed with me the garden layout for the next season, and wanted to open a studio for Fred. She told me stories, just like before."

Sybil's voice trembled slightly.

"She's always been healthy; someone who's nearing the end of their life wouldn't be like that. Unless she had no idea she was going to die, unless... someone deceived her."

George listened quietly, comparing his sister's account with his own memories.

If the mother's mental state before her death was described as "peaceful and happy" or even "full of excitement," it seems to resonate with what the butler Carson revealed that night: "The lady may have been aware of and consented to it."

But Carson's words are even more contradictory.

"And that night, that rainy night. I will never forget it."

Sybil continued, her speech suddenly quickening, as if she were pouring out a secret that had been building up for five years.

Her hands gripped the hem of her skirt tightly above her knees.

"Everything was normal that night, and I went to bed early. But in the middle of the night... I was awakened by thunder. It was a very sudden clap of thunder, even though there were no clouds in the sky that afternoon."

George could picture the scene; after all, he himself had listened to thunderstorms all night.

"After I woke up, I wanted to go back to sleep, but... I heard footsteps, a lot of footsteps downstairs."

Sybil swallowed hard, her face turning even paler.

"Then...not long after, my father came to my room. His expression was very strange...I had never seen him look like that before."

He told me that his mother... his mother had suddenly fallen ill and... had passed away.

Her voice trembled violently at the last few words, and tears finally slid down her cheeks, silently dripping onto the hem of her skirt and the grass beneath her.

"It's strange, George. It's really very strange. Father and Mother always slept in the same room, but perhaps only half an hour passed between when I was woken up by the thunder and when Father came to tell me that Mother had died?"

"How could a sudden illness strike so quickly? So quickly that my father didn't even have time to wake us up? So quickly that he didn't even have time to say a final 'goodbye'?"

She looked up at George, her eyes blurry with tears.

Something must have happened that night. In those footsteps after the thunder... something must have happened, something Father didn't want us to know.

After saying this, Sybil buried her face in her hands and let out a suppressed sob.