The house was already dying.

Smoke curled low along the ceiling, stinging Nathaniel Edgeworth’s eyes as he ran. The floorboards beneath his boots groaned in protest, each step echoing too loudly in the narrow hallway as he clutched the papers tighter against his chest. Schematics, notes, margins crowded with hurried handwriting—proof of a lifetime’s work compressed into a sheaf of trembling pages.

He could hear them behind him. The sound of men who believed the night was already won. “Nathaniel!” someone called. “This doesn’t have to end badly.”

He turned the corner too fast. His shoulder slammed into the wall, pain flaring bright and sharp, but he didn’t stop. The heat was unbearable now, licking up the walls, devouring the curtains he’d hung himself years ago. He could smell burning paper somewhere nearby and felt a spike of cold terror cut through the haze.

Then the gunshot rang out.

The sound cracked through the house like a final verdict. Nathaniel’s breath left him in a broken gasp as the force threw him forward. The papers flew from his arms, scattering across the floor in a white, fluttering arc. Some slid into shadow, others instantly kissed by sparks and flame. He hit the ground hard, palms scraping uselessly against the wood as warmth spread beneath him, far too fast to be fire.

His vision blurred, smoke filled his lungs, and somewhere distant glass shattered as the fire took another room.

By the time the fire engines screamed into the night, red lights painting Edgeworth Manor in frantic color, there was nothing left to save. They found him sprawled in the hall, body already cooling, the house collapsing inward around him. No weapon was found, no papers were left behind, only a man declared dead by smoke inhalation and structural failure.

An accident, the report would say.

A tragedy.

—

Present day.

The file hit the desk with a dull, dusty thud.

“Edgeworth Manor,” the senior journalist said, fingers lingering on the stack as if weighing its worth. “Burned down just shy of a century ago. Owner died inside. No surviving family. Case closed before anyone asked the right questions.”

The folder was thick. Almost too thick for a simple house fire. Black-and-white photographs spilled out when it was opened: charred beams, warped staircases, a single hallway frozen in ruin. Nathaniel Edgeworth stared back from an attached portrait, unsmiling, eyes sharp and thoughtful beneath neatly combed hair.

“Senior civil engineer,” the journalist continued. “Supposedly on the brink of something big when he died. Government contracts. Private consultations. Then, poof.” A small, humorless gesture. “Gone.” They slid an additional envelope across the desk. “Anniversary’s coming up. Someone out there wants answers badly enough to bankroll three months of your time. Travel, access, whatever you need.” They paused their words, a look of uncertainty before continuing. “Anonymous sponsor. Only condition is that anything you find about Edgeworth’s work—anything at all—comes back to them.”

It was a brisk, Spring morning. Hera’s alarm had erupted into its intentionally jarring trill at the ungodly hour of 5am. Her slender arm had snaked from beneath the duvet to click the alarm to silent after just 3 chimes. Her lashes fluttered open, body sleepily stretching under the covers. The sun was barely rising, warm orange light splaying through the clouds overhead. Hera had intentionally left the blinds to her bedroom window partially open, allowing an orange hue to seep through the slats. She swung her legs out of bed, placing her bare feet on the cool floorboards and padded across her bedroom to the armchair that had become a dumping ground for her laundry. The outfit graveyard was piled to waist height, comprising of various pieces she’d worn for between 15 minutes to 5 hours each. Rifling through, she found her favourite oversized T-Shirt, a hand-me-down from one of her sisters (she couldn’t remember which) and pulled it over her head.

The striped t-shirt was so large that it drowned her slight frame. The hem skimmed her thighs, cotton so worn that it had become incredibly soft. Hera crossed her arms and cradled her waist, squinting to peer out between the blinds. She smiled. It was a beautiful morning. Perfect for a morning run. But before she could begin her morning routine, Hera crossed the room to her bedside table and plucked her iPhone from its charger. She flicked her thumb across the screen and opened the camera app. Not even bothering to check her reflection, she positioned herself in front of the morning sunrise and clicked record.



A genuine gleeful smile was spread across Hera’s face as she looked into her iPhone camera. As if she were talking to a room full of her best friends, Hera tucked her blonde hair still tousled from sleep behind her ears and flipped the camera to face the view from her bedroom window. Her phone screen perfectly captured the tranquility of her street, the trees that framed her road swaying hypnotically in the morning breeze.



Hera’s thumb brushed the record button and the camera stopped recording. She sighed and quickly made her way downstairs to the Kitchen. None of her housemates would be emerging from their bedrooms anytime soon, so Hera moved quietly through the house. She clicked the Kitchen door shut behind her and quickly arranged her coffee prep on the marbled kitchen sideboard. Positioning her phone with a view of her coffee station and from the waist up, Hera clicked record again.



Waving at her viewers on the other side of the camera, Hera locked her phone and enjoyed the rest of her iced chai whilst gazing out the kitchen window. She knew the influencer lifestyle wasn’t for everyone and she was very aware how cringe it could be sometimes. But she’d built such a community with Hera is Here that there’s no going back now. Some days she didn’t feel up to filming, wished for a sense of privacy and a quiet room with no cameras. But she’d committed to her platform and her followers expected a certain frequency of posting. Plus, she was proud of the authentic virtual self she’d built. “Hera is Here” is just a normal, 20 something woman living her dream. It really was both a gift and a burden.

The ice in her latte glass clattered as she drained the last of the chai, licking cinnamon powder from her lips. Hera washed up the glass and headed back upstairs to prepare for her morning run.



________________________________

The Telegraph Head Office floor was ablaze with activity. Hera had only just gotten used to the constant buzz of journalists, editors and publishers. No one lowered their voice, there was no such thing as private conversations. Everyone talked over everyone. It was a room full of feisty extroverts, all sharing political opinions or critiquing copywriting or shouting coffee requests across the room. Hera loved the buzz of it all, found it electrifying. It reminded her of growing up at home with her sisters. She hadn’t expected this kind of Animal Kingdom at such a mainstream publication but it was a pleasant surprise when she was greeted on her first day by loud, cheery greetings and many confident introductions.

Today was Assignment day. Senior Journalists and columnists would brief the Junior Journos with the weeks stories. Some were breaking news, sent to print with email subjects like:



or



Hera lived for it. Assignment day was when The Telegraph floor was at its peak chaos and she revelled in it all. Grinning ear to ear, her bright blue eyes scanned the hub of activity before her. She couldn’t believe that this was where she actually worked? Albeit only part time. (And it was only her third week!) But honestly? The Telegraph? Hera had to check and double check the Job Offer to ensure she wasn’t tripping. She’d been accepted as a Junior Journo at The Telegraph when all her CV had shown was her social media platforms and some writing samples from her blog. In fact, she’d had a callback the same day she’d applied. Most of the Team had followed “Hera is Here” for years already and so when her CV came across their desks, they’d jumped at the chance to hire her.

A thick, dusty file thumped on Hera’s desk whilst her back was turned. She’d been joking with her desk neighbour when the Senior Journalist had approached her.



Hera eyed the file warily, marvelling at its size. She listened intently to the brief, nodding in all the right places and cooing at the details. Plucking her miniature pad from her desk drawer, Hera jotted shorthand notes as her supervisor continued, the tip of her tongue poking out in concentration.



At this, Hera’s pen froze, hovering above the page. She arched a perfectly preened eyebrow, raising her gaze to the senior staff member. The intrigue of a good story pricked at Hera’s gut and her heart quickened slightly with excitement. A bright, white smile tugged at her lips and she cocked her head to one side.



Hera lowered her pad and pen, flicking open her Macbook. She shot her supervisor a final grin and thudded into her chair, excitedly flipping the case folder open with manicured fingertips. She intended to read the file thoroughly before she strategised her next steps but glanced up at the senior journalist with evident excitement.

The senior journalist, Jacqueline, sat across from Hera at her own desk with her arms crossed over her chest as she watched the young woman excitedly dive into the folder. She couldn't help but chuckle. Despite Hera working her for such a short time, the girl was quite enthusiastically wonderful to work with.

When asked about the case, Jacqueline tilted her head to the side in thought. Most locals knew Edgeworth Manor as the go-to destination for high school field trips to learn about the history of their little town, others knew it for being 'haunted' by the manor's own resident. Although there has been no definitive proof. "I'd read up on it first. There's been some speculation around Mr Edgeworth's death, but it has always been ruled out as a tragic accident. I mean.." The woman trailed, shrugging her shoulders. "How does a man know in his century as the greatest engineer lose his life to the house he built himself?"

The woman turned her chair back to her desk to face her computer, fingers flying across her keyboard as she pulled up an article or two from the library archives to find a newspaper clipping from that time. With a long painted finger nail she pointed at a line in the article, 'Fire and Rescue were astonished at the exceeding rate the household fire consumed. Experts point to the many, many papers that were strewn about the home, while others say that it was the man's own work that brought him down.'

Jacqueline half-turned in her chair, looking over her shoulder at Hera. "If you aren't afraid of ghosts, maybe the man himself can straighten out the facts." She teased with a wink. "In any case, work the angle you think gives you the best evidence. No many have been able to find out any information that doesn't send them into a mindless circle. Hell, even the mediocre ghost hunters that visit haven't gotten anything from the house except a few flickering lights."

Hera felt her body bristle as Jacqueline turned the computer screen. Her eyes flicked over the article, brows knitting together in concentration. Pen poised readily, she short-handed some notes on the pad, nodding as her colleague explained the case further.

Excitement bubbled in her belly, a sign she’d come to recognise as the signal of a good story. Hera pressed her lips together pensively, imagining the Manor ablaze. She could see it clearly in her mind; Smoke billowing from the infrastructure, the smell of charring filling her nostrils and burning flesh… She shivered.

“What a horrific way to go…” she trailed off, vision blurring at the seams as the screen shifted in and out of focus.

Some journalists may have scoffed at the prospect of writing this story. An engineer dead in his home, on the surface, didn’t have the accosting excitement of a celebrity scam or morbid modern-day crime. But Hera revelled in the prospect of giving this late engineer a voice after death. Bringing someone back to life through journalism was a challenge, certainly, but one that she’d gladly accept.

The young, aspiring journalist placed her pad on her desk and decidedly logged into her Macbook. She opened ‘Safari’ and typed curiously into the search bar. First, she’d read all the articles she could find on Edgeworth Manor. Building a backstory, she wanted to better understand who this mysterious engineer was. What research had he been immersing himself in? Did he have any known enemies? A creative as prolific as Nathaniel Edgeworth must’ve crossed an antagonist or 2 in his lifetime. Surely no one angry enough to murder him, though?

The tip of Hera’s tongue poked out slightly from between her lips as she skimmed as many articles as she could fine. Hitting “Print” on those that seemed most relevant, she soon had a small stack of paperwork accumulating on her desk. Taking a highlighter to the pages, she emboldened statements of most interest. Gradually, the young journalist built a picture of Nathaniel. Immersing herself in the burning of Edgeworth Manor, Hera barely noticed the clock ticking by. Minutes slid by as she researched, the hands of the office clock seemed to be moving mysteriously quickly. Hours felt like seconds and she huffed as her pen danced over the pad eagerly.

The buzz of the office came in peaks and troughs. Some would find the laughter and chorus of chatter a distraction but Hera barely noticed anything outside of her office cubicle. A bubble had formed around her, laser focused on the task at hand. All good stories were founded on strong foundations. Much like Nathaniel’s famous architectural projects, carefully laying foundations was integral to staying upright and Hera wanted to build a water-tight case. Jacqueline’s desk, neighbouring her own, slipped in and out of occupation. Occasionally, she could feel Jacqueline’s eyes on her. She barely broke eye contact with the Macbook screen, stack of papers growing in size as she paced back and forth from the office printer.

“Nathaniel Edgeworth’s work was ahead of it’s time, his latest project was rumoured to hold some earth-shattering discoveries. Many would’ve gone to extreme lengths in order to intercept his latest research…” Hera read aloud from the article on-screen.

Tapping her pen gently on her pursed lips, Hera’s gut twinged at the phrasing of the quotation. Extreme lengths? Like burning down his home? Nathaniel, a brilliant mind, was acquiring knowledge someone didn’t want him to have. So determined to stop him in his tracks, this villain had intervened in the most extreme way. A house fire was a strike of genius. The crime in present day would not have been left unsolved. Forensics, discovery… Modern day policing would’ve turned over the suspicious circumstances in which Nathaniel was found dead in his home. Burned alive.

“A mind as brilliant as his would not have been caught in a burning building…” Hera mumbled, tutting and shaking her head.

With that, she shut the lid of her Macbook. It was approaching her lunch break and a gurgle from her stomach reminded her of the fact. She hesitated, hands hovering above the stack of paperwork she’d garnered. Hera turned to Jacqueline who was typing furiously next to her.

“I need to get a feel for this place,” she said, to no one in particular, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Think I’ll find it easier to get into Nathaniel’s mind if I’m at the site where he took his final breath…”

Hera swiftly pulled her coat on, the sheepskin lining of her aviator jacket immediately feeling too insulated in the warm office. Lifting her tote bag, she filled it with her morning’s research. Before she left, she checked her phone that had been buzzing busily in her pocket. Hundreds of notifications flooded the screen, followers “liking” this morning’s video. Usernames blurred in a flurry as her thumb gently brushed across the screen, exclamations of admiration and approval littered the notifications. She shouldered her tote bag, readying herself to leave, and nodded at Jacqueline. The senior journalist had barely looked up, the click of keys was her goodbye. Hera retreated from her desk, striding past the lines of office cubicles on her way to the elevator.

Feeling the cool air hit her with a wince, Hera’s hand fumbled through her jacket pocket to retrieve her phone. Ignoring the notifications, she lifted the front camera to her face. Followers loved the day to day documentation of her life. Specifically, the stories she was working on at The Telegraph. Careful not to spoil her stories, Hera only shared information that was public knowledge. It was a balance of sharing enough tidbits of her life as a young journalist and still maintaining professionalism. A good journalist never reveals their sources… But Hera loved giving her followers insight into the goings on at The Telegraph. ‘Hera Is Here’ didn’t shy away from sharing her life with hundreds of thousands. In fact, she recorded as much as possible. Regularity was the secret to success as an Influencer. Quality and quantity. Before hitting record, she fixed her hair and added a layer of lipgloss. Her lips had dried at the touch of crisp air and she rubbed them together as the coconut-flavoured gloss coated them.

“Hera Is Here and guys… I’ve been tasked with bringing the story of Edgeworth Manor back to life! Awesome, right? Dead and buried, burned to be sure, Edgeworth is a scandal shrouded in mystery. I’ve spent my morning reading all I can on the backstory but now it’s time to visit the scene of the crime… That’s right, guys. I don’t think this was a tragic accident. Something tells me there’s more to Nathaniel’s passing than smoke and flames… I think there’s much more behind the curtain! Stay tuned for more.”

Hera’s iPhone clicked as she locked it, slipping it back between the folds of her pocket. Edgeworth Manor was a small drive away and she thumbed in the address as she approached her car, scanning the route. Her car smelt like the fruity air freshener that hung from the rear view and she sighed as she slid into the drivers seat. Door slamming shut behind her, Hera tossed her tote bag into the passenger seat, shifting into a comfortable driving position. Belt sliding across her, the engine roared to life. The car reversed from her allocated parking space and slowly crawled out of the car park. Hera eyed the map on her phone screen, mounted on the dash for visibility. Chart music tinkled out of the car’s speakers and Hera hummed along absent-mindedly, her mind straying to Nathaniel and his plume of papers, charred and undiscovered.