Content Warnings (click to reveal)
Discussed: death, mental illness
Silent Watchers
Dark clouds gathered in the sky, an ominous promise of another storm, as Orlaigh sat silently in the carriage, continuing the journey to her new placement. She had enjoyed her previous position as nurse and personal maid to the elder Mrs McFarlane, an 85-year-old woman whose feistiness and wicked sense of humour still managed to shine through her cracks of increasing age and illness. It was the glowing reference from the McFarlane family after she passed that helped Orlaigh secure her new position with the O’Reilly household. She looked forward to the change after having worked in her previous post for five years. She did not mind working in service, really – after her own father had passed after a long illness and no husband of her own to speak of, she saw it as a roof over her head and food in her belly.
It had been a long journey and there were not many others about at the train station when she arrived, so she headed towards the middle-aged man with rough stubble sprouting from his chin, a cap overshadowing his eyes and both hands shoved into his coat pockets.
‘Miss Barry? Colm,’ he said.
Orlaigh struggled to catch the name through the gruff, mumbled introduction as he reached for her travelling trunk.
‘Yes, that’s right, how do you do? Orlaigh Barry, for the position with the O’Reillys.’
‘Aye.’
He swung the carriage door open and placed her bag inside. A man of few words then. He held the door open and motioned for her to climb through.
‘Best get in, then. I want to make a mile before this storm sets in.’
Orlaigh primly lifted her skirts and hoisted herself into the carriage. The door slammed shut behind her before she’d even sat down, and then they were off without delay. Rolling hills lined the horizon, growing larger as they drove further towards them. It was a breathtaking view, even with the foreboding black clouds above. Orlaigh placed her hand on the wall of the carriage to steady herself as the ride grew rougher and bumpier as they drove over the winding rocky road. She shut her eyes as the growling sky and clacking of the carriage wheels over stones served as a kind of lullaby.
The sensation of the carriage coming to a sudden halt woke Orlaigh from her light doze. She peered out the window to see an enormous manor house before her, in all its faded glory. Tall dark windows stood in multiple rows across the formidable grey stone structure, staring out into the bleak countryside. Chimneys, turrets and spires pierced the cloudy sky, and ivy clung to its walls like veins to flesh. The whole structure towered over her. Orlaigh had seen grandeur before, but this place… it did not invite; it waited. From one of the windows, she thought she spied the face of a woman looking out at her. Miss O’Reilly, she presumed. She jumped as the carriage door swung open.
‘Sorry,’ Colm said, ‘but I won’t go any further than here.’
He removed Orlaigh’s bag and placed it at her feet. He absently tipped his hat to her without meeting her eyes. Scrambling back onto the carriage, he cracked his whip sharply and bolted out through the iron gates.
‘Good afternoon, Miss Barry.’
Orlaigh turned to see an older woman with grey hair standing a short distance from her. She had kind eyes and posture so incredibly straight that Orlaigh wouldn’t be surprised to discover a rod propping her up from behind. A chatelaine glinted at the waist of her impeccably neat dress.
‘I am Mrs Carroll, the housekeeper. One of the servants will see to your things. Let me accompany you inside before we are caught in a downpour.’
‘Yes ma’am. Pleasure to meet you.’
Orlaigh followed Mrs Carroll, her boots crunching on the gravel drive. She looked back at the window, but the woman had gone. As the housekeeper opened the door, the smell of damp stone and icy air rushed to greet them. The door groaned shut behind them with a thud that reverberated through the manor. The entry hall was enormous, with high ceilings that disappeared into shadow. Grand chandeliers hung dark, their crystals coated with dust; the dark wood panelling across the walls and the stone floor added to the sombre atmosphere. Paintings and various items of weaponry adorned the walls, the most striking being two long swords criss-crossing over one another above the doorway. Orlaigh resisted the temptation to brush her fingers over the ornate golden frames holding portraits of grim-faced subjects. A grand winding staircase dominated the centre of the hall.
‘I’ll show you to your room,’ Mrs Carroll said as they began to climb the stairs. ‘You will have your own quarters in the east wing, in order to be close to Mr O’Reilly’s room should you be needed in the night.’
Orlaigh continued to stare at the imposing figures on the walls either side of her as they walked. She could not help but pause at the one to her right – a finely dressed man proudly standing with one hand on his hip, and the other touching the hilt of a sword. His beard brushed at the white ruff collar around his neck, and his painted eyes stared directly at Orlaigh.
‘One of their ancestors,’ Mrs Carroll commented when she noticed Orlaigh staring. ‘Sir Ciaran O’Rielly. That there is his wife, Lady Siobhan.’
Mrs Carroll nodded toward the portrait on the opposite wall, depicting a woman whose bejewelled fingers clutched a fan at her side. Orlaigh marvelled at the richly patterned fabric of her dress and the long pearl necklace hanging from around her lace collared neck.
‘Miss O’Reilly passes on her regret that no one could meet you at the station. But given her father’s condition, and…well, the manpower needed for the daily running of this place, it was simply not an option to leave. You are to start tomorrow, so settle yourself in for now and have some rest.’
‘I understand from the correspondence that Mr O’Reilly suffers from rheumatism and some confusion?’ Orlaigh said.
‘That he does. His memory started to go some time back. Nothing too terrible mind, would just forget little things, but it has become more often of late and physically he has become increasingly weak. Doesn’t get out much these days. Miss O’Reilly, that’s his daughter, had begun seeing to his care but as his turns are more frequent, and the maids already have enough work to do around here, well, she decided it best to employ a nurse. Mr O’Reilly can become a touch agitated at times… he has his quirks, but he is harmless enough. He’ll talk about strange things from time to time but pay it no mind. The manor has a way of playing tricks on its inhabitants.’
‘What sort of tricks?’
Mrs Carroll gave a vague shrug.
‘Oh, nothing to worry yourself over. This house has stood for centuries and has seen more than we could ever know. There was a battle fought on these very grounds two hundred and fifty years ago, did you know? It was during the Nine Years’ War. Enemy forces rallied to seize the manor, and it is said all the inhabitants boarded it up and secured this place as best they could. Lady Siobhan was among those trapped inside. No one was to go out, and no one in…or so they tried. I’m sorry to say that Sir Ciaran succumbed to his injuries sustained during the bloodshed that day. Lady Siobhan survived the ordeal, though they say she was never quite right afterwards. She became a recluse, never leaving the manor again. She would not have anyone else leave the premises, either. Not her children, not her maids, no one. They say she was waiting for Sir Ciaran to return, to tell everyone it was safe to leave.’ Ms Carroll stopped walking and stared at an empty patch of wall, as if looking through a window that wasn’t there. Then, with a gentle sigh, she continued. ‘Needless to say, this house has lived through a great deal. Some say it holds onto pieces of the past.’
The hallway seemed endless as Orlaigh followed Mrs Carroll through its many twists and turns, each corner vanishing into the shadows much like the ceiling. Every step felt like a journey deeper into the heart of something vast and unknowable. Portraits began to make way for landscapes – vast hillsides and lone cottages dwarfed by sky. One depicted a stormy sea, with jagged cliffs taking up nearly the entirety of the left hand side of the painting, with angry waves coming in from the other side, crashing against the rocks. They passed yet another portrait of Lady Siobhan at the next turn, her right hand clutching a small book in her lap as the other lay at the armrest of her seat, a ruby ring on her finger.
At last, they arrived at Orlaigh’s room. It was a simple but spacious chamber with a large four-poster bed draped in velvet curtains. A fire crackled in the hearth, yet it lent no warmth.
‘Supper will be served shortly,’ Mrs Carroll said with a nod. ‘In the meantime, I’ll leave you to settle in.’
* * *
The storm continued to rage overnight as Orlaigh lay awake in bed. She did not expect such a restless night given how tired she felt. She watched the shadows dance about the room as the wind whistled and howled ferociously outside, followed by another clap of thunder. A bolt of lightning briefly lit up the room, and with it she glimpsed her face in the mirror above the washstand.
Yet it was not her own.
The reflection’s hair was in a tangled, frizzed mess, with stray wiry hairs hanging over a pale face with wide, frightened eyes. Orlaigh froze and the room was plunged into darkness again, her heart in her throat. She reached back to touch her hair, finding that it was in fact still pulled back into a long braid, as it had been when she went to bed. She tightly gripped her blanket, too afraid to take even a breath. Her face had looked so thin and gaunt in the mirror, dark shadows beneath her eyes making her look even paler, and her mouth wide open as though she was screaming, yet no sound had come out — another crash of thunder made her jump, and lightning flashed again. Only her usual reflection stared back this time. Orlaigh pulled the covers over her head and squeezed her eyes shut.
Orlaigh met her new charge the following morning. The manor still maintained such darkness, even during the day, that a candle was required as she followed Mrs Carroll along the shadowy corridors. Despite the presence of windows, daylight did not seem to want to enter this house. Finally, Mrs Carroll stopped in front of one of the numerous closed doors that lined the hall and knocked. Orlaigh wondered how on earth she would remember which room was which. They entered a large study where row after row of books lined the walls, and flames crackled in a great fireplace. Little vases, a small clock, and framed silhouette art lined the mantelpiece.
Orlaigh was introduced to Mr O’Reilly and his daughter, a dark-haired woman who looked to be approaching middle age. Mr O’Reilly sat slumped in his armchair, a thick blanket over his lap, and despite his age, possessed still an impressive head of white hair, with long sideburns that stopped just before his chin. Miss O’Reilly rose to take his hand.
‘Da, this is Miss Barry. She is to be your nurse.’
‘My nurse? How do you mean?’
‘Do you recall that you were getting a nurse to help you?’
The old man studied Orlaigh’s face for some time.
‘Aye, yes. That’s right,’ he muttered.
Miss O’Reilly gave Orlaigh an apologetic smile. ‘He can become confused at times, I’m afraid.’
Miss O’Reilly outlined to Orlaigh her father’s daily routines, what medications he took and when. She produced a key and handed it to Orlaigh.
‘For the medicine cabinet,’ she explained. ‘I had another key cut for you. Come.’
Miss O’Reilly led Orlaigh out of the study and to her father’s bedroom further along the hall. She unlocked a cabinet and Orlaigh spied the contents. Castor oil, jars of various herbal preparations and bark powders, and among them a bottle of laudanum.
‘He has been having laudanum at night,’ Miss O’Reilly said. ‘As he can become quite frightened and agitated, you see. With it he will have a less disturbed rest.’
Orlaigh had no doubt.
‘Of course, ma’am.’
Back in the study, Mr O’Reilly was staring into the dwindling fire.
‘Oh dear, we can’t have that,’ Orlaigh exclaimed. ‘You’ll catch a chill. Let me rebuild this fire and then we could continue a game of Rummy? I’m afraid my card playing skills aren’t quite up to scratch, but perhaps you can help me?’
Mr O’Reilly grunted. ‘Been playing at cards all morning.’
As Orlaigh bent to re-kindle the fire she could feel Mr O’Reilly’s gaze piercing through the back of her.
‘Well, in that case,’ she replied, standing up and dusting off her hands, ‘I can see that you are rather fond of books. Shall I take one and read to you?’
Mr O’Reilly continued to stare at her and finally nodded.
‘Aye. Been playing at cards all morning.’
‘Alright, let’s see…’ Orlaigh walked alongside the bookshelves and traced her finger over the leather spines, some very worn. As she reached out to select a book, she glanced at the window to see another overcast sky. She could make out her reflection in the windowpane, except… her reflection was not reflecting. She saw herself with her body turned completely towards her, both arms by her side. Just as the night before, the dark circled eyes stared back at her in fright. Orlaigh watched as her reflection pressed a hand against the glass and gave another silent scream. She gasped and dropped the book from her hands. She quickly spun around to face Mr O’Reilly, whose eyes were following her every move. Orlaigh took a deep breath.
‘I am sorry, that was awfully clumsy of me,’ she said as she retrieved the book from the floor and went to sit across from Mr O’Reilly. ‘Now, are you comfortable?’
His eyes were aimed at the fire, staring at the flames as though he could see something beyond. ‘They’re watching.’
Orlaigh followed his gaze. ‘Who’s watching?’
He didn’t answer right away. When he did speak, it was as though he had forgotten her presence entirely. ‘The ones who never leave.’
* * *
Orlaigh’s first week passed otherwise unremarkably. She learned Mr O’Reilly’s routines—she would bring him his cup of tea first thing in the morning before he would dress for breakfast, then he would join his daughter either in the drawing room or study for card games (though this could require much patience on the part of his daughter, with his failing memory and confusion). Orlaigh would prepare Mr O’Reilly’s meals and medicines throughout the day, maintain the fires and read to him in his study. In the afternoons if the weather permitted, and Mr O’Reilly was feeling well, they would wander about the gardens, which Orlaigh rather enjoyed, and there was much ground to cover. Peering into the fishpond however, she saw Mr O’Reilly’s reflection looking distressed, eyes wide and mouth open in shock. She had turned to Mr O’Reilly to ask what the matter was, and he smiled, insisting he felt well enough. Then, he enjoyed a glass of whiskey in the evenings and was given laudanum at night, or sometimes during the day if he experienced a bad turn. Some days, Mr O’Reilly was perfectly charming and verbose, if not a bit forgetful. Other times he would be much more disoriented, forgetting who she was and required regular reminders of time, place and person.
However, there was something about the manor that weighed on her more with each passing day. The rooms were always cold, no matter how many fires burned in the hearths. Orlaigh often heard footsteps following behind her, but she could never see who made them. And there was the unmistakable feeling of being watched, though she knew that her initial experiences upon her arrival had clearly unsettled her. Every room, every corridor seemed to breathe its own life, shifting and groaning with secrets it had no intention of revealing. The sightings were growing more frequent. A reflection would appear in mirrors, windows, even in the polished cutlery. Always the same: a version of herself, watching her, with that petrified expression.
But then came the dreams. They started subtly, with vague images of the house—its dark corridors, the grand staircase, the cold stone walls. Soon they became more vivid. Orlaigh dreamed of walking through the manor at night, her footsteps echoing in the silence. She would reach the staircase, and there, standing at the top, she would see herself. The other Orlaigh, who looked as though she had seen death. The dream would end the same way every night. As she climbed the stairs towards the figure, her heart pounding, the other Orlaigh would open her mouth as if to scream, but no sound would come. And then, just before reaching the top, she would wake in a cold sweat.
Mr O’Reilly could be very cryptic when he spoke, at times muttering about the ‘watchers’ or ‘those who stayed behind’. His daughter, often present, offered no further explanations. Her role now appeared to be that of a shadow, always hovering in the background, ever watchful.
One evening, Mr O’Reilly was ready to retire and Orlaigh was making her way back up the stairs after returning the remnants of his supper to the kitchen. She happened to glance at the polished wood bannister as she passed, and this time she saw two reflections. Again, it was that frightened version of herself, but now also Mrs Carroll, her face too appearing gaunt and terrified. She spun around to look behind her, but Mrs Carroll was nowhere to be seen. She hurriedly continued up the stairs and towards Mr O’Reilly’s room.
As she was helping him to bed, he fixed her with a knowing gaze.
‘You’ve seen them, haven’t you?’
Orlaigh’s heart stuttered. ‘Seen who?’
‘The others, us. They’re all of us. We never leave.’
‘Whatever do you mean?’
‘It splits everything in two, this place.’ Mr O’Reilly said, his voice dropping to a whisper. ‘You don’t remember, do you? It can take time, but you’ll come to see it. You will become caught up in the loop, just as I am.’ He shook his head. ‘How maddening.’
His words made Orlaigh’s blood run cold, but she did not know how to respond other than bringing him his medicine and wishing him goodnight.
When Orlaigh was back in her own room, the first thing she noticed was the mirror. She had previously turned it to face the wall the night before, frightened of what she might see, before burying herself beneath the bedcovers. But tonight, she found that it was back in its usual position, the smooth glass facing towards her. Mrs Carroll had righted it, perhaps. She sat on the edge of her bed for a while, staring into the fire so as to avoid catching a glimpse into the mirror. The light flickered against her as she opened and closed her fists with unease. The quivering flames danced and swirled within the hearth, casting shadows across the walls. As she continued to gaze, the faces began to emerge in the flames, shifting and changing with each flicker. Herself, Mr O’Reilly, his daughter, Mrs Carroll. Many more even, appearing briefly before disappearing to make way for others, like ghosts summoned by the fire’s warmth. Some faces she swore she recognised from some of the portraits that hung on the walls. Only now they wore the same frightened and bewildered expressions as the others, rather than the sterner ones she had seen previously. Other faces and figures, she did not recognize—soldiers in out-of-date clothing, re-enacting a battle in the flames. She could not help but finally look up to the mirror above. There was her reflection, her face and palms pressed against the glass. She looked at Orlaigh, pale and trembling, with wide, petrified eyes. Only this time, her reflection did not try to scream. Instead, she peeled one palm away from the glass and beckoned to her. Orlaigh hesitated. Gathering all her courage, she rose and stepped closer towards the mirror. With a shaking hand, she reached out and pressed her fingers against those of the other Orlaigh.
The world shifted.
Everything went cold.
Orlaigh looked around, wondering what had just taken place. She headed towards the door, which should have been to her right, only to find that it was now situated to the left. She hurried out of her room, before halting in her confusion. The painting of Lady Siobhan now hung on the opposite wall, its colours seemingly brighter. She peered closely at it. Lady Siobhan held a book in her left hand, and the ring was on the right. Had it always been that way? No…no, it had been different—Orlaigh was sure of it. She turned her attention to the sea landscape further along the hall, the waves crashing against a cliffside to the right.
And then realised she wasn’t alone.
Beside her, at the top of the stairs and all along the hallway were the other figures, stiffly standing and staring. Mr and Miss O’Reilly, Mrs Carroll, the servants, those from the portraits, and others she did not recognise. Perhaps previous staff, previous visitors. And then she saw the figure at the bottom of the stairs—it was herself. The other Orlaigh, but this time she didn’t try to scream. She just stood there, watching blankly, until her edges began to blur and dissolve into the shadows.
Orlaigh felt the cold grip of the house tighten around her, pulling her deeper into its embrace. She heard thunder growl from outside. Orlaigh wandered down the hallway, taking in the house with its reversed perspective. She entered the study—the fireplace, bookshelves, furniture, everything, all now situated on the opposite side. She cautiously made her way over to where the window now faced an opposite horizon. Looking out to where a carriage had come to a stop, she watched Colm open the door and then herself exit it, wearing the same dress she had worn on the day of her arrival. She watched herself being greeted by another Mrs Carroll. She raced downstairs, to where this other Mrs Carroll had swung open the front door, the other Orlaigh following behind her.
‘I’ll show you to your room,’ Mrs Carroll said as they began to climb the stairs. ‘You will have your own quarters in the east wing, in order to be close to Mr O’Reilly’s room should you be needed in the night.’
The other Mrs Carroll and Orlaigh did not see her, nor did they hear her scream. Orlaigh managed to be seen later that night however, when other Orlaigh regarded her in the mirror. The other Orlaigh looked frightened, but could she not see how frightened she was? Orlaigh screamed. She had to warn her. She would continue to warn her, in whatever way she could.
Gabriela has been writing stories and reading voraciously since childhood. Her favourite genres are gothic/horror and historical fiction, likely inspired by having grown up reading Fear Street and Goosebumps novels, and works by the Brontë sisters. She has previously had a poem published online by Rebelle Society (under the pseudonym ‘Gigi Radov’), has contributed a short story to Specul8 Publishing’s Knives, Nightmares & Neon: An 80’s Slasher Anthology and a winning flash fiction entry published in Specul8’s 2025 Christmas Annual. She has a sizeable collection of dark short stories that she doesn’t quite know what to do with yet, and is taking the plunge into writing a murder mystery novel.
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