Page 5 of Promise of Punishment

On the day we moved here back in February, Mom gave me three rules to follow.

“Don’t get behind in school. Don’t draw unwanted attention to yourself. If you explore the property, don’t disrupt anyone and stay out of sight.”

I wouldn’t dare break a rule. For the first time ever, Mom and I are at peace. We sleep through the night without worrying that Dad will come home. Mom smiles now, and her skin is free of bruises. She works more than she did in the US, but it’s worth it. Some days, I help her clean in the wing that the family doesn’t use just to be with her. There are four wings, but they only use two since their son and daughter don’t live at the manor anymore.

If it weren’t for Amara, we wouldn’t be here. Talk about a savior. She used her connections with another housekeeper who works at the Hale’s vacation estate on Martha’s Vineyard to secure Mom a job in West Dorset. England seemed like the safest place for Mom and me, far away from Dad and his influential family.

The rumble of a lawnmower draws my gaze across the field. It’s too far away for me to abandon my mission. I’ll be over this tall wall before they reach here, if they’re even planning to mow this area. By then, the only bad thing that could happen is if the gardening crew takes my bins, making it difficult for me to get down when I leave. Scaling the inside of the wall isn’t hard, but I’d have to jump down on this side, which is far for a girl my height. Still, I could do it as long as I land as softly as possible, maybe roll so I don't sprain an ankle.

After working the smaller bin on top of the large one, I carefully climb the rickety platform and jump, grabbing the top of the brick wall. It took me several failed attempts of crashing into the prickly bush and the ground to master making this on the first try. Even if I were tall, this would be a challenge, although a bit easier. But what’s inside makes every scrape and bruise worthwhile.

There’s beauty in abandoned places, and this is the prettiest I’ve ever seen. I secure my foot on a brick that juts out like a small step and boost myself up enough to get my elbow onto the ledge. Once I’ve achieved that, I lay my chest on the hard surface and swing my leg up. From here, I’m able to grip the tree branch—which, according to my free plant identifier app, is a Japanese maple—and pull myself up the rest of the way. It’s much easier at this point. I use the branches to get down on the other side, feeling as if the tree were planted there for the sole purpose of helping someone sneak in.

This garden has an iron gate, but it’s locked and impossible to climb because the bars have spikes like large thorns on a rose.

I can’t say what this garden was built for or when it was left to ruin, only that in the month I’ve been visiting, no one else has come here, and it’s become my secret refuge. I’ve been taking pictures and videoing the enchanting place since I stumbled upon it, and I continue to find new things. I’m also getting the most views I’ve ever received on my social media account. Abandoned Beauty.

Once I’m on the ground, I brush dirt from my hands and get my phone from my pocket. I open my camera and start recording as I maneuver through colorful wild-growing flowers and bushes. The ground crunches under my sneakers, and the earthy scents of the lush surroundings fill my nose. This is heaven.

A moss-covered fountain sits in the center of the rectangular garden. Pools of murky water rest in the tiers. Orange and purple wildflowers tangle with grass and weeds that surround the stone base. Broken statues stand about, covered with the same moss and grime that add to the garden’s haunting beauty.

I wander to the left side of the enclosed garden, where a brick potting shed with a shingle roof sits tucked away in a corner surrounded by overgrown shrubbery. It has a mysterious charm with its gothic-inspired arched wood door, ceramic vase sconces flanking either side, and a sculpture of the sun god hanging above. I bet it was enchanting in its prime, a hidden gem that looks even more appealing to me in its neglected state.

Today, I added a small hammer to the usual stash I carry in my backpack—water, a snack, hand sanitizer, bandages, and antibiotic ointment. The last three I’ve learned to keep handy after scraping my knees and palms during previous visits. But the hammer is for breaking the lock and finally uncovering whatever secrets a shed the size of a small walk-in closet might be hiding.

Someone coughs from nearby, freezing me in my tracks. My eyes stretch wide, and I scan the area, praying I don’t get caught by someone who reports me to the owners.

I stand still, listening for another sound like the one I just heard. Like always, the area is quiet, apart from birds and the occasional “bah” from sheep in the distance.

Seconds tick by without another sound. Maybe I heard something else and mistook it for a cough. I want to move. My feet are placed one in front of the other, making it harder to keep my balance, but I need to make sure no one is outside the walls. Inside them would be worse, although I would have heard the rusty gate open. That thing looks heavy and like it hasn’t been used in years. It would creak.

When nothing other than random bird chirping fills the air, I move again with cautious steps.

Quietly isn’t possible in the long grass.

Another cough freezes me in place.

“Fuck,” a man groans, sounding in pain.

What the hell?

Should I stay quiet, give myself up, look around? I’ve never been caught by anyone or ever crossed paths with another person out here. What are the odds now? Maybe I can talk myself out of whatever situation I find myself in—staff to staff, or to staff’s daughter. They’ll understand, right?

I walk in the direction of the noise just beyond the shed.

“Hello?” I whisper hesitantly. “Is anyone there?”

“Here,” murmurs that deep voice, followed by a wet cough.

Adrenaline floods me. I walk faster.

Leather dress shoes with the toes pointed to the sky come into view near a cluster of dandelions and an itchy bush that I had the unpleasant experience of stumbling into once. Ripped black pants join a white, torn dress shirt that’s opened, revealing a muscular chest covered in bruises and blood. The guy’s arms and knuckles aren’t any better. One hand rests on his abdomen. His face is swollen and bruised to the point of being unrecognizable. Dark bangs cover one side of his face.

Holy shit.

I drop to my knees beside him and think of what to do. This is worse than anything my makeshift care kit can fix. He needs a hospital, but we’re far from anything. A thirty-minute walk up a hill to the carriage house. The manor is farther, another fifteen minutes from there. I can’t even call for emergency help; there’s no service out here. And this young man needs medical attention asap.

“Can you hear me?” I gently brush his damp bangs from his face. My fingers come back soaked with blood.