I write this by lamplight, in a house that is quieter than it has ever been. I do not know if anyone will ever read these words, or if they even matter beyond the walls of Whittemore Estate. Perhaps they are only for myself — a record of what I witnessed, what I survived, and what I was allowed to carry forward.
When I first arrived, I thought the portraits were mere art: oddities of a wealthy family, eccentricities preserved in oil and canvas. A Basset Hound in velvet. A Labrador poised atop a velvet cushion. A Golden Retriever waiting at a piano. An English Bulldog staring with silent judgment. A French Bulldog hidden in shadows. A German Shepherd overseeing the foyer. And finally, the unfinished Elise Whittemore, a canvas suspended between life and paint.
I was wrong.
Each portrait had waited. Each had breathed. Each had carried more than pigment and varnish — the essence of loyalty, of memory, of lives interwoven with this estate, and perhaps something beyond it. I only realized this as the last strokes fell into place, when Elise’s eyes opened in the final painting and the house itself seemed to exhale for the first time in centuries.
I cannot explain what I saw. The dogs moved, not in flesh but in spirit. The halls whispered. Music drifted through empty rooms, notes neither heard nor imagined, lingering like perfume. And when the final light of the painting spread, it was not destruction I felt, but release.
The portraits are gone now. The walls are bare. No paint remains, no eyes to follow. Yet the memory of them hangs in the air — a weightless presence, patient and serene.
I walked through the house this morning, tracing where the various prints led. Seven distinct prints, each a reminder of the lives that once kept this estate alive in ways that humans could not fully comprehend. They vanish into sunlight at the garden gate, as if stepping out of one world into another.
Lady Genevieve still lingers in the quiet elegance of the rooms, her influence threaded through every brushstroke and whispered command to the artists of the past. Sir Reginald, Captain, Harper, Bartholomew, Beau, and the German Shepherd — each of them carried her care, her dignity, and the eternal patience of guardianship. And Elise… Elise has finally completed her duty. The house is theirs no longer, but it has found its peace.
I do not know if the world beyond these walls would believe me. Perhaps they should not. Some things are not meant to be understood, only felt. The Whittemore portraits were never merely paintings. They were vessels. Custodians. Witnesses.
I leave this record as proof that such devotion exists, even if invisible. And if you find yourself wandering the corridors of the Whittemore Estate one day, listen closely. Not for the ticking of clocks, or the sigh of the wind through cracked windows. Listen for loyalty. For patience. For the quiet echo of seven guardians stepping into the light, finally at rest.
— Simon, Caretaker of Whittemore Estate