The House by the Fens
Emma stood in the middle of the overgrown yard, waist-deep in thistles and nettles, staring at the crooked cottage with its peeling sign: “Mosswood, Meadow Lane, No. 1.” The air smelled of damp earth, wet timber, and… memories.
As a child, she’d spent every summer here with her grandmother Agnes—a stern old woman with a silver braid and a voice that carried. Agnes baked bilberry pies, brewed herbal tea, knew how to read dreams and whisper away warts. “The spirits live here,” she’d say. “But if you come with kindness, they won’t touch you.” Little Emma had believed her.
Now she was thirty-one. And she was back. After ten years with Greg, who’d left her for a young fitness instructor, and an office job that had drained her dry, Emma suddenly realized: if she didn’t turn off this road now, she’d never do it. So she turned. Straight onto the dirt track.
The house was her grandmother’s. Her mother had wanted to sell it for pennies to the local gamekeeper, but Emma refused. “I’ll sort it out myself,” she said. “Always the odd one,” her mother muttered.
On the first day, Emma scrubbed the floors. Black-green grime seeped from the wooden planks, as if decades of weariness were draining into the bucket. She cleaned the stove, dusted the icons, shooed away mice. That night, she fell asleep wrapped in her grandmother’s old quilt. She dreamed of the house—warm, alive. As if Agnes had pulled her close and whispered, “Don’t be afraid. This is where you belong.”
Three weeks in, the relatives arrived: her mother, Aunt Joan, and cousin Jack.
“We’ve been talking,” her mother began, eyeing the porch with distaste. “Since Granny belonged to all of us, the house should be divided.”
“Yeah,” Jack chimed in, scuffing his boot. “Could turn it into a hunting lodge. Already checked prices.”
Emma wiped her hands on her apron and stepped onto the porch.
“Welcome. But there’ll be no lodge. Granny left the house to me. The will’s with the solicitor.”
“Emma, don’t be rash!” Aunt Joan raised her voice. “You’re alone, but Jack’s got a family! He needs it more!”
“If I recall, Jack’s got three loans and child support. His problem. The house is mine. End of story.”
“Look at you!” Her mother bristled. “Living like some swamp witch, turning on your own blood!”
“Turning on me is what you did when you dragged me by the hair for stealing a slice of cake,” Emma said flatly. “Now, if you don’t mind—get off my land.”
They left, stomping loudly. Jack made sure to clip the gate with his bumper on the way out.
That night, as Emma settled into bed, the floorboards creaked. Then again. As if someone walked beneath the house.
She grabbed a torch and crept down. In the pantry, a gap between the floorboards was too wide—light spilled through, glinting off something below. Emma pried up a plank. A box lay there, wrapped in oilcloth.
Inside were letters. Her grandmother’s. Some addressed to her.
*”If you’re reading this, you’ve chosen to stay. I knew you’d return. Your strength is here. Remember: this house holds your roots, your blood, your truth. You’ve the courage to be yourself. Just don’t fear—not the fens, nor people. People are worse.”*
The letters were like a diary. Agnes wrote of dreams, of spirits who visited, of family she tolerated but never loved. And—of a woman named Margaret, with whom she’d lived in the forties. *”We called ourselves sisters. Back then, that’s all we could say.”* Emma’s breath caught. Had her grandmother…?
A week later, a van pulled up: a middle-aged woman with blue hair, a burly man in shorts, and two teens.
“Hi, I’m Claire,” said the blue-haired one. “Restoration specialist. You posted about traditional facade work?”
Emma nodded. She liked them instantly. They camped in the garden, laughing by the fire. One evening, she read Agnes’s letters aloud. The group listened, spellbound.
“You know,” the burly man said, “it’s like she’s speaking through you. Like she’s right here.”
“She is,” Claire murmured. “Mosswood’s different. The veil’s thinner here.”
Next day, Jack returned. Alone. With whisky.
“Need to talk,” he said from the porch.
Emma let him in. He sat by the stove, glanced around, sighed.
“Don’t hold a grudge. Mum pushed me. Honestly? I don’t even want it. Life’s a mess. Wife left. Job’s rubbish. You happy, at least?”
She poured him tea. Jack sipped—then wept.
“I used to come here summers. Granny baked with me. Felt like she hated me. Now… I never even said goodbye.”
Emma handed him Agnes’s album. A photo of Jack, age six, holding bilberries.
“She loved us all. Just differently. But you’ve got to decide—are you my cousin, or a vulture?”
Jack left the whisky behind.
Autumn brought frost. Grass glistened; the fens quieted. The house stood firm. Emma baked pies. Neighbors visited. Strangers came, drawn by her blog: *”Starting Over: Nettles and a Hearth.”* She wrote of the house, the letters, Agnes. One comment read:
*”Hello. I’m Margaret’s granddaughter. May we visit?”*
They came. A woman in her fifties, short-haired, with her daughter. They brought photos: Agnes and Margaret, leaning against this very house. Smiling.
“She spoke of your grandmother often,” the woman said. “Called her her true family. They wanted to leave together, but couldn’t. Lived as they could. At the end, Margaret asked us to find this house. To say—she remembered.”
Emma clutched the letters, lips pressed tight. Then:
“Granny remembered her too.”
Jack called in spring. Offering help.
“I’m a carpenter now. Stayed in Mosswood. Folks respect you here. Don’t leave, yeah?”
“Not leaving, Jack. My roots are here.”
“…Mine too, maybe.”
Emma woke to frogs croaking. Stepped onto the porch. Sun cut through mist. The air was crisp, alive. A cuckoo called. She breathed deep—and for the first time in years, truly *felt* alive.
The old house stood firm. It knew: everything would be all right.
Winter came unexpectedly—snow in late October, early even for Mosswood. Emma watched flakes dust the bathhouse roof, the well, the gate. The air was sharp, mint-cold.
A year ago, moving here would’ve seemed madness. Now, she couldn’t imagine anywhere else.
Inside, the stove hummed. Pumpkin pies scented the air. On the bench slept a white cat—scraggly when he’d wandered in from the fens, now plump, one ear nicked. Her silent guardian.
A knock. Claire stood on the porch, shaking snow off her coat.
“Still magical, I see.”
“In fairy tales, they burn witches,” Emma smirked.
Over tea, Claire opened a folder.
“We researched your house. The foundation stones—they’ve markings. Rare technique. Done only in sacred sites.”
“Sacred?”
“Seriously. Could be an old pagan center. Fen sanctuaries—almost none left. Your grandmother knew.”
Emma recalled a letter: *”The water remembers here. Ask right, and it answers.”*
“You sure you want tourists, yogis, mystics trampling through?”
Claire hesitated. “Thought you’d want to know. You’re… part of this now.”
“I am. But Mosswood shouldn’t be a spectacle. It’s for living. Quietly. With respect.”
Claire nodded. They talked for hours. Promised to meet in spring.
Days later, Jack arrived hauling wood, potatoes, honey.
“Saw the Smiths’ stove—reeking all winter. You need anything?”
“You, Jack. Always skulking outside.”
He peeked in. “Warm in here. Nice.”
They drank tea. Jack stared at Agnes’s photo.
“She’d be proud of you. Ashamed of me. Remember when she yanked my ear for stealing your sweets?”
“She scolded me after,” Emma laughed. “*You should’ve shared—then he wouldn’t sneak.*”
Snow piled high. Emma blogged—winter scenes, memories. A comment appeared:
*”Me and my husband want a fresh start. Tired of the city. Could we camp, help out?”*
Emma replied: *”Come. I’ve a shed. But the work’s real.”*
They came—Liz and Tom.The years passed gently, like the turning of pages in an old book, and Emma found her life woven into the quiet rhythm of Mosswood, where every season brought its own kind of magic, and the house by the fens stood as a testament to the courage it takes to truly come home.
