Shrouded in lengthening shadows remain the hallowed halls of Chatsworth Manor, once home to a certain Duke of Wiltshire, and as whispers now tell, to no one in particular. Yet, blindness befalls the masses when they mistakenly strain to detect new inconsistencies, when of which there exist none, on an unchanging visage. Only the initiated can perceive in immutability itself signs of crumbling.

The tunnels no one knew about. Buried deep underground, Eleanor Clarke had only to descend into the manor’s cavernous depths to elude Eckleberg’s watchful eye, to uphold the secret of her master’s beating heart. By night, the tunnels would disguise her tracks outward-bound, and by day the manor’s shades muddled the sunlight’s curiosity. The occasional mouse spotted her movements, yet even his belief in her existence amounted to barely more than an ephemeral wisp.

However, onlookers persisted in their scrutiny, for the manor continued to speak. Quite literally, on some nights, it did. Even from the gatehouse, marking the furthest outreaches of the grounds, commoners have told of hearing a muffled cackle; a low, sinister growl that, they say, could only have been released by the mouth of a man.

Eleanor sat in front of the television in the maid’s quarters, sewing as the commercials droned on monotonously. Somewhere deep inside the house, the master must be watching too, she thought. Three releases were scheduled for evening-fall. The time can’t be much more than a few seconds away.

Right on cue, the preview lit up the screen. Aston Martins, tuxedos, objectified women, a sliver of a smile and a few silver digits accosted Eleanor where she lay. “Now showing in the UK, in theatres elsewhere by week’s end…”

Cued by the preview’s final curtain call, the low, primordial drone Eleanor had anticipated filled the hallways. It began as one deep-throated, guttural bass, building violently and forcefully. Then, losing its wholesomeness, the sound began to scatter. Her master’s deranged cackle tormented even the mansion’s furthest reaches, prodded on by an insatiable thirst for Yankee blood: “Quuuuaaaaakerrr Peasssantsss,” he hissed between breaths, “Bond spits on you now, as he is solely ours until week’s endddd.” She pictured him now, cradled by his leather throne beside his study’s roaring hearth, likely choking on brandy. His great stomach heaved upwards; a wonder that it hadn’t yet burst. She could see the globules of sweat emerging from the moon-pitted rolls just below his chin, dampening the neckline of his smoking jacket. His beady, malicious eyes – the eyes of a satanic henchman – grew ever smaller, a reflective home for the flames of the hearth’s inferno.

Nestled safely away across the house, Eleanor was nonetheless there in front of her master, anxiously watching him gasp for air. The laugh persisted as the night did, fading at times only to rise again with renewed vigor. The dark deed isn’t hers to perform, Eleanor told herself reluctantly… he would do it for himself

Daylight’s passersby witness the Manor’s apparent idleness and ponder on its rumored vacancy. Nightwalkers who have taken the time not to watch, but listen, know much better. The sinister laugh, echoing through the hallowed halls of Chatsworth Manor, to this day hasn’t stopped. Doubtless that it ever will.