Agatha stops abruptly at the base of a sweeping staircase, her gaze drifting upward as if she’s witnessing Liliana's fall. “She died right here,” she whispers, her voice tinged with a mix of sorrow and something darker. “Rumor has it that it wasn’t a quick death. They left her there for hours, forbidding the housekeepers to run for help.”
“Well, then,” Jonathan mutters under his breath, clearly not impressed by the story.
“This place has many stories," Agatha says softly, almost to herself. "But Liliana's is one of the most tragic. Betrayed, broken, and left to die in the very home meant to be her sanctuary."
We stand in silence, the weight of her tale pressing down on us. The air feels heavier, and the shadows seem to creep closer, as if the mansion itself mourns the sad fate of Liliana.
“What happened to the husband and mistress?” Marissa asks, her curiosity tinged with morbid fascination. Of courseshewould care about them.
Agatha pauses, turning to face us, her expression grim and unyielding. “Since Liliana had no other living family, Harold became head of the estate, and the mistress stayed on—a wicked woman driven only by greed. She eventually poisoned him,and as he wasted away, she took lover after lover, shamelessly parading them in front of his dying eyes."
We all just kind of stand there, awkwardly glancing at each other. Somewhere a clock ticks.
“Do people see their ghosts?” Tessa asks again, her voice almost desperate to keep the conversation alive.
“Yes, sometimes,” Agatha says, her tone flat. “Liliana, some say, at the bottom of the stairs.” She gestures to a large painting on the wall opposite the staircase. “That’s a portrait of Liliana.”
“She wasn’t very pretty,” Marissa remarks, but her tone is half-hearted, lacking her usual bite.
“It’s a little…morbid, don’t you think?” I ask Agatha. “Like, why keep her portrait facing the exact spot she died? Talk about rubbing salt in the wound.”
Griffin snorts. “Do you want to hold a séance or something, see if the dead chick needs a hug?"
I don’t answer him, I just stare at Liliana’s cobalt-blue eyes.
The portrait is mesmerizing. An early 20th-century oil painting, rendered with a meticulous attention to detail, all dramatic shadows and soft lighting. The artist clearly knew what they were doing because Liliana’s pale, porcelain skin glows with a luminous quality, and those blue eyes—haunting and lifelike—follow me as I move, as if imbued with a soul. It’s difficult to look away.
“This story about Liliana, is it what makes this place so popular around Halloween?” Tessa asks.
“Oh, no,” Agatha replies with a chilling finality. “It’s probably the fact that someone has been murdered in every room of this house.” Then she turns and walks up the staircase, leaving Tessa standing there, slack-jawed and wide-eyed.
Tessa scrambles to catch up, peppering Agatha with more questions as the rest of the group, seemingly bored with the tour already, lags behind.
I stay, admiring the painting, because despite what Marissa says, Liliana was absolutely stunning.
Agatha’s voice drifts back to me, lower now, but still clear, each word heavy with foreboding. “In 1932, there was a triple murder in this particular room and…”
I continue to stare at the painting, my fingertips brushing the rough texture of the canvas. Liliana's expression is heartbreakingly sad, her eyes brimming with sorrow and longing. I wonder if that's how she truly looked or if it was the painter's interpretation.
“I hope his mistress got what she deserved in the end,” I whisper to myself, the words carrying a quiet venom I wish wasn’t so personal.
From another room, a sudden collective gasp cuts through the silence, the sound sharp and filled with alarm. My heart jumps, and I instinctively move to catch up with the group—they must’ve seen something. But before I can take more than a step, a hand yanks me back so hard I nearly fall over. I stumble right into Jonathan, who is unfortunately as solid as ever.
“Why are you here?” he demands, his voice taut, a strange mix of anger and something else I can’t quite place.
“What do you mean?” I reply, confusion tightening my chest.
“I meanwhydid you come here? You know I’m with Marissa, so why are you here?” His tone is accusing, his eyes hard as they bore into mine.
“These are my friends as much as they are your friends. Why wouldn’t I come?” I answer, trying to keep my voice steady, though his hostility catches me off guard.
“Were you even invited on this trip?” His lips press into a thin line, the muscles along his jaw tightening.
His words hit like a slap, leaving me reeling. Was I invited? The question hangs between us, and for a moment, I don’t knowwhat to say. A part of me falters, uncertainty creeping in, but I push it aside.
“You need to let go of me, Tori. This isn’t healthy for you.” His hand tightens on my wrist.
“Let go of you?” I echo, my voice rising as I try to shake off his hold.“You're the one holding on too tight."
