No, it couldn't be him.
Shouldn't he be in a morgue or something?
Morbid curiosity made me tiptoe toward the bed. As soon as I saw his face, I remembered him. The bright covers made his skin look whiter than white. It glowed, pearlescent. Yes, that was the word because the shading reminded me of Mother of Pearl. There was a glow around him with slight shades of purple and teal. I blinked, and the colours vanished.
I leaned down. There was no way he was 84 years old. He still had a head full of hair and a well-trimmed beard. When I met him, I understood the appeal of a silver fox. I reached out to touch his cheek and gasped.
The skin was warm.
His eye twitched, and I let out a scream, backing away. I stumbled on the rug.
I sat on the floor. There was no way I would be spending the night with a corpse in the room. Billions of pounds couldn't convince me.
???
I watched them remove the body. All the staff had similar pale skin and little emotion on their faces. Owen was the only person who had a healthy glow to his skin. He smiled at me and winked before he closed the door behind him.
Mrs Denby would send a maid to change the bed sheets, but it wouldn't change the fact that I would be sleeping in the bed that someone had died in.
Wonderful.
I sighed before opening up the wardrobe. It was full of Sir Dacre’s suits. Everything was pristine and lined up perfectly. I knew very little about the man who left me his legacy. There was a wooden box at the bottom of the wardrobe. I crouched down and pulled it out, unhooking the brass latch.
There were no treasures inside it.
Only a shrivelled-up dead crow, ashes and a partially burned piece of paper. I pulled it out to see hieroglyphics on it. The scent of Jasmin and burnt ashes filled the wardrobe. I closed the box and pushed it back into the corner, clutching the paper tightly.
Whatever happened in this mansion was unnatural, just like Sir Conrad Dacre’s corpse.
Chapter 2
Holly
The clock ticked loudly in the enormous empty dining room. Dinner, for one, had never been more lonely or depressing. I wondered if Sir Dacre had dined in a similar manner. The head of the stag stared at me. The black glass eyes seemed to be accusatory. Unable to stomach the tender veal, I pushed the plate away and lifted my glass of red wine, draining it to take the edge off my nerves.
“Was the food not to your liking?” Mrs Denby asked sternly.
I jumped at her voice.
“No, it was lovely,” I said quickly, assuring her, but I raised my arms around the room. “I’m a little unsettled by all of this. I live in a cosy one-bedroom apartment.”
She nodded but didn't speak. Her shoes clicked on the wooden floor as she walked towards the table to take my plate. As soon as she left, I poured another glass of wine, grateful she hadn’t taken it.
I needed it to spend my night in the death room.
???
I lay in the middle of the bed, staring at the carved wooden canopy. There was no way that I would be switching the lamp off tonight. The wine helped me relax enough to doze off, and my fingers slowly loosened their grip on the covers. I shut out the soft creaking noises, putting it down to the many staff and old house.
Blood.
There was blood everywhere. It was slippery and warm, coating my hands. I glanced down and saw the large incision on Owen’s neck—a perfectly straight line. The dark wooden floor was swallowing up the pooling blood. I dropped the knife when I saw his parted lips and open eyes.
Whispers came from every corner of the dark room. An ancient language that I didn't understand. They consumed me. I dipped my finger into his blood and began to paint the floor in symbols. I picked up the knife and placed the tip below the ribcage, pushing down before slicing through the flesh and tissue. The whispers grew louder, and I dropped the knife to stick my hands inside his abdomen.
I woke up screaming, wiping my hands on the sheets, but the stains wouldn’t come out. Not until I blinked. Then they were gone. Sweat made my T-shirt stick to my body.
Across the room, the wardrobe door stood ajar.
