My boots crunched over the damp gravel of the courtyard, and I hurried toward the dark outline of the manor. The grand house stood before me, tall and solemn, its silhouette blending into the night, candlelight flickering in some windows.
Someone was there. Waiting.
My shoes clicked over the stone steps, and I reached the front door. It was made of massive oak, carved with sigils long worn by time, the iron knocker shaped like the face of some forgotten beast. I hesitated, my fingers grazing the chilled metal. But before I could move—
The door opened.
Not with a gust of wind nor with the creak of some hidden servant’s hand.
It opened on its own.
Ghostly fingers trailed along the back of my neck, making my pulse beat madly. I looked over my shoulderbefore stepping over the threshold. Dark silhouettes watched from the mist, silent as gravestones. They faded, swallowed whole by the fog. Whatever awaited me inside, it was a better option than the cold menace those figures emanated.
“Get in, collect anything you can, and get out. Easy, Daphne,” I muttered and slipped inside.
A grand entry hall stretched before me, bathed in the flickering glow of candlelight. The first step I took felt like crossing into another world.
The door slid shut behind me, sealing me inside like the stone over a tomb.
Silence.
Not the empty silence of abandonment but something thicker. Silence that listened.
Smelling old books, dried roses, and a faint trace of incense lingered in the air—ghosts of a life once lived within these walls. I inhaled slowly, my muscles relaxing with the pleasant warmth inside.
No monster dug its claws into my body. No phantoms dragged my soul to hell. Actually, it looked like a nice upgrade compared to St. Dismas.
An unseen clock ticked in the depths, each slow tock carving through the hush like the beat of a heart.
The walls were high, lined with dark wooden paneling, their polished surfaces catching the candlelight. Countless portraits watched me. Twin staircases curved upward into the manor’s spine, their balustrades lined with wrought iron filigree, twining like the veins of something still breathing.
A faint shiver trailed down my spine.
It should have been cold. It should have felt lifeless. Abandoned.
But this place was anything but dead. It thrummed against my skin as if it was breathing. Waiting. Assessing me.
A fireplace glowed at the far end of the hall, its amber light casting shifting patterns over the faded rug and the black marble floor. A silver tray rested on a nearby sideboard, holding a crystal decanter, half-full of deep red liquid, two glasses set beside it—waiting, as if expecting company.
No servants stepped forward to greet me. No voices murmured from unseen rooms.
Yet I was not alone.
Then, from somewhere deep within the house, a sound. A violin. The melody, gentle and somewhat familiar, swelled through the empty rooms.
The monster played the violin? I took a cautious step forward and listened. The music was coming from the darkness beyond the curved staircase.
So, he was upstairs, I thought, stepping forward. Good. If he was upstairs and busy playing, that gave me an opportunity. What if I got into his study and find something—anything—and leave before getting caught? It was a desperate plan, but worth trying. Fortune favors the brave.
I took my shoes off and headed to the gallery between the stairs, darker than the entry. The cold, polished marble floor bit my bare feet, but I was pleased with my progress. Wax candles cast eerie shadows over the bleached silk wallpapers, and the darkness in the corners stirred, as if moving closer to see me. The scent of old books got more intense when I peeked through a gaping door. A library! Despite all odds stackedagainst me, fate was finally smiling at me. I stepped into the room and looked around, holding my breath. The golden letters on countless book spines reflected the warm light. My feet sunk into a soft Persian rug, and the scent of aged parchment, ink, and something metallic tickled my nose. Cool air rushed in through a cracked window, the night breeze filling the white curtains like the sails of a ghost ship. And before the window–a desk. My heart hammered against the ribcage when I snuck closer to inspect the piles of paper. A loose sheet quivered beneath a heavy candlestick, the wind lifting it just enough to tease movement before settling again. The library was empty but soaked with a presence. Hints of secrets and shadows, a distant whiff of black sage, bourbon, and smoke lingered over the leather chair. The melancholic melody still spilled into the sleepy manor, and I let out a quiet breath. As long as I was hearing this haunting music, I was safe.
“You got this, Daphne,” I whispered, pressing a hand to my heart to steady myself. What if I find something of value? I could just hide somewhere until dawn and then run. Vexley’s men would find me, and I’d get my prize. “Now, let’s see what we have here.” I grabbed a pile of papers. The first one was a sketch. A wide river with palm trees bending over the water and the silhouettes of the Egyptian pyramids in the background. So, the monster was an artist? Next was a letter—an elegant handwriting in Portuguese, I believed. The signature line was in English, and I narrowed my eyes, forcing the letters and syllables to stop their dance before my eyes.
I hope you’ll change your mind, Emrys.
Yours,
Camille
