Lucy had staged everything. From the moment she left the library last night, she had been a woman possessed. She knew Judith’s type all too well, so it was easy to plan the best way to get rid of her. Judith was the kind of woman who used fear to control. She appeared to be a decent person, nice to everyone, but now, Lucy had come to see that Judith was merely like that to people who mattered. People who helped her overall objective. People like Brook did not matter to her.
However, rumor had it that Judith had always been terrified of what she couldn't explain. She was superstitious, and she took her fear quite seriously.
So, Lucy had spent the morning whispering to the boys, hiding threads, and loosening the hinges on the heavy oak doors. She had even told Aunt Selina to delay their travel till later in the day, just so she could execute her plan.
Judith turned to Lucy then with a smug smile. “I must confess, I am quite admired for securing him so swiftly. The Ton so enjoys a well-executed match.” She gestured vaguely toward the room, the estate, the life already claimed in her mind.
“I leave today,” Lucy repeated, her voice dropping to a low, uneasy tremor as she put her plan in motion. “I have been feeling increasingly uncomfortable in this house, Lady Judith. To be quite honest, I cannot wait to leave.”
Judith arched a perfectly groomed brow, a flicker of amusement crossing her face. “Uncomfortable? I find that hard to believe. The Langridge estate is one of the most prestigious estates in the country. The architecture alone is worth a fortune.”
“Oh, it is beautiful,” Lucy agreed quickly, casting a nervous, darting glance toward the shadowed corners of the ceiling. “Breathtaking, really. But there is a heaviness here. I didn’t want to say anything to the Duke, for I wouldn’t dream of discouraging him or ruining his happiness, but the nights have been… strange. I’ve felt a peculiar chill that no hearth fire seems to touch.”
She took a small, hesitant step closer to Judith, as if seeking safety. “There are rumors among the local villagers, though I’m sure they are merely tall tales. They speak of a restless spirit,a previous mistress of the house who wasn’t ready to let go of her keys. They say she wanders the halls when she senses the foundations of the family are shifting. I am not a superstitious person, but I have seen things.”
Judith gave a sharp, brittle laugh, though she shifted her weight uncomfortably. “Ghost stories, Miss Crampton? I took you for a woman of sense. Surely you don’t believe in phantoms and nursery tales.”
“Oh well,” Lucy whispered, her eyes widening as she stared at a spot just behind Judith’s shoulder, “I truly didn’t. But then I began to hear it—the sound of footsteps in the walls, and the temperature drops so sharply you can see your own breath in the library. I’ve woken up to find my jewelry moved across the room or the doors bolted from the inside when I know I left them open. It’s as if the house itself is watching, waiting to see who is worthy of entering its doors.”
She paused, letting the silence of the room feel heavy and suffocating. “I don’t mean to alarm you, of course. A woman of your fortitude will surely have no trouble with it. It’s just… I find myself looking over my shoulder at every turn. I shall be glad to be back in the city where the only thing haunting the halls is the postman.”
Judith opened her mouth to offer another biting retort, but she stopped. Her gaze flickered involuntarily to the heavy oak door, which sat perfectly still in its frame. For the first time, the predatory confidence in her eyes was replaced by a sliver of genuine, cold uncertainty.
“It is likely just the settling of the foundations,” Lucy added. “A house this old has a way of sighing, though I must admit, it’s a very loud sigh for a pile of stone.”
Judith’s eyes were darting now, no longer focused on the tapestries or the potential for new curtains. “I’m sure that's all it is. Simply the?—”
The silence of the drawing room was suddenly punctuated by a sharp, melodic ring, like the sound of crystal singing against wood. On the mahogany sideboard, a heavy water goblet didn’t merely tip, it skated across the polished surface with a rhythmic, stuttering friction.
Judith’s breath hitched in her throat. She watched, paralyzed, as the glass reached the beveled edge of the table. It hovered for a fraction of a second, defying gravity, before it plunged to the floor. It didn’t just break. It seemed to explode, sending jagged shards of crystal skittering across the dark wood like ice across a frozen pond.
Judith let out a strangled, breathless sound, her hands flying to her chest as she recoiled. “What was that? No one was near it! Miss Crampton, that glass... it moved!”
Lucy didn’t jump. She didn’t even flinch. Instead, she stood perfectly still, her gaze fixed on the glittering mess with a look of weary, tragic recognition.
“Oh dear,” Lucy whispered. She stepped closer to Judith, offering a hand that she had purposely kept tucked in her pocketto ensure it was chilled. She placed it on Judith’s trembling arm. “They don’t like it when we talk about them. But stay calm, My Lady. Please, do not show your fear. I’ve found that the house… it feeds on the agitation of its guests.”
“Feeds on it?” Judith’s voice rose an octave, her eyes darting frantically toward the empty sideboard. “The glass flew off the table! There is no draft; the floor is perfectly level. How can you stand there so calmly?”
“I have had weeks to grow accustomed to it,” Lucy said, like someone sharing a secret in a graveyard. She began to lead Judith away from the shards, her eyes scanning the empty air with a look of profound trepidation. “It started with small things—lilies wilting in seconds or the scent of a perfume no one wears—but as the proposal drew closer, the house grew louder. I’m sure it’s nothing more than a manifestation of the estate’s memory. As long as your intentions are pure, I’m sure you have nothing to fear. They say the spirits here only lash out at those who hide a cruel heart.”
Judith’s face drained of color, turning a sickly, translucent shade of white. She was a woman who prided herself on being in control of the physical world, but superstition was a rot she could not argue with. She looked at the empty space where the glass had been, her chest heaving. “I... I think I should like some air. Where is the Duke? Why has the temperature dropped so sharply?”
“I'll go find him,” Lucy said, though she remained rooted to the spot, her head tilting as if she were catching a distant sound. “But wait... do you hear that?”
From deep within the heavy oak paneling of the walls, a rhythmic, muffled thud began to resonate, the sound of heavy, booted footsteps marching slowly, deliberately, toward them from a place where no person could possibly be standing.
The heavy thudding in the walls grew louder, a slow and rhythmic vibration that Lucy was sure Judith felt it in the very soles of her boots. She backed away from the sound, her eyes wide and darting, until she brushed against a heavy, floor-length velvet curtain.
Suddenly, the massive brass chandelier overhead began to groan. It didn’t just sway. It started to rotate slowly, the chain twisting with a metallic, agonizing screech that set Lucy’s teeth on edge. The candles, though unlit, began to topple from their sockets one by one, falling like white stones onto the rug below.
“Make it stop!” Judith shrieked, her composure shattering like the crystal goblet. She reached out to grab a heavy silver bell from the tea table to summon a servant, but as her fingers closed around the handle, the bell didn't ring. Instead, it was yanked from her grip by an invisible force, sliding violently across the silk tablecloth until it clattered off the far edge.
“It knows,” Lucy whispered, her voice a ghostly, terrifying calm amidst the chaos. “It knows you aren’t one of us, Judith.”
Judith let out a choked sob, spinning around to flee toward the main doors, but she stopped dead.
The sound of a heavy stone mechanism grinding behind the wallpaper filled the room. A section of the wood-paneled wall that was supposed to be solid swung outward with a low, haunting creak. A gust of stale, tomb-cold air rushed into the drawing room, extinguishing the few lamps that were lit and plunging the space into a grey, suffocating twilight.
