Julia took a tentative step into the gloom, her heart pounding with a mixture of fear and morbid curiosity. The air in Marian's room was thick, still, and cold, bearing the weight of time and disuse. The overpowering scent of Marian's signature perfume, now sickly sweet with decay, clung to everything, an invisible shroud.
Her eyes, slowly adjusting to the profound darkness, began to discern shapes beneath dusty white sheets. What looked like a bed, a dressing table, a wardrobe – all shrouded, like sleeping giants entombed in their own dust. The only light came from the grimy window, a faint, watery moonlight struggling to pierce the layers of neglect.
She moved further in, her footsteps muffled by the thick layer of dust on the floor. Each breath was shallow, tasting of stale air and forgotten memories. A chill, more profound than the cold, seemed to seep into her bones. This was Marian's sanctuary, her last refuge from whatever terror had consumed her.
She found herself drawn towards a shape in the corner, larger than the others, covered by an exceptionally thick and grimy sheet. She hesitated, her hand, where the bandage now felt tight and restrictive, trembling slightly. With a deep breath, she reached out and slowly pulled back the sheet.
Beneath it, a mirror. Not a grand, ornate one like the one in Marian's study downstairs, but a tall, cheval glass. And it was shattered. Not just a crack, but splintered into a spiderweb of jagged lines, reflecting the sliver of moonlight in a thousand broken facets. It lay angled on its side, as if it had fallen or been thrown.
Julia stared at it, a cold dread settling in her stomach. Another shattered mirror. A direct link to her nightmare, to Marian's appearance, to the cut on her hand. It seemed Blackwood Hall collected broken reflections, shards of lost lives.
She turned, her gaze sweeping across the room. On what must have been the vanity table, also shrouded in dust, lay several unsettling items. She pulled back the sheet there too, revealing a surface caked with fine grey powder.
A lock of dark hair lay curled on the dusty wood, tied with a faded red ribbon. It was Marian's hair, unmistakably so, the same rich, dark brown that Julia remembered. Next to it, a half-burned candle, its wax melted into a grotesque, weeping shape, as if it had been extinguished abruptly in the midst of a frantic moment. The wick was charred, frozen in a silent last gasp.
Beside the candle, a journal. Its leather cover was cracked and brittle, but the pages within were exposed. Julia reached for it, her fingers gingerly tracing the spine. As she opened it, a wave of despair washed over her. Page after page was ripped out, leaving only jagged edges and a few scattered, unintelligible words. It was as if someone had systematically destroyed its contents, leaving behind only a hollow shell.
Julia's heart hammered. The journal. Marian's thoughts, her experiences. They had been erased. She picked up the lock of hair, the red ribbon a startling dash of color against the dust. It felt impossibly light, a fragile relic of a life cut short.
She moved towards the bed, a large, four-poster affair draped in a heavy, stained sheet. She peeled back a corner of the sheet, revealing a rumpled bed beneath. And then she saw it. A nightgown, Marian's nightgown, torn and crumpled, lay on the bed.
One of its long, silk sleeves was soaked in an old, dark, brown stain. It was crusted and dry, but its color, its texture, left no doubt in Julia's mind. It looked like blood. Old, dried blood.
A cold, visceral wave of horror washed over Julia. This wasn't just a fever. This wasn't just delirium. Marian had been hurt. Violently. The stain on the nightgown was a silent scream, a chilling testament to a struggle. Alistair's calm explanations about her cousin's illness suddenly felt like a cruel mockery.
She stumbled back, her hand flying to her mouth, stifling a gasp. The air, already stale, now felt suffocating, heavy with unspoken tragedy. The clues were piling up, each one more damning than the last. The crossed-out portrait, the paintbrush that smelled of blood, Callum's fear, the East Wing's locked doors, and now this – this room, a museum of Marian's last moments.
She felt a sudden, desperate need for answers. Her gaze fell on the dressing table again, on a small, locked drawer. With trembling fingers, she tried to pry it open. It was stuck. Frustration mixed with her fear. She still had the letter opener in her pocket.
She retrieved it, the cool metal a small comfort against her skin. She inserted the tip into the narrow gap of the drawer and gently, but firmly, pried. The old wood groaned, then gave way with a soft click.
Inside, nestled amongst a few trinkets and a dried, pressed flower, was a single, yellowed envelope. It was addressed simply: "J – in case I'm gone too long."
Julia's breath hitched. J. Julia. This was meant for her. Marian had left something for her, a message. A desperate attempt to reach out beyond the grave. Her hands trembled so violently she almost dropped it.
She tore it open. Inside, a single sheet of paper, folded hastily. The handwriting was Marian's, but it was shaky, spidery, as if written in great haste or fear. Julia's eyes scanned the words, her heart pounding against her ribs like a trapped bird.
The note was agonizingly brief. He isn't who you think. If he touches you…
And then it stopped. Abruptly. The sentence unfinished, cut off as if Marian had been interrupted, dragged away, or simply run out of time.
"He isn't who you think. If he touches you…" The words echoed in Julia's mind, chilling her to the bone. He. Alistair. It had to be him. And the warning about his touch… just hours ago, he had been so close, tending to her hand, his fingers brushing hers, his powerful presence enveloping her. Don't trust the dead man's hands. The pieces clicked into place, forming a terrifying mosaic.
Julia felt a cold breath on the back of her neck. It was a distinct sensation, not just a draft. A sudden chill, like an unseen presence. Her blood ran cold. She whirled around, her eyes wide, searching the oppressive darkness behind her.
Nothing. Only the familiar gloom of the room, the shadowy shapes of shrouded furniture. The air was still, heavy.
She turned back to the note, her mind reeling. And that's when she saw it. The shattered mirror, lying on the floor beneath its dusty sheet, began to flicker. The shards of glass seemed to shimmer, reflecting an unnatural light.
Then, in the fractured surface, Marian appeared.
This time, it was different. More vivid, more desperate. Her cousin's face, pale and gaunt, was distorted by the broken glass, but the terror in her eyes was undeniable. Her dark hair clung to her face, damp, just as it had been in Julia's dream. But this time, Marian's mouth was open, stretched in a silent, horrifying scream. Her lips were pulled back, her throat taut with effort, but no sound escaped. Only the agonizing, voiceless agony of her expression.
Julia stumbled backward, a strangled cry tearing from her throat. The terrifying vision, the unbearable silence of Marian's scream, sent a jolt of pure panic through her. Her foot caught on something beneath the dust sheet. She lost her balance, pitching forward.
Her bandaged hand, already raw, slammed down onto the jagged edge of the shattered mirror's frame. A searing pain shot through her palm. She cried out, a sharp, breathless sound.
She looked down. Fresh blood, dark and viscous, welled up from a new gash, right beside the old one. It pulsed, a stark, horrifying red against the sterile white of the bandage.
Just as the realization of her fresh injury dawned, a deafening crash echoed through the room. The heavy, ornate door to Marian's chamber, which Julia had just pried open with such difficulty, slammed shut with a resounding, final bang that shook the very floorboards.
Julia was trapped. Again. But this time, she was not just trapped in the wing. She was trapped in Marian's room. With the ghost of her cousin screaming silently from a broken mirror, and a fresh wound bleeding from her hand. The darkness pressed in, suffocating.