Finch's gaze remained unreadable, fixed on her with unsettling intensity. He gave a slow, deliberate nod. He turned to leave, his movement silent as always.
Just as he reached the doorway, Julia's mind, still reeling from Lady Kingswell's acidic comments, seized on a new piece of information. "Mr. Finch," she said, her voice interrupting his silent departure.
He stopped, turning back slowly, his expression expectant.
"Lady Kingswell mentioned… Lord Alistair's first wife," Julia continued, watching him closely. "She said she died in an accident. I… I didn't know he was married before Marian." It felt strange to learn such a significant detail from a gossipy neighbor, rather than from Alistair himself.
Finch's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. The carefully constructed mask of impassivity seemed to crack for a fleeting second, revealing something sharper, colder beneath. His gaze flickered, just for a moment, towards the East Wing, then back to Julia.
"Lord Alistair's personal history is not a matter for public discussion, Miss Harrow," Finch stated, his voice flat and unyielding. "And certainly not a matter for guests to inquire about." He paused, his gaze holding hers with a chilling firmness. "I suggest you confine your curiosity to the tasks Lord Alistair assigned you. Mind your own business."
The dismissal was cold, absolute. He offered no confirmation, no denial, only a stark, personal warning. He turned and exited the room, closing the door softly behind him.
Julia was left alone once more, the silence of the room pressing in. Mind your own business. Finch's words echoed in the air, laden with unspoken threats. The wilting crimson rose lay on her pillow, a silent, disturbing question mark. Alistair had been married before. His first wife had died in an accident. Another tragedy linked to Blackwood Hall. Another layer added to the growing unease.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of restless solitude. Julia tried to read, to distract herself, but the words blurred on the page. The image of the black rose, the missing hair and note, the scrubbing of the footprints – it all haunted her thoughts. She felt confined, watched, trapped within the walls of her room, yet acutely aware of the unseen currents that flowed through the house.
Dinner was brought to her room by Elsie, who remained timid and spoke only in hushed tones, her eyes darting nervously whenever a floorboard creaked outside the door. The food tasted bland, unsatisfying. Julia ate little, her stomach a knot of anxiety.
Night fell, painting the world outside her windows in hues of inky blackness. The air grew colder, the silence deeper. The oppressive atmosphere of Blackwood Hall at night began to seep into her room, raising the fine hairs on her arms. She couldn't shake the feeling of being observed, a constant, prickling sensation on the back of her neck.
She lay in bed, listening to the sounds of the old house – the distant groans, the whispers of the wind, the occasional sharp crack of settling timber. Her headache was a dull throb, a familiar companion in this place. Sleep remained elusive, her mind too active, too terrified.
Just as her eyelids began to feel heavy, a sound shattered the oppressive quiet. A woman's scream. Raw, chilling, filled with pure agony.
Julia's eyes snapped open. The scream seemed to pierce the thick walls of the house, echoing in her ears as if it were happening right outside her window, and yet, impossibly, far away. It was a sound of abject terror, a sound that scraped against the very core of her being.
She scrambled out of bed, her heart hammering against her ribs, her body trembling uncontrollably. The sound had come from outside. From the gardens below.
She fumbled for her shawl, wrapping it around herself, ignoring the fresh ache in her bandaged hand. She rushed to the windows, pulling back the heavy curtains, pressing her face against the cold glass.
Outside, the gardens were shrouded in absolute darkness. The faint moonlight was obscured by thick clouds, leaving the world below in impenetrable shadow. She could see nothing. Only the blacker shapes of trees and shrubs against the slightly less black ground.
But then, her gaze fell upon the fountain, a shadowy structure in the center of the garden. It should have been still, silent. Yet, something was happening there. A churning motion. And what appeared to be bubbling was not water.
It was something dark. Something thick and viscous, bubbling and swirling in the moonlight-less darkness. It looked wrong. Utterly, horribly wrong. Too dense for water. Too… alive.
Another sound reached her then, not a scream, but a low, mournful moan, seeming to emanate from the vicinity of the fountain. It was a sound filled with sorrow and despair.
Julia gasped, pressing her hand against the cold glass, her breath fogging the pane. What was happening down there? Was someone hurt? Was someone… drowning in that dark, unnatural liquid?
She strained her eyes, trying to pierce the oppressive darkness, desperate to see. But the shadows were impenetrable.
Suddenly, a soft creak sounded behind her. Julia froze, every muscle tensing. The door to her room, which she was certain she had closed, was slowly swinging open.
She spun around, her eyes wide with terror, expecting to see someone standing there. But the doorway was empty. Only the deeper blackness of the hallway stared back at her. No one was there. The door was opening on its own.
A gust of cold air, carrying the faint, sickly sweet scent of Marian's perfume, drifted into the room. It pushed the door wider, a silent, chilling invitation. The sound of the mournful moaning from the garden seemed to intensify, drawn in by the open doorway.
Julia stood frozen, caught between the terrifying spectacle outside her window and the inexplicable, chilling phenomenon in her room. The house was not just playing tricks. It was actively participating.
She stumbled back from the doorway, pulling the curtains shut with trembling hands, blocking out the disturbing sight in the garden. She leaned against the cold wall, her heart hammering against her ribs, gasping for air.
She couldn't stay awake. Exhaustion, compounded by terror and the lingering effects of the tea Finch had given her, pulled at her. She stumbled back to her bed, her body trembling. She sank onto the mattress, pulling the covers around her like a shield, seeking refuge in the oblivion of sleep.
But sleep offered no peace. It plunged her into a deeper, darker nightmare.
She was in the Lady's Garden. The air was cold, damp, filled with the heavy scent of wet earth and decaying leaves. The moonlight was thin, casting long, eerie shadows. She saw the fountain, its dark contents swirling silently.
Marian was there. Standing near the fountain, her face pale and gaunt, her eyes wide with a familiar terror. Her dark hair clung to her face, damp. Her mouth was open in a silent, agonizing scream, just as she had seen in the mirror.
Marian didn't speak. She simply pointed. Her trembling hand, thin and spectral, pointed towards something hidden in the shadows near the edge of the garden.
Julia followed her gaze. There, almost hidden by thick, overgrown ivy, stood a statue. A weeping angel, its head bowed, its stone wings draped around its form. But it wasn't just stone. A dark, viscous liquid seemed to be weeping from its eyes, staining its stone robes. It was the same dark substance bubbling in the fountain. And covering the base of the statue, staining the ivy, was a horrifying smear of crimson. Blood.
Pure terror seized Julia. She had to get away. She turned to run, her legs heavy, slow, as if moving through thick mud. But before she could take more than a step, cold, gloved hands clamped down on her arms, grabbing her with immense force.
She cried out, a choked scream that was silent in the dream. She struggled against the powerful grip, twisting, trying to see who held her. The hands were cold, stiff, like those of a corpse. Dead hands, her mind shrieked.
She managed to twist her head, catching a glimpse of a dark silhouette behind her. Tall, gaunt. A familiar figure, terrifyingly rendered in the nightmare. It looked like Finch. His face was hidden in shadow, but the shape, the aura of cold, unyielding presence…
The grip tightened, squeezing the breath from her lungs. She fought, desperate to see his face, to understand who held her, who was responsible for this horror. But the darkness pressed in, the cold hands held firm, and Marian's silent scream echoed in the haunted garden.
Julia woke with a gasp, her body trembling, her hand flying to her throat. The nightmare clung to her, the feeling of the cold, gloved hands a lingering horror. Her room was dark, silent. But the dream's impact was visceral. The weeping angel, the blood-stained ivy, the dark, bubbling fountain – it all felt terrifyingly real.