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, save for the frantic hammering of her heart against her ribs.
The dream's impact was visceral. The weeping angel, the blood-stained ivy, the dark, bubbling fountain – it all felt terrifyingly real. It wasn't just a dream. It was a message. A warning. From Marian.
She pushed herself upright, swinging her legs off the bed, ignoring the dull ache in her bandaged hand. The air was cold, still thick with the faint, unsettling scent of decay and Marian's perfume. Her body felt heavy, exhausted, as if she had run miles in her sleep.
She rubbed at her eyes, trying to clear the lingering images of the nightmare. As her fingers brushed against her face, she felt something rough, abrasive. She looked down at her hands. Beneath her fingernails, ingrained in the skin, was dirt. Damp, dark earth.
A fresh wave of dread washed over her. How was this possible? She hadn't left her room last night. She had fallen asleep right here, in her bed. Yet, there was dirt under her nails. And on her hands.
She pulled back the covers, examining her arms in the dim light. More scratches. Thin, red lines crisscrossing her forearms, like the abrasions from thorns or sharp claws. She hadn't noticed them last night. And then she felt it. A stinging sensation on her neck. Reaching up, her fingers found another scratch, a thin, angry line just beneath her jawline.
Impossible. Utterly impossible. She was in her room all night. Locked in, wasn't she? Or had the door merely closed on its own, leaving her to be terrorized by something that could not be explained? The physical evidence contradicted everything she knew. It felt like she had been in the garden, in that horrifying nightmare, and brought pieces of it back with her.
A soft rap sounded on her door, followed almost immediately by the creak of hinges. Finch entered, silent as always, a breakfast tray balanced in his steady hands. His gaunt face was impassive, his dark eyes sweeping the room, taking in the disheveled bed, Julia's pale face, the bandaged hand.
He set the tray on the bedside table. The familiar scent of strong tea and toast filled the air, a jarring normality against the backdrop of her terror. Julia watched him, her mind racing. He was here every morning. Tending to the house. To the gardens.
Her gaze fell to his hands. They were gloved, as always. But on the back of his right glove, near the knuckles, was a faint smudge. A stain of dark earth. Garden dirt.
Her breath hitched. A cold suspicion, sharp and sudden, pierced through her fear. The gloves. The garden. The nightmare. The gloved hands that had held her down.
Finch turned, his gaze meeting hers. For a fleeting second, a subtle change flickered in his dark eyes. A tightening, a hardening, accompanied by something else… fear? Guilt? It vanished as quickly as it appeared, replaced by his usual mask of stoicism. But he had noticed. He had seen the scratches on her arms, on her neck. She was certain of it.
"Good morning, Miss Harrow," Finch said, his voice a low drone. He poured her tea, his movements precise, unhurried.
Julia forced herself to breathe, to keep her voice steady. "Good morning, Mr. Finch," she replied, watching him intently. She gestured vaguely towards the window. "Have you… have you been in the garden this morning?"
Finch paused, the teapot suspended over the cup. His gaze held hers, unwavering. A slow, chilling smile spread across his thin lips. It didn't reach his eyes.
"I tend the garden daily, Miss Harrow," he stated, his voice quiet, yet carrying an unsettling resonance. "As I have for years. It requires constant attention."
"Even… even the Lady's Garden?" Julia pressed, her voice barely a whisper, the name feeling heavy on her tongue. The garden from her nightmare. The one Elsie had spoken of in hushed tones.
Finch's smile widened, a terrifying, humorless expression that sent a shiver down Julia's spine. "Especially that one, Miss Harrow," he replied, his voice chillingly calm. "That one requires the most… delicate care of all."
He finished pouring the tea, placing the cup on the tray. He lingered for a moment, his gaze dropping to her exposed arm, then to her neck. He saw the scratches. She knew he did. But he made no comment, no inquiry. His silence was more terrifying than any question could have been.
"Your breakfast, Miss Harrow," he said, his voice returning to its usual flat tone. He turned to leave, his silent departure just as unsettling as his presence had been.
"Mr. Finch," Julia stopped him again. He paused at the doorway, turning back with that unnerving patience. "The scratches on my arms… and my neck… I don't know how they got there."
Finch's dark eyes fixed on her. His expression remained impassive, yet the air around him seemed to grow colder. "Blackwood Hall is an old house, Miss Harrow," he stated, his voice flat. "It has many sharp edges. Perhaps… you brushed against something in the night."
His dismissal was absolute. He offered no sympathy, only a chilling, implausible explanation. He knew. He knew she hadn't just brushed against something. And the dirt on his gloves… it couldn't be a coincidence.
He exited the room, closing the door softly behind him. Julia was left alone with her breakfast, the scent of tea mingling with the faint, lingering odor of decay, and the chilling certainty that Finch, the stoic butler, was deeply involved in the dark secrets of Blackwood Hall. He tended the Lady's Garden. He had dirt on his gloves. He saw her injuries. And his smile… it was a chilling promise of something terrible.
Later that day, confined to her room by Alistair's orders, Julia found herself increasingly restless. The puzzle pieces were scattered, tantalizingly close, yet impossible to assemble. The murdered portrait, the shattered mirror, the bloodstained nightgown, the incomplete journal, Marian's notes, Callum's carved bird, the black rose, the phantom footprints, the terrifying nightmare, the scratches, Finch's chilling smile, and the unexplained death of Alistair's first wife – it was an overwhelming tide of mystery and horror.
She needed more information. The journal was destroyed, but what about other letters? Had Marian corresponded with anyone else about her fears, her suspicions? She remembered the letters Alistair had asked her to catalogue, the ones Marian had begun.
Despite Alistair's orders, despite the risk of Finch's surveillance, Julia knew she had to get back into Marian's study. There had to be more there, something Marian had left behind. Waiting until she was reasonably sure no one was nearby, she slipped out of her room, her heart pounding, her bandaged hand throbbing.
She made her way cautiously through the quiet corridors, listening intently for any sound, any sign of movement. The house seemed to hold its breath, waiting. She reached the study, the door thankfully unlocked, and slipped inside, closing it softly behind her.
The room felt just as it had before – unnervingly tidy, filled with the scent of old books and polish. The shattered mirror, still uncovered, gleamed malevolently in the dim light. Ignoring it, Julia went to the large desk, opening drawers, searching through stacks of papers.
She found them tucked away in a hidden compartment in the largest drawer, beneath a false bottom she discovered by accident. A bundle of letters, tied with a faded blue ribbon. Marian's handwriting was instantly recognizable. They were addressed to someone in London, a Mrs. Eleanor Vance.
Julia sat down, her heart hammering with anticipation, and began to read. The letters spanned several months, the tone shifting from cheerful correspondence to increasing fear and desperation. Marian wrote of her isolation at Blackwood Hall, the strange atmosphere, the unsettling behavior of some of the staff. She wrote of her growing headaches, the unsettling dreams, the feeling of being watched.
And then, Julia found mentions of two crucial things. Marian wrote of a secret house in Chelsea, a small property she had inherited from a distant relative. She spoke of it as a potential refuge, a place she could escape to if things became too much to bear. She even mentioned sending some personal belongings there, hidden away from Alistair.
More importantly, Marian wrote of a Madame Belrose. A medium and spiritualist in London. Marian had been consulting her, hoping to find answers about the strange occurrences at Blackwood Hall, to understand the unsettling visions and the feeling of a presence in the house. Marian mentioned séances, communication attempts, and Madame Belrose's growing conviction that the house was indeed haunted, and that the entity was tied to a past tragedy.
Julia's hands trembled as she read. A secret house. A spiritualist. A direct link to London, to the outside world. Marian had been seeking help, desperately trying to understand the horror that was consuming her. The letters were a lifeline, a new direction for her investigation.
She carefully re-tied the bundle of letters, her mind racing. She had to go to London. To find this secret house, to see what Marian had hidden there. To find Madame Belrose, to speak to her, to understand what she had told Marian, what she knew about Blackwood Hall's past tragedy and the entity that haunted it.
But how? Her hand was still injured. Alistair's orders were clear – she was confined to her room for two more days. Even if she could sneak out of the house entirely, getting to London wouldn't be easy without funds or assistance. And Alistair was in London. The last thing she wanted was to run into him while she was defying his orders and pursuing a truth he was so desperate to bury.
She would have to wait. To heal. To plan. But she knew, with a fierce certainty, that she could not remain at Blackwood Hall, trapped by its secrets and its chilling inhabitants. London held the answers. And she would find a way to get there. She just had to be patient. And very, very careful.