Julia had to be patient. And very, very careful. The bundle of letters, tucked away in the hidden compartment, felt like a key, a lifeline to the world outside Blackwood Hall's suffocating grip. London. Madame Belrose. A secret house. Answers waited there, beyond the reach of Alistair's charming manipulation and Finch's watchful eyes.
The day dragged on, slow and heavy with unspoken tension. Julia remained in her room, nursing her bandaged hand, the memory of the wilting rose a constant, chilling reminder of the house's unsettling games. She reread Marian's letters, tracing the lines of fear and desperation, searching for any detail she might have missed. The names, the places, they were anchors in the swirling madness.
Dinner was brought by Elsie, her eyes wide and nervous, her movements quick and jumpy. She barely met Julia's gaze, murmuring only necessary phrases. The fear in her was palpable, a silent scream trapped within her small frame. It mirrored the fear Julia felt, the growing certainty that Blackwood Hall was far more dangerous than she had ever imagined.
Night fell, draping the house in its usual shroud of oppressive darkness. The wind picked up outside, rattling the windowpanes, a mournful shriek that echoed through the ancient stone walls. Shadows danced in the candlelight of Julia's room, twisting and stretching into grotesque shapes that seemed to watch her from the corners.
Just past midnight, when the house seemed to hold its breath, waiting, a sudden, frantic pounding erupted at Julia's door. Her heart leaped into her throat. It wasn't the measured rap of Finch, nor the quiet approach of Elsie. It was wild, desperate.
Before Julia could even call out, the door burst open. Elsie stood there, framed in the doorway, her face pale as death, her eyes wide with terror. Her hands were trembling violently, clutching the edges of her apron.
"Miss Harrow! Miss Harrow, you must listen!" Elsie whispered, her voice raw, ragged with panic. She stumbled into the room, slamming the door shut behind her as if pursued by demons. She leaned against it, gasping for breath, her small body shaking. "It's real, Miss Harrow! The screaming! It's real! We've heard it too! The servants… we all heard it last night!"
Julia stared at her, frozen by the maid's abject terror. This wasn't a dream. This wasn't her imagination. Elsie had heard it too.
Elsie pushed herself away from the door, wringing her hands. "Mrs. Denning… the maid before me," she whispered, her voice barely audible, a ghost of a sound. "She used to work here. She claimed she saw Lady Marian's ghost near the fountain in the Lady's Garden. Said she looked so sad…" Elsie's eyes were wide, fixed on Julia, filled with a terrible, shared knowledge.
"What happened to her?" Julia asked, her voice trembling, a chilling premonition settling in her stomach.
Elsie swallowed hard, her gaze darting nervously around the room, as if afraid the walls themselves were listening. "She… she fell," Elsie stammered, the words tumbling out in a rush of terrified confession. "Into the well in the old courtyard. The very next day after she said she saw the ghost. They… they never found her body, Miss Harrow. Just… vanished."
Horror washed over Julia, cold and sickening. The well. The fountain. The screaming. Mrs. Denning. Marian's ghost. It was a terrifying pattern, a chilling echo of her own dream. "And they told you to stay silent?" Julia asked, her voice tight.
Elsie nodded frantically, tears welling in her eyes. "Yes, Miss! Mr. Finch… he gathered us all. He said we are to speak of nothing. If we speak, we disappear. Just like Mrs. Denning." Her voice dropped to a barely audible whisper, filled with a profound, soul-deep fear. "They disappear, Miss Harrow. They truly do."
Julia felt a wave of nausea, a horrifying mix of guilt and terror. Guilt for doubting Marian, for dismissing Elsie's earlier fear as mere timidity, for believing Alistair's reassurances. Terror for herself, for the chilling truth that this house buried its secrets not just in the ground, but in silence.
"Why didn't you tell me sooner, Elsie?" Julia asked, her voice raw with emotion.
Elsie looked at her, her eyes wide and desperate. "Because I want to live, Miss Harrow," she whispered, the simple, brutal honesty a punch to Julia's gut.
The raw terror in Elsie's eyes, the chilling story of Mrs. Denning, the confirmation that the screaming was real – it galvanized Julia. Fear was still a cold knot in her stomach, but it was now tempered by a fierce, unwavering resolve. She couldn't stay here, locked away, waiting to disappear. She had to act.
She waited until the first hint of false dawn, until the house seemed to settle into a temporary lull. Elsie had finally drifted off to sleep in the armchair, utterly exhausted by her fear. Julia slipped out of her room, armed with a small lantern she had found in the back of her wardrobe, its glass chimney dusty.
She crept down the quiet corridors, moving like a ghost, her heart pounding in rhythm with her silent footsteps. The house was darker now, the gas lamps extinguished for the night. The air was cold, thick with the scent of dust and something else… the lingering, sickly sweet perfume of Marian.
She made her way towards the side door that led to the gardens, the one she had used on her first day. The heavy door creaked slightly as she opened it, a sound that seemed deafening in the silence. She slipped outside, pulling the door shut behind her.
The night fog was thick like breath, swirling around her, cold and damp against her skin. The Lady's Garden looked different at night. Wilder. Hostile. The manicured hedges and sculpted flowerbeds of the daytime were swallowed by shadows, transformed into dark, looming shapes.
She held the lantern aloft, its weak beam cutting a small circle in the oppressive darkness. The air was filled with the sounds of the night – the rustling of leaves in the wind, the distant hoot of an owl, the unsettling silence that seemed to swallow all other noise.
She heard rustling in the hedges nearby, a faint movement that sent a jolt of fear through her. She stopped, listening intently, the sound of her own breathing loud in her ears. Was it the wind? Or something else? She told herself it was just the wind, clinging to the rational in a place that defied all logic.
She pressed on, guided by the faint glow of her lantern, her destination the angel statue by the old fountain. The grass was damp underfoot, the fog swirling around her ankles. The garden felt alive, watching her, its shadows concealing unseen things.
She reached the statue. It stood tall and silent in the mist, its stone form draped in ivy. In the lantern light, the ivy looked dark, almost black, twisting around the base of the statue like skeletal fingers. This was the place from her nightmare. The place stained with blood.
Julia knelt down at the base of the statue, her hands trembling. She had to know. She had to see if the dream held more truth than she could bear. Using her uninjured hand, she began to dig into the damp earth at the base of the ivy. The ground was cold, hard, resistant.
She dug with frantic urgency, her fingers raw, scraping against roots and stones. The chilling story of Mrs. Denning, the silent screams, the buried secrets of Blackwood Hall – it all fueled her desperate search. The scent of damp earth mingled with the faint, lingering perfume of Marian.
Her fingers brushed against something hard, metallic. Hope surged through her. She dug faster, uncovering a small, rusted clasp. Pulling at it, she unearthed a small, tarnished object buried shallowly in the earth. A locket.
It was old, heavy, its surface dull and scratched. With trembling fingers, Julia managed to pry open the locket. Inside, protected by a thin layer of glass, was a miniature photograph. A picture of Marian.
But she wasn't alone. Standing beside her, his arm casually around her waist, was a man. His face was turned slightly towards Marian, a soft smile on his lips. They were close. More than just friends. Their pose, their expressions… it was almost intimate.
Julia's breath hitched. This wasn't Alistair. She had seen photographs of Alistair and Marian. This man was different. He was… unknown. But who was he? Marian's old flame? A secret lover? The possibility sent a fresh wave of confusion through her.
Then she saw it. The man's face in the photograph had been deliberately scratched out. Viciously. As if someone had tried to erase him from existence. The image was marred by deep, angry lines. Who would do such a thing?
As Julia stared at the damaged photograph, the air grew colder. A chilling sound reached her ears. The fountain. Its water, usually quiet, began to gurgle. Not with the gentle splashing of a cascade, but with a thick, viscous bubbling. In the dim light, she saw it – the water was running dark. Just as it had in her nightmare.
Drawn by a morbid fascination, Julia leaned closer to the edge of the fountain, holding the lantern higher. The water was dark, opaque, swirling slowly with that unsettling, thick consistency.
Suddenly, without warning, a pale hand burst through the surface of the dark water.
It was thin, skeletal, bone-white against the black liquid. The fingernails were cracked, broken. The wrist, visible for a horrifying second, was bone-thin, like that of a starving person, or a corpse. It rose from the bubbling darkness, reaching towards her.
Julia screamed. A raw, piercing sound that tore through the silence of the garden. She stumbled back, dropping the locket, the photograph, the lantern. The light source hit the damp earth and went out, plunging the garden into absolute darkness.
She scrambled away from the fountain, her heart hammering, her mind reeling from the horrifying apparition. The pale hand… it was real. It wasn't a dream. It had reached for her.
"You shouldn't be out here, Miss Harrow."
The voice came from directly behind her. Calm. Unsettlingly close.
Julia froze, every muscle tensing. She spun around blindly in the darkness, her breath coming in ragged gasps. "Who's there?"
A shape materialized out of the fog. Tall, gaunt. Utterly silent in his approach. Mr. Finch.
"I asked you a question, Miss Harrow," Finch's voice was flat, devoid of emotion. Yet, in the darkness, it carried a chilling authority. "You shouldn't be out here."
He didn't answer directly. He simply took a step closer, his presence a looming threat in the darkness. "Blackwood Hall's gardens are not safe at night. Especially this garden."
Julia's fear turned to anger. He knew. He knew about Marian, about the secrets buried here. "You knew Marian, didn't you, Finch?" she accused, her voice rising. "You're hiding something about her. About what happened!"
Finch's shape remained still, but his voice, when he spoke, was colder, harder than she had ever heard it. "What I protect is none of your concern, Miss Harrow."
He took another step closer. In the sudden, brief flicker of a distant gas lamp through the mist, Julia saw it. Dirt. Streaked across the back of his gloved hand. Garden dirt. Just like the smudges on her door. Just like the dirt under her fingernails. And in her nightmare.
"Keep digging, Miss Harrow," Finch's voice was a low, chilling murmur, just inches from her ear. His breath was cold against her skin. "Keep digging, and you'll meet the same end."
The threat hung in the air, cold and brutal. Julia's spine stiffened. Fear was a physical ache in her chest, but defiance, fierce and sudden, flared hotter.
"Then maybe," she said, her voice low and steady, looking up at the dark silhouette of his face, "maybe I'll start with you."
She didn't wait for his reaction. She turned and ran, blindly, back towards the house, towards the faint promise of light and safety. She ran through the fog, through the wild, hostile garden, the terrifying image of the pale hand in the fountain, Finch's chilling smile, and his brutal threat echoing in her mind.
She burst through the side door, stumbling into the relative safety of the main hall. She didn't stop until she reached the door to her room, her lungs burning, her body trembling. She slammed the door shut, leaning against it, gasping for breath.
Her room was dark, illuminated only by the faint moonlight through the windows. The scent of roses and rot seemed to cling to her, a horrifying souvenir from the garden. She needed a light. Her eyes darted around the room, searching for a match, a candle.
As she fumbled for the lamp on her bedside table, her hand knocked against something. Papers. Scattered everywhere. Her room had been ransacked. Drawers pulled out, their contents strewn across the floor. Her meager belongings were tossed about, as if someone had been searching frantically for something.
Panic, cold and sharp, seized her again. What were they looking for? The letters? The photo? She scrambled through the mess, her eyes wide. Yes. The bundle of letters from Marian, the lifeline to London – they were gone. And the locket, with the photo of Marian and the unknown man – she had dropped it in the garden, but if someone was searching her room… had they already found it outside?
Amidst the chaos, her gaze fell on something else. On her pillow, standing out against the white linen, was a single, muddy boot print. Large. Heavy. Not hers. Not Elsie's small delicate feet. A man's boot print.
And pinned to her pillow, with a small, tarnished pin, was a note. Written in a harsh, unfamiliar hand.
Julia's hands trembled as she snatched the note, holding it close to her eyes to make out the words in the dim light.
Some flowers are best left buried. Do not return to the garden.
The chilling message was a brutal confirmation. They knew she was digging. They knew she had been in the garden. And they were watching her every move. The fear for herself was immense, but a new, sharp terror pierced through her: Elsie. Elsie had been sleeping in the armchair when she left. Was she still here? Had whoever searched her room found her?
A cold dread twisted in Julia's stomach. She had to find Elsie. She couldn't leave her here, vulnerable. Pushing away from the door, she took a step towards the armchair, her eyes straining in the darkness, ready to call out the maid's name.
Just as the terrifying realization settled in, a soft knock sounded on her door.
Julia froze, every muscle tensing. Who was there? After everything that had happened? Alistair was in London. Finch… Finch had just threatened her. Elsie was terrified, or worse.
The knock came again, louder this time, but still hesitant.
She hesitated for a long moment, her heart pounding. Fear warred with a desperate need to know if Elsie was safe, but also the instinct to protect herself. She crept towards the door, her hand reaching for the handle, her fingers fumbling in the darkness. She opened it a crack, just a sliver, peering into the hallway.
A man stood there. Tall. Cloaked. His face was pale, partially obscured by the brim of his hat, from which rain still dripped onto the polished floorboards. He was a stranger.
"Miss Harrow?" the man asked, his voice low, resonant. It sounded… like grave-soil. Rich and deep, but with a chilling, earthy quality.
He stepped closer, his face coming into the faint light from the distant gas lamp. His eyes were dark, intense.
"I knew Lady Marian," the stranger said, his voice a low murmur that seemed to fill the small space between them. "My name is… Silas Corwin."