The remnants of Mrs. Keene's fearful whispers seemed to cling to the air in Marian's study long after she'd fled. Julia stood frozen, the image of the shattered mirror searing itself into her mind. Someone else was looking out. Someone wicked. Mrs. Keene's words echoed the terror Julia had glimpsed in the reflected face – Marian's face, twisted in a silent scream. This house… it's hungry.
Her head pounded with a persistent, dull ache. The cold spot near the mirror seemed to deepen, a palpable chill that sank into her bones despite the thick fabric of her dress. Julia forced herself to turn away from the fragmented glass. She couldn't look anymore. Couldn't risk seeing that face again, couldn't bear the implication of what it meant.
She needed air. She needed distance.
Leaving the study felt like escaping a physical weight. She didn't bother trying to pull the heavy velvet curtain back over the broken mirror. Let it stay uncovered. Let the house show its wounds.
The corridors of Blackwood Hall were just as silent and watchful as before. Endless stretches of dark wood paneling, faded portraits with eyes that seemed to follow her, and doors. So many closed doors. Each one felt like a secret held tight.
She eventually found her way back to her assigned room. The grey afternoon light filtering through the tall windows did little to warm the space. It felt vast and impersonal, a temporary cage. The untouched tea and toast from the morning sat accusingly on the side table. She had no appetite.
As dusk bled into true night, the house seemed to transform. The silence, which felt heavy and oppressive during the day, became thin and brittle after dark. It was a silence stretched taut over a bed of faint, inexplicable noises. The sigh of the wind became a mournful whisper through unseen cracks. Floorboards in distant, empty rooms seemed to settle with deliberate weight. Pockets of unnatural cold drifted through the hallways like unseen entities.
Julia tried to read by the weak glow of a single lamp, but the words swam before her eyes. Her thoughts kept circling back: the necklace, the locked music box room, the unfinished catalogue, the shattered mirror, Marian's terror, Mrs. Keene's superstitious fear. And Alistair… his strange blend of charm and coldness, his veiled words.
She blew out the lamp, deciding sleep was the only escape. She pulled the thick covers up to her chin, the linen cool against her skin. The fire in the hearth had long since died down, leaving only grey ashes. The room was swallowed by darkness.
She lay there, listening. The house groaned around her. A distant shutter banged rhythmically in the wind. The clock downstairs in the main hall chimed the hour, each stroke echoing unnervingly through the stillness.
Then she heard it.
Faint at first. Almost imperceptible.
Thump… drag… thump… drag…
It came from above. Directly above her room.
Julia held her breath, straining to listen.
Thump… drag… thump… drag…
It was the sound of footsteps. Slow. Measured. Deliberate. Someone was pacing back and forth in the room overhead. But there was a slight unevenness to it, a dragging quality to one of the steps.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
Her heart began to beat faster. A cold dread seeped into her veins, colder than the room's chill.
She remembered Miss Agnes Thorne's words from her arrival. The housekeeper had pointed vaguely upwards during the tour. "The upper east wing, Miss Harrow. It's not in use. Hasn't been for years. Drafty, you see. We keep the doors locked tight."
Locked tight. Unused.
Yet, someone was walking up there. Pacing endlessly in the dead of night.
Julia sat up in bed, pulling her shawl tightly around her shoulders. The sound continued, steady and relentless. Thump… drag… thump… drag…
Who could it be? Finch? Agnes? Sneaking around in the abandoned wing? It seemed unlikely. Their movements were usually silent, purposeful. This felt different. Older. More… rooted.
Driven by a fear that was rapidly overcoming her caution, Julia slipped out of bed. Her bare feet recoiled from the cold wooden floor. She fumbled for the matches by the bedside and lit a single candle, its small flame casting huge, dancing shadows on the walls.
She crept to her door and opened it a crack. The corridor outside was pitch black, a void stretching in both directions. The pacing sound seemed slightly louder out here.
Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the hallway, the candle flame wavering, threatening to extinguish. She knew where the stairs to the east wing were – a narrower, steeper flight tucked away at the end of this corridor, rarely used.
Her footsteps were hushed on the runner carpet, but the old house seemed to amplify every sound. A floorboard creaked beneath her weight, loud as a gunshot in the silence. She froze, listening.
The pacing above didn't stop. Thump… drag… thump… drag…
She reached the foot of the east wing stairs. They rose into darkness, cobwebs glinting like silver threads in the candlelight. The air here was noticeably colder, stale, and carried a faint, unfamiliar scent. Sweetish, cloying. Like old, decaying perfume.
Hesitantly, Julia started to climb. The stairs groaned under her feet, protesting the intrusion. Each step felt like a betrayal of the house's secrets. The scent of old perfume grew stronger.
She reached the landing at the top. Before her stood a heavy oak door, dark and imposing. Just as Agnes had said, it looked firmly locked. A large, old-fashioned keyhole stared back at her like a dark eye. Dust lay thick on the floorboards here, undisturbed.
She leaned closer to the door, pressing her ear against the cold wood. The pacing sound seemed fainter now, perhaps further down the corridor behind the door. Or perhaps it had stopped.
Silence.
A heavy, waiting silence.
Julia held her candle steady, listening intently. Nothing. Only the sound of her own heart beating frantically against her ribs. Had she imagined it? Was Finch right – was the house just making noises?
Then, a sharp, sudden thud echoed from directly behind the door.
It wasn't loud, but it was distinct. Solid. Like a book falling flat onto a wooden floor. Or something heavier.
Julia jumped back, stifling a gasp. Her candle flickered violently, nearly going out. The thud wasn't followed by any other sound. Just that single, startling impact, then silence returned, deeper and more menacing than before.
She stared at the locked door, her mind racing. There was someone – or something – up here. Sealed wing or not, it wasn't empty.
She backed away slowly, down the creaking stairs, her gaze fixed on the dark door until she reached the relative safety of the main corridor again. The pacing didn't resume. The silence from the east wing felt absolute now, a dead weight pressing down from above.
Retreating to her room, Julia didn't even try to sleep again. She wedged a chair under the doorknob – a flimsy defense, she knew, but it offered a sliver of comfort. She sat huddled in the armchair, wrapped in her shawl, watching the candle burn down, listening to the silence that wasn't truly silent, until the first grey, lifeless hint of dawn crept through the windows.
* * *
The next morning, Julia felt brittle, sleep-deprived, her nerves frayed thin. The headache behind her eyes had returned with a vengeance. But beneath the fear and exhaustion, a cold resolve was hardening. She couldn't ignore this. She wouldn't let the house, or its inhabitants, dismiss her experiences.
She waited until she saw Mr. Finch crossing the main hall after breakfast. He moved with his usual unnerving silence, a tall, skeletal figure in his immaculate uniform, grey hair slicked back severely. He paused by a large vase of funereal lilies, adjusting a single stem with gloved hands.
Julia approached him directly, her voice clearer and firmer than she felt. "Mr. Finch."
He turned slowly, his deep-set eyes fixing on her. They were eyes that seemed to absorb light, giving nothing back. He didn't blink. "Miss Harrow." His voice was flat, devoid of inflection.
"Mr. Finch, I need to speak with you about the upper east wing," Julia began, trying to keep her voice steady.
He remained perfectly still. "Indeed?"
"Last night," she continued, "I heard someone walking above my chamber. Pacing, back and forth, for quite some time."
Finch stared at her, his expression unchanging. It was like speaking to a statue carved from ice. After a moment of unnerving silence, he replied, "You were dreaming, Miss Harrow."
"I was not dreaming," Julia insisted, frustrated by his immediate dismissal. "I heard it clearly. Footsteps. And then… something fell."
"The upper east wing has been sealed for fifteen years," Finch stated, his voice dropping slightly, taking on a colder edge. "Dust sheets cover the furniture. The doors are locked. There is no one up there."
"But I heard—"
"Blackwood Hall has many sounds, Miss Harrow," Finch interrupted, his voice soft but chillingly firm. He took a step closer, invading her personal space just slightly, enough to be unsettling. "Timbers settling. Wind in the chimneys. Rats in the walls, perhaps. Most of them mean nothing." He paused, his gaze unwavering. "The ones that do... are best ignored."
Julia felt a shiver trace its way down her spine. His certainty was absolute, his denial complete. It felt less like reassurance and more like a warning. A command to remain silent, to accept the inexplicable.
As she stood there, momentarily silenced by his unnerving presence, he added one final, quiet remark before turning away.
"It's not always the living who walk, Miss Harrow."
He didn't wait for a response. He simply turned and glided away down the corridor, disappearing into the shadows, leaving Julia standing alone in the vast hall, the lilies suddenly smelling cloyingly sweet, like funeral wreaths. It's not always the living who walk. The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. Was it a threat? A piece of folklore? Or a statement of fact in this house?
* * *
Later that day, seeking refuge from the oppressive atmosphere and the lingering chill of Finch's words, Julia found herself in the main drawing room. Sunlight, weak and watery, slanted through the tall windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. She had retrieved Marian's art catalogue from the study, needing the focus of work, the anchor of something tangible.
She sat at a large mahogany table, the heavy book open before her, tracing Marian's precise handwriting with a fingertip. The unfinished entries, the missing items… it all felt like part of the larger puzzle of Marian's last days. What had distracted her? What had stopped her?
"Finding solace in my wife's work?"
Julia jumped, startled. Alistair Blackwood stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame. He moved as silently as Finch, a feat unnerving in such a large man. He was dressed impeccably in black, as always, a stark figure against the faded grandeur of the room. His grey eyes surveyed her, a complex emotion flickering within them – grief, curiosity, something else she couldn't name.
"Mr. Blackwood," Julia said, collecting herself, closing the catalogue gently. "I was just reviewing the entries."
He pushed away from the doorframe and walked towards her, his steps measured on the Persian rug. "You seem to have settled in quickly," he observed, his voice a low murmur. He stopped beside her table. "You've taken her place so quickly."
The words, though spoken softly, felt like a barb. Julia bristled, standing up from her chair, putting the table between them. "I assure you, Mr. Blackwood, this is work. A task I promised Marian I would undertake. It is not a replacement."
Alistair tilted his head slightly, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. "Then what is it, Miss Harrow?" His voice was silken, drawing her in even as it put her on edge. "Atonement? Or perhaps… redemption?"
His gaze held hers, intense and probing. It felt too personal, too intimate. He knew about her past, the scandal Marian had helped her escape. Was he holding it over her?
"My reasons are my own," Julia said stiffly. "And they concern fulfilling my obligation to Marian."
He moved around the table, closing the distance between them. He stopped beside her chair, placing one black-gloved hand on its high back. Too close. She could smell the faint, clean scent of his cologne, mingled with something else… the same faint, cold air that seemed to cling to the house itself.
"Marian was… complex," Alistair said softly, his gaze drifting towards the windows. "She collected beautiful things, obsessed over provenance and history. Yet, she could be careless with the present." He looked back at Julia. "She hated finality. Despised endings."
Julia felt a flicker of unease. Was he talking about the collection, or about Marian's life?
She stepped away, creating space again. "You should be grieving your wife, Mr. Blackwood, not… not playing games or taunting her replacement." The word slipped out, bitter on her tongue.
Alistair's smile widened, just a fraction, but it reached his eyes this time, making them look colder, sharper. "Oh, I grieve, Miss Harrow," he assured her, his voice smooth as velvet. "I grieve in my own way. I have never been fond of funerals, you see. They reek of finality." He paused, his eyes meeting hers again. "Marian always hated endings. Perhaps that is why this catalogue remains unfinished. Some stories resist their conclusion."
His charm was a tangible thing, a current in the air, yet beneath it lay that unnerving coldness, the sense of something held back, something calculated. Every word felt deliberate, every gesture practiced. He seemed to be testing her, probing her reactions, drawing her into a dance she didn't understand.