The warning from Marian felt like a key unlocking something terrible within Julia. The dull ache behind her eyes, which had been a constant companion since she arrived, intensified into a throbbing, debilitating migraine. The slightest light felt like shards of glass in her pupils. Sounds seemed amplified, the ticking of the hall clock echoing like hammer blows in her skull.
She retreated to her room, pulling the heavy curtains closed, plunging the space into a suffocating darkness. She lay on the bed, the pain a relentless pressure, her body clammy and cold despite the blankets. Sleep offered no escape.
Her dreams were no longer her own. They were filled with the suffocating atmosphere of Blackwood Hall at night. She was in the east wing, the peeling wallpaper cool and damp under her fingertips. The cloying scent of old perfume hung heavy in the air. And Marian was there. Not as a ghost or a figure in the shadows, but solid, real, walking barefoot across the dusty floorboards. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, and her face was pale, her eyes wide with a sorrow Julia couldn't fathom.
Marian didn't speak. She simply walked, back and forth, back and forth, the same slow, dragging pace Julia had heard from below. And she hummed. An eerie, wordless lullaby, a mournful, repetitive tune that chilled Julia to the bone. The humming seemed to emanate from the very walls, from the stagnant air.
Julia tried to call out to her, to ask her what was happening, who she was warning her about, but the words wouldn't come. Her throat was tight with fear.
The dream shifted. Suddenly, Julia was running, barefoot, through the shadowed hallways of the east wing, the humming following her, growing louder, closer. She stumbled, falling onto the cold floor. She looked down at her hands, raising them to her face, and saw that they were covered in something dark and wet.
She woke screaming, the sound tearing from her throat, echoing in the silent room. Her heart hammered against her ribs. The taste of copper filled her mouth. She reached up a trembling hand to her nose and felt something warm and wet dripping onto her fingers.
Blood.
She had woken with a nosebleed, her hand smeared with the dark, viscous liquid, just like the smears on Marian's letter.
She sat up in bed, gasping for breath, the image of her bloodied hand burned into her mind. The humming still seemed to linger in the air, a phantom echo. The migraine pulsed behind her eyes, blinding her.
The next morning, she felt like she had been through a war. Her face was pale, her eyes bruised with exhaustion. She came down for breakfast late, the grand dining room unnervingly empty except for the presence of Miss Agnes Thorne.
Miss Thorne sat rigidly at the head of the table, her black dress buttoned high, her pale lips set in a thin line. She looked up as Julia entered, her sharp eyes taking in Julia's appearance.
Julia felt exposed, vulnerable. She tried to look composed, but her hands trembled as she poured herself a cup of tea.
Miss Thorne said nothing at first, simply observing her with that cold, assessing gaze. Julia could practically feel the housekeeper's disapproval radiating across the table.
Finally, Miss Thorne spoke, her voice clipped and devoid of warmth. "You are late, Miss Harrow."
"Forgive me, Miss Thorne," Julia mumbled, cradling the warm teacup in her hands. "I had a... restless night."
Miss Thorne offered no sympathy. Instead, she reached into the pocket of her dress and produced a crisp, white handkerchief. She held it out across the table, her expression utterly devoid of emotion.
"You're pale, Miss Harrow," she said, her voice flat. "It doesn't suit you."
Julia took the handkerchief, the crisp linen feeling foreign and stiff in her hand. It smelled faintly of lavender and starch. It was meant as a gesture of assistance, perhaps, but delivered with such chilling coldness that it felt more like an accusation. You're weak. This house is too much for you.
"Thank you, Miss Thorne," Julia said, forcing the words out.
The housekeeper simply nodded, returning her attention to her untouched plate of toast. The silence returned, heavy and suffocating, broken only by the faint clinking of Julia's teacup against its saucer. Julia dabbed at her still-sensitive nose with the handkerchief, the gesture feeling pathetic. Miss Thorne believed she was here for the wrong reasons. And with every unsettling event, every physical symptom, Julia wondered if the housekeeper believed she was unraveling, just like Marian.
* * *
The migraine lingered throughout the day, a constant, dull roar behind her eyes. The house felt more oppressive than ever, the silence now charged with a palpable dread. She tried to work in Marian's study, but the sight of the broken mirror was too much. She saw the face in the reflection again, fleetingly, terrifyingly real.
That evening, the house seemed to hold its breath. The grey light outside had long since faded into complete darkness. Julia had managed to eat a little dinner, though her appetite remained nonexistent. She felt drained, her nerves stretched thin.
She decided to retire early, hoping for escape in sleep, despite the fear of the dreams. She walked slowly down the long, shadowed corridor leading to her room. The air was cold, carrying the faint scent of damp stone and old dust. The portraits on the walls seemed to watch her, their eyes following her progress.
As she neared the end of the hallway, where the corridor turned towards her room and the hidden stairs to the east wing, she saw something.
A figure stood at the far end of the hall, just before the turn. Still. Silent.
Julia froze, her heart leaping into her throat. It wasn't Finch; he was taller, gaunter. It wasn't Alistair; his presence, even in shadow, was different, more imposing.
It was a woman.
She stood facing away from Julia, her head tilted slightly to the side, as if listening to something Julia couldn't hear. Her hair, dark and unbound, hung down her back. It seemed... damp. Dripping. As if she had just come in from a heavy rain.
Julia stood rooted to the spot, fear and a strange, morbid curiosity battling within her. Who was this? One of the maids? Mrs. Keene? But Mrs. Keene was plump, this figure was slender.
Slowly, deliberately, the figure began to turn.
Julia braced herself, a silent scream building in her chest.
The woman turned fully, facing her. Julia could only make out a pale face, indistinct in the deep shadow. The hair still dripped, dark rivulets running down onto the dark fabric of her dress.
Then, as Julia watched, mesmerized by a terror that rooted her feet to the floor, the figure seemed to simply... dissolve.
One moment she was there, the next, she was gone. Vanished into the shadows at the end of the hall.
Julia stared at the empty space where the woman had stood, her mind struggling to comprehend what she had seen. Was it a trick of the light? Her exhausted, migraine-addled vision? But the figure had been so clear... the dripping hair, the tilted head.
A sudden burst of adrenaline surged through her. She had to know. She had to see.
Ignoring the throbbing in her head, ignoring the cold dread that wrapped around her like a shroud, Julia ran towards the end of the hallway. Her footsteps echoed unnervingly on the runner carpet.
She reached the spot where the figure had been standing. Nothing. Just the dark wood paneling and the start of the turn in the corridor.
Then she noticed something else.
The air here was colder. Sharper. And she could feel a faint, distinct draft.
She looked around wildly. To her left was the wall. To her right... was a tall, narrow window. It was open, just a few inches at the bottom, letting in the damp, cold night air.
An open window. In a supposedly sealed-up wing of the house? Or perhaps a rarely used window that someone had opened.
Julia knelt down, peering at the floor near the window. The dust was thick here, disturbed only by her own frantic footsteps. But amongst the settled dust, near the edge of the open window, she saw it.
A footprint.
Small. Delicate. Damp.
It was the clear imprint of a bare foot, left wet on the dusty floorboards before it had time to dry.
Julia touched it gently, her finger coming away coated in fine dust and a faint trace of moisture. The air felt colder now, carrying the smell of rain and something else... the same, sweet, cloying perfume that clung to the east wing.
She stumbled back, pressing a hand to her mouth to stifle a cry. A woman. Dripping wet hair. A damp footprint. An open window that shouldn't have been open.
The house was not just making noises. It was not just playing tricks of the light. Something was here. Someone. And they were not confined to the upper floors. They walked the halls, a silent, dripping presence in the dead of night. And they seemed to be... watching her.
The migraine flared behind her eyes, a searing white hot pain. The house was feeding on silence. It was feeding on fear. And Julia felt, with terrifying certainty, that she was the next meal on its monstrous table.