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The night had blurred into a haze of fear and throbbing pain. The image of the dripping figure at the end of the hall, the damp footprint, the inexplicably open window – it had all pushed Julia closer to the edge. She had retreated to her room, locking the door, but sleep remained elusive. The migraine had tightened its grip, a vise around her skull. The memory of waking up with a nosebleed, her hand smeared with blood just like the strange marks on Marian's last letter, added another layer of horror. Agnes Thorne's cold indifference at breakfast, her unspoken judgment, only reinforced Julia's isolation. Blackwood Hall felt less like a house and more like a living entity, pressing in on her, feeding on her fear.
By late morning, the headache was a dull roar, but the fear was a sharp, insistent ache. She couldn't stay in her room, surrounded by the silent necklace and the memories of the night. She needed air. She needed to see Callum. He had shown her that little wooden horse with the 'M'. He had looked afraid. He was the only person in this house who seemed entirely unconnected to the suffocating politeness and hidden agendas.
She navigated the confusing corridors, the grey light of day doing little to alleviate the oppressive atmosphere. The portraits seemed less menacing now, more like sad, judgmental eyes watching her struggle. She found the side door that led out towards the stables. The air outside was cool, damp, smelling of wet earth and horse dung – a welcome, honest smell compared to the dust and decay of the house.
She found Callum in the stables, brushing down a chestnut mare. He was humming softly to the horse, a low, tuneless sound. His back was to her. His limping foot was braced against a bale of hay.
Julia approached slowly, not wanting to startle him. "Callum?" she said softly.
He flinched, turning quickly, his eyes wide with that familiar fear. He clutched the brush tightly in his hand.
Julia offered a small, gentle smile. "It's just me. Julia."
He didn't speak, of course, but his shoulders relaxed slightly. He gave a quick, shy bow.
Julia walked closer, stopping a respectful distance from the horse. "I… I wanted to ask you about something," she said. She remembered his fear the other day, the toy horse. She wasn't sure how to ask about the figure she'd seen last night. She decided to start with the carved object.
She fumbled in her pocket, finding a piece of paper and a pencil. It felt awkward, childish, but it was the only way. She quickly sketched the little wooden horse he had dropped. She added a messy 'M' on its side.
Callum watched her draw, his head tilted. When she finished, she held it out to him.
He looked at the sketch, then back at her. He gave a small, hesitant nod. Yes. He knew the horse.
Julia then wrote, slowly, "Where did you get this?"
Callum looked at the note. His brow furrowed slightly in thought. He glanced towards the house, then away. He looked down at his hands for a moment, then back up at Julia.
He didn't write or speak. He reached into his pocket and pulled out something else.
Another carved object. Smaller this time. A miniature bird, perched on a tiny, delicate branch. It was beautiful, intricate work. And on its wing, etched with painstaking care, were two small letters: 'M. B.'
Marian Blackwood.
He held it out to her.
Julia took the tiny bird carefully. The wood was smooth under her fingers. It felt fragile, precious. "This is… this is Marian's," she murmured, more to herself than to him. "She had things carved sometimes. Little gifts."
Callum nodded, watching her face. His dark eyes held a depth of understanding that went beyond words.
Julia looked back at the horse sketch, then at the carved bird. Both were Marian's. Both seemed linked to Callum.
She wrote another question on the paper, her hand trembling slightly. "Where did you find this?"
Callum looked at the question. He hesitated for a long moment, his gaze flickering up towards the house again. His fear seemed to intensify. He bit his lip.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he lifted his hand. He pointed.
Straight up. Towards the house. Towards the upper floors.
Julia nodded. Up.
He lowered his hand, but then raised it again. He pointed to the side. Towards the eastern end of the sprawling house.
East Wing.
Julia felt a chill. The East Wing. The locked corridor Agnes had mentioned. The floor above her room. The place where she had heard the pacing footsteps last night. The place where she had seen the phantom figure and found the wet footprint.
Callum was telling her the carved things, the things that felt like messages from Marian, came from up there. From the East Wing.
He looked at her, his eyes pleading. He made a small, shooing motion with his hand, towards the house. Get away. Don't go there.
Julia looked from the carved bird in her hand to Callum's anxious face, then back at the imposing, silent bulk of Blackwood Hall. She understood. Callum knew things were wrong. He knew Marian had left things behind. And he knew where they were being found. Up there. In the East Wing.
He couldn't tell her in words. But his gestures were clear. Marian's things, secrets, were tied to that locked, haunted part of the house. And something up there was real enough for him to be terrified of it.
She gave him a grateful look. "Thank you, Callum," she said softly. He gave a small, quick nod, then turned back to the horse, burying his face in its mane, as if trying to disappear.
Julia left the stables, the tiny carved bird clutched in her hand, the headache still pounding. Callum had confirmed it. The East Wing held something. And Marian was connected to it.
That night, the migraine returned with a vengeance. It was a blinding, nauseating pain that made her feel as if her skull would split open. She lay in bed, the darkness of the room offering little relief. The house sounds began again – the distant groans, the whispers that might be wind.
And then the dream came.
It wasn't like the others. She wasn't just an observer. She was there.
She stood in Marian's study. The shattered mirror was uncovered, the single shard in the frame. Her head throbbed, mirroring the pain she felt in the real world. She saw her own reflection in the glass, fractured, distorted.
Then her reflection shifted. Twisted. Changed.
It wasn't her face anymore. It was Marian.
Her cousin stared out from the broken glass. Her face was pale, gaunt, her eyes wide with a familiar terror. Her dark hair clung to her face, damp.
But this time, Marian spoke.
Her voice was a soft, broken whisper, echoing strangely in the silence of the dream. It was filled with sorrow and warning.
"Julia…" Marian's voice was a fragile sound, like brittle glass. "Be careful…"
Julia tried to speak, tried to ask her about the house, about Alistair, about the East Wing, about the terror in her eyes. But she couldn't.
Marian's eyes were fixed on something Julia couldn't see in the reflection. Her voice grew more urgent, though still soft.
"Don't… don't trust…"
Her image flickered in the glass.
"Don't trust the dead man's hands."
The dead man's hands. The words were a chilling echo in the dream. What did they mean? Whose hands?
The image of Marian in the mirror twisted, her face contorting in silent agony.
Julia jolted awake, a strangled cry tearing from her throat. She was gasping for air, choking on the sudden, sharp intake. Her heart hammered in her chest, a frantic bird trapped in a cage.
She was in her bed. The room was dark. Silent.
Her hands were clenched tight. Clutched around something hard and cold.
She opened her eyes, her vision swimming from the pain and the lingering terror of the dream. In the faint moonlight filtering through the curtains, she saw what she held.
The shard from the shattered mirror in Marian's study.
She must have taken it sometime yesterday, subconsciously, after Mrs. Keene left. Tucked it away. And now, in her sleep, she had clutched it.
A sharp pain shot through her palm. She looked down.
Blood.
Beads of dark red blood were welling up from a small cut in her hand, right where she had squeezed the jagged edge of the glass shard.
She stared at the blood, then at the shard. It wasn't a dream. Marian had been there. In the mirror. She had spoken. Don't trust the dead man's hands. And Julia had woken up with a cut, blood on her hand, holding the very thing Marian had appeared in.
A cold dread, deeper than any she had felt before, settled over her. This was real. Marian was trying to warn her. And the warning was tied to death. To hands.
She was shaking uncontrollably. She dropped the bloody shard onto the blanket.
A soft tap sounded at her door.
Julia froze. Who was there?
"Julia?" A voice called softly from the hallway. "Are you alright? I heard… a sound."
Alistair.
She didn't answer. She couldn't. Her throat was tight with fear.
"Julia? Did something happen?" His voice was gentle, laced with concern. Too gentle. Too controlled.
She stared at the door, her eyes wide. The cut on her hand throbbed. Don't trust the dead man's hands. Whose hands? Alistair wore gloves. He wore gloves almost constantly.
Silence from the other side of the door.
Then, she heard a faint sound. A soft press against the wood. He was placing his hand on the door.
"I only wanted to say…" Alistair's voice was a low murmur through the wood. It sounded comforting, solicitous. But in the context of Marian's warning, it felt like a threat. "You are not alone here, Julia."
The words were meant to reassure. But they only amplified her terror. Not alone. No, she wasn't. She was in a house that was alive, with a dead cousin trying to warn her, and a living man whose hands she was explicitly told not to trust.
She didn't reply. She couldn't. She just stared at the door, imagining his gloved hand pressing against the wood on the other side.
After a long moment, she heard his hand slide away. Faint footsteps receded down the hall. He was gone.
Julia stayed frozen in the center of the bed, the shard of mirror and the blood on her hand stark in the dim light. Don't trust the dead man's hands. Alistair's hand on the door. His unnerving charm. His performance of grief.
She watched the shadows flicker and move across her walls. They seemed to shift and coalesce into shapes, into faces. The house felt alive around her, listening. Waiting.