The soft, resonant click of the door reverberated through the silent wing, a terrifying finality that snatched the air from Julia's lungs. She stood frozen, plunged into an even deeper darkness than before. The faint sliver of moonlight that had guided her was now gone, swallowed by the oppressive gloom.
Panic clawed at her throat. She reached out, her fingers scrambling for the door handle. It was there, cold and solid beneath her touch. She twisted it, then pushed. The heavy wood didn't budge. A wave of cold dread washed over her. She was trapped.
She pushed harder, leaning her shoulder against the thick oak, but it held firm. The metallic tang of fear filled her mouth. She couldn't be locked in here. She wouldn't be. She tried again, twisting the handle with frantic urgency, pulling, pushing, but the old door remained stubbornly shut.
A long, shaky breath escaped her lips. She forced herself to stop, to calm her racing heart. She remembered the click. It hadn't sounded like a lock engaging. Perhaps the old latch was just stiff. Or perhaps it had swollen with the damp air. She pushed on the handle again, then tried to apply leverage, stepping back to give herself more room. A faint creak. It gave slightly. It wasn't locked. Not truly. She could get out.
But not yet. She was here now. The immediate fear of being irrevocably trapped subsided, replaced by the burning need to understand. Marian had been here. Callum had pointed here. And now, the door had mysteriously opened for her.
She moved forward, her outstretched hand barely touching the dusty wall. The air was thick, stale, heavy with the scent of disuse. But beneath the mustiness, there was a faint, cloying sweetness. A familiar perfume. Marian's scent. It was stronger here, a ghostly echo of her cousin's presence.
The corridor stretched before her, a tunnel of shadows. Moonlight, or perhaps a distant, grimy skylight, cast faint, uneven patterns on the floor, just enough to navigate by. The wallpaper, once rich and ornate, now peeled in curling strips, revealing damp, mottled plaster beneath. Dark, serpentine water stains snaked along the ceiling, like ancient, forgotten rivers.
Every step Julia took sent a cloud of fine dust dancing in the air, shimmering in the pale light. Cobwebs, thick and grey, hung like tattered banners from the high corners, swaying almost imperceptibly in the chill drafts. It was a wing forgotten by time, left to decay.
She felt her way along, her fingers trailing lightly over cold, dusty surfaces. There were doors on either side, dark and ominous, most of them firmly shut, some looking permanently sealed. The silence was profound, broken only by her own ragged breathing and the soft scuff of her shoes on the dust-laden floor.
Then, in the deep shadow of a recessed doorway, something small and pale caught her eye. She paused, her heart giving an uneasy lurch. It was a child's shoe. Small, intricately stitched leather, faded and worn, tossed carelessly into the corner.
Julia stared at it, a cold knot tightening in her stomach. Marian had never had children. No one in Blackwood Hall had spoken of children living in this wing. The shoe felt utterly out of place, a chilling anomaly in the already unsettling silence. It was a detail that didn't fit, a small, innocent object imbued with a sinister wrongness.
She moved closer, bending to examine it. The leather was brittle, the laces frayed. It was undoubtedly old, but not so old that it would simply crumble to dust. Had it been here all this time? Or had someone placed it here recently? The questions piled up, adding to the oppressive weight of the wing.
She continued down the corridor, the image of the child's shoe lingering in her mind. As she passed a particularly grand, imposing door near the far end, a faint sound reached her ears. A soft, insistent scratching. It was barely audible, a rhythmic scrape that seemed to come from behind the heavy wood.
Julia froze, straining to listen. The sound was so faint, she almost dismissed it as the creak of old timbers, or the scuttling of a mouse. But no, it was too regular, too deliberate. It was a soft, scraping motion, almost as if something was trying to get out. Or trying to get in.
Her gaze fell to the door. It was larger than the others, with intricate carvings, though obscured by grime and dust. There was a nameplate, half-hidden beneath a layer of grime. Julia carefully wiped a section with her finger. The old brass gleamed faintly, revealing etched letters: 'M.B.'
Marian Blackwood.
This was Marian's room. The source of the scratching. The source of the eerie, strong scent of her perfume. The door was sealed, not just shut. Heavy, rusted nails had been driven through the frame into the door itself, holding it firmly in place. Wooden crossbeams, split and warped with age, reinforced the barrier.
A cold dread, deeper than any she had felt before, settled over her. The scratching continued, a ghostly rhythm from the other side. It was terrifying, yet it fueled her determination. Marian had been here. Whatever had happened to her, whatever she had seen, was behind this door.
She had to get in. The letter opener. The small, silver letter opener in Marian's study, the one with the sharp, pointed end. It would be just the thing to pry those nails out.
Adrenaline surging, Julia turned and retraced her steps, moving more quickly through the dusty corridor. The door to the East Wing, which she had feared was locked, yielded with a gentle push, swinging outward silently into the main hall. She slipped out, a brief gasp of fresher air a welcome shock. She raced to Marian's study, her heart pounding, the image of the sealed door and the faint scratching driving her.
She found the letter opener on the desk, gleaming faintly in the ambient moonlight filtering through the windows. It was small, elegant, and felt surprisingly solid in her hand. A tool. A key.
With the letter opener clutched in her hand, Julia slipped back into the East Wing. The door swung shut behind her with the same soft, resonant click, plunging her into that oppressive silence once more. This time, she hardly noticed. Her focus was entirely on Marian's sealed door.
She approached it, the letter opener feeling inadequate yet purposeful in her trembling fingers. The rusted nails were old, the wood around them splintered and softened by damp. She found a purchase with the tip of the letter opener, inserting it into the gap between the nail head and the doorframe.
She gritted her teeth, applying pressure. The old wood groaned in protest, a strained, mournful sound that echoed in the silent corridor. Rust particles dusted her fingers as the nail head began to loosen, slowly, agonizingly. With a loud pop, the first nail came free, leaving a jagged hole in the doorframe.
She moved to the next, then the next, working with a desperate urgency. The task was harder than she imagined, the nails firmly embedded. Her bandaged hand throbbed, a dull pulse of pain echoing her efforts. But the thought of Marian, her crossed-out eyes, the missing portrait, Marian's whispered warning – it spurred her on.
Finally, with a final, resounding crack of old wood, the last nail holding the crossbeams gave way. The seal was broken. The heavy door, released from its centuries-old bondage, sagged inwards, groaning on its hinges. A wave of dense, stale air, thick with the scent of decay, dust, and an overwhelming, cloying sweetness of Marian's perfume, washed over her.
Julia pushed the door wider. It opened into utter darkness. She reached inside, fumbling along the wall for a light switch, but her fingers met only cold, damp plaster. She peered into the gloom, her eyes slowly adjusting.
The room was a tomb. Untouched for months, perhaps even years. Dust motes, disturbed by the opening of the door, danced in the faint moonlight that filtered through grimy windows, creating shifting patterns on draped furniture. Everything was covered in a thick, grey shroud of dust. Sheets covered what looked like a bed, a dressing table, a wardrobe.
The air was heavy with the weight of grief, of neglect, of decay. It was Marian's sanctuary, her prison, her final resting place. The silence was absolute, profound, broken only by Julia's own ragged breathing. It felt like stepping into a still, decaying portrait, a moment frozen in time, steeped in untold secrets. She took a step into the gloom, her heart pounding with a mixture of fear and morbid curiosity.