Rain fell relentlessly, drumming against the windows of the ancient manor as if the sky itself mourned what was to come. In a dim room with a high ceiling and dusty chandeliers, Edwin sat on a worn wooden chair beside his grandfather's large bed, Lord Gregory Blackwell. The air was thick with the scent of mildew and burning incense, weaving a feeling of disgust and anxiety into Edwin's senses.
His grandfather was dying. His bones protruded beneath his skin, and his pale eyes rolled under thin eyelids. The breathing apparatus emitted intermittent whispers, like the gasps of a dying creature. Although the doctor had said the end was near, something in the way his grandfather stared at the dark ceiling suggested he saw something else... something unseen.
"Edwin..." His voice emerged like a whistle from an open grave. "Don't... let them starve..."
Edwin leaned in, tense, and whispered, "Who? Who are they, Grandfather?"
The gray eyes opened slowly. The grandfather said in a choked voice, "The sacrifices... important... blood... the gate... don't close it... don't trust the shadows... don't trust Lilith..."
Then his heart stopped.
No alarm sounded from the machines. No screams. No drama. Just... silence. Deep. Heavy. Even the rain outside seemed to pause.
But something else began. Faint whispers. Soft. As if the walls were breathing, as if the manor awakened with the death of its master.
Edwin breathed heavily. It wasn't the cold that made him shiver, but the feeling that someone, or something, was watching him from the darkness. He looked toward the opposite wall and noticed a shadow moving despite the stillness of the furniture.
He felt eyes watching him. Not human.
He left the room, but before closing the door, he glanced once more at his grandfather's body. A faint smile was drawn on his face, as if death was a relief... or revenge.