The smirk that usually played on Silas's lips faltered, replaced by a grim set. He shifted his weight, the scrape of his boot echoing in the stillness. His eyes, surprisingly thoughtful, fixed on the forgotten wedge of cheese in his hand.
It was a strange moment, almost tender in its quiet gravity. Then, a heavy sigh escaped him, a sound too weary for his usual sharp demeanor. He nodded slowly.
"I found something," he finally admitted. His voice was low, almost a whisper against the silence of the East Wing. "In Marian's old sitting room. Behind the plaster—it was cracked and damp near the hearth."
He gestured vaguely. "I thought it was just rot, but…" His gaze darted to the dim corridor, a flicker of apprehension in his eyes.
"There's a desk. Hidden in the wall. A small, fold-down writing desk. And inside it… a journal. Marian's, I think. Or what's left of it."
Julia's heart gave a sudden, hard thud against her ribs. The air seemed to compress around her. "Why didn't you say anything earlier?"
Silas looked away, his jaw tightening. "Because I wasn't sure what I was looking at. And because," he added, glancing pointedly over her shoulder, "I didn't trust this house to keep quiet while I read it."
The corridor behind them seemed to lengthen, an ominous tunnel stretching into shadow. It felt like a watchful, waiting presence.
Elsie, who had been hovering near the wall, perked up. Her voice, usually so timid, was quiet but firm. "I'll stand watch. At the corridor door. Just in case Miss Thorne—or worse—decides to take a stroll."
Julia turned to her, a wave of relief washing over her. "Thank you, Elsie. Be careful."
Elsie nodded, her expression resolute. Then, she was gone, her steps as soft and silent as a ghost's.
Silas motioned for Julia to follow him. He led her through a cracked archway into what had clearly once been a private study. The wallpaper here was peeling in brittle curls, revealing the forgotten plaster beneath like an old wound.
At the far end of the room, he crouched down. His fingers traced a warped section of the wall. "There," he murmured, tapping the spot. "See that line? I noticed it because the draft was stronger here. The wall was hollow."
He tugged on a rusted ring. With a reluctant groan, a panel gave way. The small desk emerged, as if pulled from the very fabric of the house itself.
Julia stepped closer, her breath catching in her throat. Her gaze fell upon the object nestled within.
The journal. It was leather-bound, its cover brittle with age and water damage. But even through the decay, Julia recognized it instantly. It was Marian's hand. That careful, slanting script she knew anywhere. Her cousin had always written like someone who feared being misunderstood, every letter precise.
She reached for it, her fingers trembling slightly. The worn leather felt cool and soft against her skin, like aged parchment.
"Careful," Silas warned, his voice low. "Some pages are fused at the edges. Others are… wrong."
Julia gently opened the journal to the first legible entry. It was dated four months before Marian's death. Her eyes scanned the words, a cold dread beginning to seep into her.
I hear things at night. In the pipes. In the mirrors. I'm losing time. I wake up with bruises I cannot explain. I asked Alistair, and he says I've always bruised easily. I do not recall.
Julia's heart pounded. The words were a stark, chilling echo of the unease that had settled over Blackwood Hall.
Another entry, two weeks later:
The mirror in the East Wing cracked without reason. The reflection lingers longer than I do. I see a man behind me, but when I turn, there is nothing.
A shiver traced its way down Julia's spine. Her skin prickled, and the fine hairs on her arms stood on end. This was more than just a house settling.
"She wrote about dreams she didn't remember having," Silas said, his voice quiet beside her. "Nightmares that left bruises."
Julia's fingers trembled as she turned the page. The thought was horrifying, but she had to ask. "You think she was possessed?"
"No," he said slowly, his voice heavy with a grim certainty. "I think someone wanted her to look mad."
Julia looked up, startled. Silas's expression was dark, serious in a way that truly unsettled her. His usual mocking glint was absent, replaced by a cold, calculating gaze.
"I've seen men do worse for less," he added, his voice flat. "Isolate a woman. Make her question herself. If Alistair wanted her… compliant… what better way than to undermine her mind?"
The implications were chilling. Alistair. The thought was monstrous, yet it resonated with the unsettling undercurrents she had felt in the house.
The journal crackled as Julia flipped further, her fingers catching on a page where Marian's hand had grown frantic. Loops and slashes of ink crowded the parchment, desperate and wild.
I went to see her. Eleanor Vance gave me her name. Madam Belrose. She knew of the house. She said the walls were too thin. That something had been fed.
"Madam Belrose," Julia murmured aloud. The name was familiar. "I know that name. I found letters in Marian's study addressed to her. She was consulting a spiritualist in London—trying to understand what was happening."
Silas gave a low whistle, a sound of grim appreciation. "That's dangerous work, seeking answers in smoke and mirrors."
"She must have been desperate," Julia said, hugging the journal to her chest as if it were a fragile bird. It was all that's left of Marian's truth. "And I think we should go find her. We need answers too." She wondered if Alistair knew about this.
Silas stiffened beside her. His easy demeanor vanished completely. "You want to go?"
"Yes," Julia confirmed. The words felt strange, almost accusatory, even as she spoke them.
He was quiet for a long moment, the silence thick with unspoken thoughts. Then, a terse remark. "I don't like that."
"Neither do I," Julia replied, her voice barely a whisper. The unease that had been building in her now coiled into a knot of apprehension. "But if Marian trusted this woman, perhaps we should too."
A sudden, suffocating silence pressed down around them. It was a silence that felt heavy, unnatural, as if the very air had ceased to move.
Julia's gaze darted to the doorway, a sudden prickle of alarm on her skin.
"Elsie?" she called softly, her voice barely a breath.
No answer. Only the oppressive quiet.
She rose, the journal still clutched tightly to her chest. "Elsie?" she called again, a little louder this time, a tremor entering her voice.
Still nothing. The silence deepened, pressing in on her from all sides.
Julia's heart tightened in a cold vise. A wave of icy dread washed over her. "She said she'd be right outside," Julia murmured, already moving toward the study door, Silas close behind her.
They stepped into the corridor. It was empty. Horribly, utterly empty.
Dust motes danced in the faint light, suspended in the air like frozen breaths. The faded wallpaper fluttered faintly as they passed, even though there was no discernible breeze.
"Elsie?" Julia called again, sharper now, her voice edged with a burgeoning fear. "Elsie, where are you?"
Still no reply. The silence was a mocking presence, devouring her calls.
Julia broke into a quicker step, her gaze frantically sweeping every corner, every shadow. Her voice rose, tinged now with genuine panic. "Elsie! Answer me!"
They reached the far end of the corridor, where the linen room gaped open. The chute, a gaping maw of darkness, was still ajar.
No sign of Elsie.
"Damn it," Silas growled, his voice rough with frustration. "She wouldn't have gone far. She's not foolish."
"She wouldn't leave without telling us," Julia snapped, her breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. The cold fear had solidified into a chilling certainty. "Something's wrong."
Silas grabbed her hand, his grip firm and grounding. His touch was a jolt, pulling her back from the edge of panic. "Hey. Julia. Look at me."
She did, her eyes wide and wild, reflecting the stark terror that gripped her.
"She's alright," he said, his voice steady, firm, a stark contrast to her own racing pulse. "We'll find her. But you can't be caught up here. Finch would have your neck."
"But—" The protest died on her lips. She knew he was right. Being found here would jeopardize everything.
"No. You'll go. Now. I'll keep looking. Come back tonight, same way. Bring food. And water, for god's sake." His command was absolute, leaving no room for argument.
Julia hesitated, torn between the desperate need to find Elsie and the undeniable logic of Silas's words. The thought of leaving Elsie behind, vulnerable and alone, was agonizing. But she also knew that if Finch caught her, her investigation would be over.
With a reluctant nod, a bitter taste in her mouth, she turned toward the linen room. Her hands shook as she gathered her skirts, the heavy fabric feeling strangely cumbersome. She slipped into the dark opening of the chute, her heart pounding with every second that passed without hearing Elsie's voice. The silence above was deafening.
She landed with a soft thud on the bundled linens below. Pushing the panel open, she emerged into the servants' hallway.
The hallway beyond was quiet. Terribly, ominously quiet. It was a silence that screamed of things hidden and unseen.
Julia stepped out, brushing dust from her coat. Her mind raced, replaying Elsie's sudden disappearance. A sickening dread twisted in her stomach. She made her way toward the servant's stairwell, each step feeling heavy, weighted with foreboding.
She had just reached the bottom step when a voice, deep, smooth, and utterly unmistakable, shattered the oppressive quiet.
"Miss Harrow."
Julia froze. Every muscle in her body locked. She turned slowly, her breath catching in her throat.
Mr. Finch stood at the end of the hall, an imposing figure of immaculate composure. His presence alone was enough to send a chill down her spine. And beside him, clutching the hem of her apron, was Elsie—her face blotchy and red-eyed, her body trembling with quiet sobs.
Julia's gaze snapped from Elsie's tear-streaked face to Finch's impassive, watchful eyes. Her heart plummeted.
"What were you doing in the East Wing, Miss Harrow?" His voice was calm, utterly devoid of emotion, yet it was laced with a chilling authority. The question hung in the air, a silken trap.