The rain intensified as the train slowed, blurring the already gray world outside into streaks of wet watercolor. The station was smaller, quieter than London, nestled amongst low, rolling hills that looked bruised under the heavy sky. A hired carriage waited. It was dark, heavy, built for bad weather and rough roads. Julia stepped inside, the plush velvet seats feeling strangely cold beneath her fingertips. The door thudded shut, a sound of finality.
The driver was a silent man, his face hidden mostly by a wide-brimmed hat pulled low. He didn't speak, just flicked the reins, and the horses began their steady, pulling gait. The paved road soon gave way to gravel, then to a track that wound its way onto the moor.
The landscape changed. Drastically. The neat fields and hedgerows vanished, replaced by vast, open tracts of land. Peat bogs spread out like dark stains. Heather, brown and beaten by the rain, covered the ground. The air grew colder, sharper, smelling of damp earth and something wild and ancient. Mist clung low to the ground, coiling like spectral snakes around the base of twisted, skeletal trees. Their branches clawed at the sky, bare and black, looking less like natural growth and more like grasping hands reaching from the earth.
The carriage wheels crunched on the wet track. The only other sounds were the drumming rain, the sighing wind, and the rhythmic clopping of the horses' hooves. It felt like moving backwards in time. Away from the world.
Miles passed. The light began to fail, bleeding out of the sky slowly. The mist thickened. It pressed against the carriage windows, muffling the view, making the world outside feel distant and unreal. Julia felt a prickling sensation on the back of her neck. Like eyes were watching from the swirling grayness.
She hugged her cloak tighter. The letter tucked inside felt heavier now.
Then, through a sudden thinning of the mist, she saw them.
High iron gates. Ornate, rusted, covered in ivy that looked like dark veins. They stood like a sentry across the track. The carriage slowed, stopping just before them. The driver made no move to get down. He didn't need to.
With a low, mournful groan, the gates began to swing inward. Slowly. Silently. There was no one there to push them. They simply opened, as if in silent welcome. Or perhaps, as if they had been waiting.
Julia's breath hitched. The driver didn't react. He urged the horses forward, and they passed through the threshold.
The track beyond was lined with ancient oaks, their thick trunks draped in moss. The mist seemed even denser here, gathering under the trees like forgotten thoughts. The drive felt endless, winding through the shadowed grounds. Julia peered through the rain-streaked glass, trying to catch a glimpse of the house, but it remained hidden, shrouded by the mist and the encroaching darkness.
Finally, the trees parted.
Blackwood Hall stood before her.
It was enormous. Built of dark stone, it rose from the earth like a jagged piece of the landscape itself. Spires and gables reached into the gray sky. Chimneys stood like silent sentinels. It was majestic, yes, but also wounded. Weathered stone was stained by centuries of rain. Some windowpanes were dark and empty, like missing teeth. Others reflected the dying light with a dull, lifeless sheen.
The house had too many windows. They stared out from the facade like a multitude of dark, watchful eyes. There were no lights visible. None at all. The place felt deserted, yet utterly aware of her arrival. A knot formed in Julia's stomach. This was not a welcoming place. It was a place that endured. A place with secrets etched into its very stone.
The carriage pulled to a stop before a heavy, dark oak door. It was tall, imposing, studded with iron. The air here felt colder, heavier, saturated not just with rain but with a profound silence.
The driver didn't move. He didn't need to.
The door opened.
It was not Alistair who stood there.
It was a man. Tall, gaunt, framed by the darkness of the hallway behind him. His face was skeletal, all sharp angles and deep-set eyes that seemed to pierce the gloom. His hair was slicked back, gray and damp-looking. He wore a black uniform, spotless, and white gloves that seemed unnaturally bright against the dark wood. He moved with a strange, unsettling stillness.
Mr. Finch. It had to be. Alistair had mentioned a butler in his brief note about arrangements.
Finch did not smile. His expression was utterly devoid of warmth. He did not offer a greeting. Did not say her name. He simply stood there, holding a black lantern that cast flickering, restless shadows.
He spoke. His voice was low, flat, without inflection. It held the dry, quiet chill of a tomb.
"The housekeeper will see to your things. Dinner is in an hour. Follow me."
That was all. No welcome. No offer of assistance with her bags. He simply turned and began to walk into the depth of the house.
Julia hesitated for a fraction of a second. Every instinct screamed at her to turn back, to run, to get into the carriage and order the driver to take her anywhere but here. But she didn't. She couldn't. Duty, curiosity, and that persistent, unspoken sense of owing Marian something greater than fear, propelled her forward.
She stepped out of the carriage, onto the wet gravel path. The cold, damp air wrapped around her. She walked to the open door.
Entering the foyer was like stepping into a different climate. It was vast, cavernous, cold as a crypt. The air inside was still, heavy, carrying a faint, cloying scent. Dust motes danced in the narrow beam of Finch's lantern light, hanging in the air like suspended breath.
The sheer scale of the space was overwhelming. Ceilings soared high above, lost in the shadows. A grand staircase curved upwards, its dark wood gleaming dully. Portraits lined the walls, their subjects staring down with painted eyes. Everything felt old, decaying, steeped in a history she couldn't possibly know.
And then she caught it. Beneath the dust, beneath the scent of old stone and dampness, there was another smell. Faint, lingering, unmistakable.
Roses. Not fresh ones. Dried, faded roses. The scent Marian always wore.
Julia felt a sudden, sharp dizzy spell. The floor seemed to tilt beneath her feet. The edges of her vision blurred. For a fleeting, terrifying moment, she felt a rush of cold air pass through her, as if someone had just walked by very quickly. It left her feeling disoriented, breathless.
She blinked, shaking her head slightly. It was just the journey. The lack of sleep. Her nerves.
Finch had stopped, turning to look at her with those unnervingly still eyes. He hadn't spoken, but his silence was a question.
"I'm… I'm quite alright," Julia managed, her voice sounding thin in the immense space.
Finch gave no sign he believed her. He simply nodded once, curtly, and continued leading the way. As he moved, Julia caught a glimpse of another figure standing near the foot of the grand staircase.
A woman. Clad head to toe in black. Tall, stiff-backed. Her face was severe, bony, framed by dark, scraped-back hair. Her lips were a pale, tight line. She didn't move. She simply watched Julia with an intensity that felt like a physical weight.
Miss Agnes Thorne. The housekeeper.
Agnes didn't nod. Didn't offer a word of welcome. Her expression was one of utter disapproval. Her eyes seemed to bore into Julia, cold and assessing. It was clear, without a single word being spoken, that Agnes Thorne did not want Julia here. That she saw Julia as an intruder. Particularly here, in Marian's home. The air around Agnes seemed to hum with unspoken judgment. Julia felt a sudden, sharp certainty: Agnes Thorne blamed her. For what, she didn't know. But the woman's gaze held the hard conviction of a judge.
Finch led Julia past Agnes, down a long, echoing corridor. The silence returned, broken only by the distant sound of the rain and the soft padding of Finch's footsteps. He didn't make a sound. His black-gloved hand held the lantern steady.
He stopped at a doorway and gestured inside. "The drawing room. Mr. Blackwood asked that you wait here."
Julia stepped inside.
This room was also large, but felt slightly less imposing than the foyer. A fire crackled faintly in a large stone hearth, casting dancing shadows that didn't quite reach the corners of the room. Heavy velvet curtains, the color of old blood, were drawn across the tall windows, keeping out the last vestiges of the day. The air here was warmer, but still held that same faint scent of dried roses and decay.
Her eyes scanned the room. Dark, heavy furniture. Dusty surfaces. A grandfather clock ticked loudly in one corner, its pendulum swinging with slow, deliberate movements.
And then she saw it.
Hanging above the mantelpiece, directly opposite the doorway, was a portrait. It was large, commanding. Painted in rich, dark oils.
It was Marian.
Julia stopped, rooted to the spot. The firelight flickered, making the image seem almost alive.
Marian smiled out from the canvas. But it wasn't the full, bright smile Julia remembered. This was a smaller, more contained expression. Her eyes, painted in dark, intense shades, seemed too large, too deep. They were fixed straight ahead, looking not at the room, but through it. Past Julia.
She wore a dark dress in the portrait, the kind she wore in the country. Her hand rested on a velvet-covered table. Julia noticed a detail that made her stomach clench. One of Marian's earrings was missing. She had a pair of distinctive pearl earrings, small, intricate things. In the portrait, one earlobe was bare.
As Julia stared, she felt that same dizzying sensation return, stronger this time. The room felt cold despite the fire. The air grew heavy.
Was it her imagination? The firelight? Or did the portrait's eyes seem to follow her? Did they hold that same quiet, disapproving grief she had seen in her dream?
She tilted her head, listening intently. Was that the wind? Or a sound from the house? Or…
A whisper.
It was soft. Fleeting. Like the rustle of silk skirts or a breath of cold air.
It seemed to come from the portrait itself.
Julia's heart hammered against her ribs. She strained to hear it again. Was it just her mind playing tricks? Were the shadows and the silence and the oppressive atmosphere of this place getting to her?
No.
It was there again. A fragile sound, like brittle leaves skittering across stone.
It sounded like a name. Faint. Almost inaudible.
Marian…
Julia took an involuntary step back. Her hand went to her throat. The portrait stared back, silent now, just paint on canvas. But the unsettling feeling lingered, sharp and cold.
The missing earring. The strange smile. The eyes that seemed to see too much.
And the whisper.
Marian was dead. They said she was gone.
But standing here, in the heavy silence of Blackwood Hall, Julia felt a terrible certainty begin to settle over her.
Marian hadn't left at all.