The mansion, with its towering walls and endless halls, had become both a sanctuary and a prison for Ava. Each day blended into the next, marked by the soft hum of normalcy that Alexander orchestrated around her. He seemed to anticipate her every need—books, tea, conversations that meandered into the early hours of the morning—but there was an underlying tension in the air that neither of them addressed.
She noticed it in the way the house seemed to hold its breath, how the staff moved with deliberate caution and exchanged guarded looks. The strange whispers in the corners of the rooms, the hurried steps in the hallways when she wasn't looking—something was amiss. But whenever she tried to ask, the answers were vague, evasive.
It was late one evening when the first ripple of the mansion's secrets surfaced. She had been lingering in the study, her fingers brushing against the spines of books on the ornate shelves, when she overheard the hushed conversation between two maids in the hallway.
"Another one... gone," one murmured, her voice low and trembling. "No one saw it coming. He... he was just there, and then... not."
The other maid replied, voice shaking, "They think it's him again. But they can't prove it."
Ava froze. Her heart quickened, her pulse thumping in her ears as she tried to make sense of the words. "Him?" she whispered, as if the word itself would confirm something she already feared.
Before she could learn more, the conversation died down, and the sound of footsteps receded into the distance. Ava remained motionless for a moment, her mind racing with unanswered questions. Another disappearance? Another death?
She shook off the chill creeping up her spine and left the study, determined not to dwell on the whispers. But they stayed with her long after the maids were out of sight, like the scent of something foul that clung to the air.
---
Days passed, and the whispers faded into the background, but Ava couldn't ignore the growing unease that gnawed at her. It was the little things: the way the servants now hurried their steps when she entered a room, how the once-open doors were now always locked, even though no one would tell her why. She had begun to notice a pattern—odd events that didn't quite add up. Doors that creaked in the night. Strange noises from the attic. People speaking in hushed tones when they thought she wasn't listening.
One afternoon, as she wandered through the library, she noticed a familiar scent—the metallic, almost sickly sweet odor that had lingered in the dining room. She followed it, her breath shallow, until she arrived at the back of the house, near the servants' quarters. The smell was stronger here.
Her heart thudded in her chest as she crept toward the source, her feet moving instinctively. She stopped at a door—one that had never been opened before. It was ajar, just enough for her to peer inside. The room was dimly lit, and she could make out the silhouette of a figure standing near the far wall.
It was Alexander.
His back was turned, but his posture was rigid, as though he were in deep concentration. Ava hesitated, uncertain whether to approach or retreat. Something in her gut told her she was about to witness something she wasn't meant to see. But before she could turn away, Alexander spoke without looking at her.
"Curiosity is a dangerous thing," he said, his voice low and cold.