Chapter 1
2298words
Just last night, I witnessed Betty vanish.
It was my third night at Rosewood Manor. I should have been soundly asleep—Mrs. West had been crystal clear: after midnight, never leave your room. But my country habits made sleep impossible in this eerie place. Just as the midnight bells fell silent, I heard soft footsteps in the hallway.
Out of curiosity—the damned curiosity that nearly cost me my life—I cracked open the door.
Betty Thompson, the kitchen maid about my age, tiptoed down the dim hallway. Her white nightgown floated in the flickering candlelight like a lost spirit. I wanted to call out—Mrs. West had just warned us about the midnight curfew. But something gripped my throat, leaving me frozen as she vanished into the darkness at the corridor's end.
Then I heard it.
God, that sound! Even now, my entire body trembles at the memory. No human could make such a noise. It was deep, viscous—like a demon murmuring from hell's deepest pit. Mixed with wet, tearing sounds and faint, heartbreaking cries. My body froze solid. Every nerve screamed at me to run, yet my legs turned to lead.
The terrible noise continued for an eternity, then suddenly stopped.
The silence that followed terrified me more than the sounds. I curled up behind the door, counting to one hundred before daring another peek. The corridor stood empty, dying candles casting long shadows on the walls. I should have closed the door and forgotten everything. Instead, morbid curiosity pulled me toward where Betty had disappeared.
The kitchen door stood half-open, leaking a sickeningly sweet, metallic smell. I peered through the crack, nearly crying out at what I saw.
The kitchen was unnaturally clean. No Betty. No struggle. Not even a hint of disorder. But in the moonlight lay a puddle of black liquid on the floor. It gleamed with an eerie luster, as if alive with malice.
I fled back to my room, trembling, and curled up until dawn. This morning, just as Mrs. West predicted, the housekeeper announced that Betty had "suddenly resigned," her belongings neatly packed as if she'd calmly decided to leave.
But I know the truth. Betty will never leave Rosewood again.
Let me start from three days ago, when I stepped into this magnificent manor with naive hopes. Let me tell you about the ancient rules that cannot be broken, and the darkness lurking beneath Rosewood's elegant facade.
Three days ago, in the autumn of 1887, I stepped through the main gates of Rosewood Manor with a knot in my stomach. My father's farm had gone bankrupt, my mother had died last winter, and I had no choice but to seek work far from home. As the carriage passed through the majestic gates, I felt a flutter of hope for a new beginning—God, I had no idea what nightmare awaited me.
The servants' hall outshone any place I'd ever seen. Towering stone pillars reached skyward, exquisite carvings adorned every wall, and enormous crystal chandeliers cast dazzling light. Yet beneath this splendor, I felt watched—as if the building itself had eyes.
"Welcome to Rosewood Manor, Miss Snow."
A stern voice broke my trance. I turned to find a middle-aged woman standing behind me. She had deep brown eyes and prematurely white hair, dressed in a simple but immaculate black uniform. Though her voice sounded gentle, something lurked in her eyes—a warning? Sympathy?
"I am Margaret West, the head maid," she continued. "I'll be responsible for your training and duties."
I attempted an awkward curtsy, nervously twisting my luggage handle. "Thank you, Mrs. West. I'm Emily Snow."
Mrs. West's gaze lingered, her scrutiny making me squirm. Then she nodded and gestured for me to follow.
"Come along. I'll show you around."
We began to navigate the maze-like manor. Mrs. West explained that the building dated from the early 19th century, designed by royal architect James Crawley. The style blended Gothic Revival with Neoclassicism, but as we ventured deeper, something felt... wrong. The corridors stretched too long, the ceilings soared too high, and the wall carvings seemed to writhe in the candlelight.
"It's enormous," I whispered, my voice bouncing eerily through the empty corridor.
"Indeed it is," Mrs. West replied, her tone carrying a warning I didn't yet understand. "And very old. Some places here... best never to visit alone."
We passed an entrance to a particularly dark corridor. Despite the warm autumn day, it breathed an unnatural chill that made me shiver. Mrs. West quickened her pace, clearly unwilling to linger. I glanced back, seeing a corridor so deep its end vanished into darkness—darkness that seemed to have weight and substance.
"What's down there?" I asked.
"The East Wing," Mrs. West answered tersely, tension evident in her voice. "That area is forbidden to servants. Remember this, Miss Snow. Never—under any circumstances—enter the East Wing."
She offered no explanation, but her tone killed any desire I had to ask why.
We reached the servants' quarters. Though modest compared to the main house, it was clean and orderly. Mrs. West stopped before a door and took a small key from the ring at her waist.
"This is your room." She pushed open the door, gesturing for me to enter.
The room was small but adequate for a country girl like me. A single bed, small wardrobe, simple dressing table, and a window overlooking the courtyard. Modest, but far more comfortable than my attic back home.
"Sheets are changed weekly. Hot water runs from six to seven each morning. Remember—" her voice hardened, "—lights out and in bed by ten o'clock."
I nodded and unpacked my meager belongings: a worn leather suitcase, a few patched clothes, and my mother's prayer book—my only treasure. I carefully tucked the book under my pillow, hoping it might offer comfort in this strange place.
"Miss Snow," Mrs. West paused at the doorway, her voice dropping to a grave tone, "before you begin work, I must tell you some rules. These rules are not to be broken. Violating them may bring..." she hesitated, searching for words, "...severe consequences."
I looked up, meeting her deep brown eyes. What I saw made my stomach clench—not anger or authority, but fear. This woman who had managed the manor for twenty years was afraid of something.
"First," Mrs. West began, her voice unnaturally solemn in the small room, "after midnight, no one walks the corridors. No matter what you hear or see, you must not leave your room."
"What about emergencies?" I couldn't help asking.
Mrs. West's gaze turned to steel. "There are no exceptions. Breaking this rule leads to consequences far worse than any emergency. Trust me, I've seen what happens to those who don't listen..." She left the sentence hanging, but her expression told me everything.
I swallowed hard and nodded.
"Second," she continued, "in the East Wing corridor is the seventh door. Never open it. Never approach it. Never wonder what's behind it."
"Why?" My voice dropped to a whisper.
Mrs. West stared at me, a flash of pain crossing her eyes. "Because some things are best left undisturbed, child. Some doors, once opened, can never be closed again."
She listed more rules: Princess Victoria's tea set must be arranged precisely—teapot facing east, cups clockwise, sugar bowl due north; on the first Sunday monthly, all servants must attend the basement purification ceremony without asking questions; never work alone in certain rooms; never enter guest areas without permission; and most importantly—never question any "unusual phenomena."
With each rule, a chill crept up my spine. My fingers clutched my prayer book like a talisman against the darkness gathering around me.
"These rules sound... strange," I finally managed, unease evident in my voice.
Mrs. West's eyes softened with sympathy. "Perhaps. But they exist for a reason. This manor is ancient, with a dark history. We're merely servants—we don't need to understand, only obey. Remember—" her voice hardened, "—in this place, curiosity might cost you your life."
After delivering these words, Mrs. West left me alone with my thoughts. That night, I lay awake on the unfamiliar bed, her rules echoing in my mind—especially that final warning: "curiosity might cost you your life."
I remembered the village tales of ancient manors and curses—stories I'd dismissed as superstition. Now, under Rosewood's shadow, those legends felt terrifyingly real. I clutched my mother's prayer book, seeking comfort, but the familiar prayers seemed feeble against whatever lurked here.
At midnight, the manor's great clock began to strike. One, two, three... I counted each toll until the twelfth echo faded into silence. I forced my eyes closed, willing sleep to come. Just as I began to drift off, I heard footsteps.
Soft, deliberate footsteps in the corridor.
My eyes shot open, my heart hammering against my ribs. Mrs. West's warning echoed: after midnight, no one walks the corridors. Yet someone clearly was.
The footsteps halted, followed by a deep male voice. Though I couldn't make out the words, the tone carried anxiety and anger. Then came Mrs. West's voice—careful and tense.
Curiosity overcame fear. I slipped from bed and pressed my ear against the door.
"...Annie is missing." The male voice was clearer now.
"Captain Harrison, I suggest you don't dig too deeply into this matter..." Mrs. West replied.
Captain Harrison—the Captain of the Royal Guards. I'd glimpsed him on my first day: tall, handsome, reportedly engaged to a maid named Annie.
"I won't stop searching for the truth." The captain's voice hardened with determination. "If you know something, tell me."
Silence followed, then retreating footsteps. Minutes later, Mrs. West's door closed, and the corridor fell quiet once more.
I crept back to bed, my unease deepening. Another disappearance—the captain's fiancée. Mrs. West's reaction told me this wasn't the first time. And Captain Harrison was searching for answers—would that put him in danger too?
Dawn broke with a panicked shout.
I threw on my coat and rushed out to find several maids clustered at a door down the hall—Betty Thompson's room. The same gentle girl who'd worked beside me in the kitchen yesterday.
As I approached, I saw the room was empty. The bed was made with unnatural precision, clothes folded perfectly—as if the occupant had merely stepped out. On the bedside table lay a note from the housekeeper:
"Betty Thompson has resigned for personal reasons, effective immediately. She felt honored to have served at Rosewood Manor."
My head spun. Just yesterday Betty had gushed about working here and her excitement for Christmas. She'd never mentioned leaving. And those terrible sounds last night... were they connected to her?
Mrs. West appeared beside me, her face ashen.
"Miss Snow," she murmured, "you're simply adjusting to a new environment. This old house makes all manner of noises at night."
I shook my head and whispered, "No, Mrs. West. What I heard wasn't normal. It was..." I struggled for words, "...the sound of despair. And that wet, tearing noise, like..."
Mrs. West seized my arm, warning flashing in her eyes. "Lower your voice, child."
Just then, the housekeeper appeared at the corridor's end. Mrs. Mary Blackwell—tall, stern, reportedly in service for thirty years—approached with her trademark icy expression. The other maids scattered instantly, none daring to meet her gaze.
"Mrs. West, Miss Snow," her voice cut like a knife, "why are you gathered here? Is there a problem?"
"No problem, Mrs. Blackwell," Mrs. West replied quickly. "Miss Snow is simply surprised by Miss Thompson's sudden departure."
Mrs. Blackwell's gaze shifted between us, her scrutiny making my skin crawl. "Miss Thompson received an excellent position with a wealthy merchant family in London. She left last night. It was her choice."
"But—" I began, only to feel Mrs. West's elbow sharply in my ribs.
"Miss Snow," Mrs. Blackwell's voice hardened, "you're new and clearly don't understand our ways. Here, we don't question our superiors. It's basic courtesy and professional conduct."
I lowered my head, fighting to control my trembling. "Yes, ma'am. I'm sorry."
"Good. Now, prepare breakfast. Her Highness has important guests today."
We curtseyed and hurried away. I stayed close to Mrs. West as we walked to the kitchen, confusion and fear hanging over me like a storm cloud.
The kitchen smelled of bread and smoked bacon, but after last night, these once-comforting aromas felt wrong somehow. Other servants bustled about preparing breakfast, all carefully avoiding one corner—where Betty had worked yesterday.
Then I saw it.
Right where I'd peeked through the door last night was a partially cleaned black stain. In daylight, it looked like an ordinary smudge, but I remembered its eerie moonlit gleam. My body began to shake.
"Mrs. West," I whispered, pointing to the mark, "is that—"
"Just spilled sauce," Mrs. West cut me off, though tension strained her voice. "Someone was making a late snack. Come, we have work to do."
As I turned, I spotted Captain John Harrison in the doorway. His gaze locked on the black stain, his expression shifting from confusion to rage. I could almost see him connecting the dots—his missing fiancée, the vanished maid, these strange marks.
This was just the beginning of my nightmare. In the days that followed, I would witness more horrors, more disappearances, more inexplicable events. And I—a naive country girl—would be forced to confront Rosewood's darkest secrets.
Looking back now, I realize that morning was merely the first drop of rain before the deluge. The true horror still waited in the shadows, hungry for us all.
