Chapter 3
2070words
Mrs. West's expression was grave this morning. When assigning tasks, her gaze lingered on me, those deep eyes searching. I shifted uncomfortably, wondering if she sensed something amiss.
"Emily," her voice dropped low, "today you'll clean the Princess's private art studio."
The other maids fell silent. Several pairs of eyes turned to me with sympathy or fear. Sarah's face drained of color as she clutched her cleaning cloth.
"Art studio?" I forced my voice to sound casual. "I didn't know the Princess painted."
A grim smile touched Mrs. West's lips. "The Princess has many interests. You'll see." She paused, then whispered: "Just clean. Don't touch any paintings. And don't stare at them too long."
I nodded, but dread washed over me. Why shouldn't I look at the paintings? What secrets did they hold?
The studio occupied the top floor of the west wing—somewhere I'd never ventured before. When I pushed open the oak door, a mixture of oil paint, blood, and something sickly sweet assaulted my senses. The room was vast with soaring ceilings and enormous windows that flooded it with light. Yet this light brought no warmth; it only emphasized the room's eerie emptiness.
Paintings covered the walls, each in an ornate gold frame. I tried heeding Mrs. West's warning, but even glimpsed peripherally, they quickened my pulse. They appeared to be portraits, but the subjects' expressions were distorted in agony, as if caught in unspeakable torment.
I forced myself to clean—wiping desks, chairs, and windowsills with trembling hands. But those paintings pressed against my consciousness like thorns, their "eyes" following my every move. The harder I tried ignoring them, the more insistent their presence became.
While cleaning a mirror in the corner, something caught my eye—a reflection of a painting behind me. In that moment, I saw it clearly: Betty's face!
I whirled around, heart hammering. The painting indeed showed Betty—her expression twisted with despair and terror, bloody tears streaming from her eyes, mouth stretched in a silent scream. The image was so vivid, as if her very soul had been captured on canvas.
"Beautiful work, isn't it?"
A familiar voice behind me nearly stopped my heart. I turned slowly to find Princess Victoria in the doorway, resplendent in deep purple velvet, wearing that unsettling smile.
"Your Highness," I stammered, attempting a curtsy on trembling legs. "I was just cleaning. I'm nearly finished."
She glided into the room with predatory grace. "No need to hurry away, Emily. You're curious about my collection, aren't you?"
I wanted to deny it, but words failed me. Her gaze cut through pretense, seeing every thought in my mind.
"This piece is especially precious," she approached Betty's portrait, caressing the frame with slender fingers. "Betty was beautiful—her suffering so pure, so moving. You see, true art requires genuine emotion as its raw material."
"Betty... did she really leave Rosewood?" I somehow found the courage to ask.
The princess turned, a wild light dancing in her eyes. "Leave? In a sense. She freed herself from mortal constraints to achieve eternity. Now she'll never age, never forget this exquisite pain."
My blood turned to ice. Though her words were cryptic, their meaning was horrifyingly clear: Betty was dead, her final moments captured on canvas by this... monster.
"You look frightened, dear Emily," she advanced toward me, each step heightening my terror. "But fear is beautiful too, isn't it? It brightens the eyes, quickens the pulse."
I wanted to flee, but my legs refused to move. She reached me and gently caressed my cheek, her touch cold as death, making me shudder.
"Tell me, Emily," her voice soft as a whisper yet crystal clear, "did you hear anything special last night? Perhaps... agonized moans?"
I wanted to deny it, but her eyes held some power that made lying impossible. "I... I heard them."
"Very good," she smiled—beautiful yet cruel. "Honesty is so precious. Do you know where those sounds came from?"
I shook my head, though my heart already knew the terrible answer.
"The basement, my dear," her fingers traced my neck, "where I keep my most special collection. That place isn't ready for you yet... at least, not now."
Just then, the studio door opened, and Captain Harrison appeared. Seeing the princess's intimate posture with me, complex emotions flashed across his face.
"Your Highness," he saluted crisply, his voice formal, "your tutor awaits you."
The princess stepped back gracefully, her expression instantly transforming to noble innocence. "Of course, Captain. I'll go at once." She turned to me with a gentle smile. "Emily, thank you for cleaning my studio. You did wonderfully."
With that, she glided from the room, leaving behind a faint perfume and suffocating dread.
Captain Harrison lingered, approaching me to ask quietly: "Are you alright? What did she do to you?"
I wanted to tell him everything—about Betty's portrait, about the princess's terrible words. But as I tried to speak, something blocked the words. Not fear, but something else—as if an invisible force prevented me from revealing the truth.
"I'm fine," I managed with difficulty. "Just... these paintings are rather unusual."
The captain's gaze swept across the walls, his expression darkening. "They are indeed. I suggest you avoid this place in the future."
His warning deepened my unease. If even this military man feared this place, what horrors was the princess concealing?
After he left, I stood alone among the paintings that seemed to writhe at the corners of my vision. I needed to escape, yet I knew something irreversible had occurred. The princess had noticed me—and that spelled danger.
I hastily gathered my cleaning supplies. But as I reached the doorway, I heard a faint voice calling my name.
"Emily..."
I froze. The voice came from one of the paintings—faint but unmistakable. I turned slowly, searching for its source.
Then I saw it—a small painting in the corner showing a young woman with brown curls and green eyes. Though somewhat blurred, I recognized her: Annie, the captain's missing fiancée.
In the portrait, Annie's eyes brimmed with tears, lips parted as if begging for help. But most terrifying—when I stared at her, her eyes moved. Actually moved, looking directly at me with desperate pleading.
"Help... help me..." The whisper came again, unmistakably from Annie's portrait.
My rational mind screamed this was impossible—the dead can't speak, paintings can't move. But my senses told me otherwise. In this cursed place, the impossible seemed commonplace.
I nearly reached out to touch the canvas, but Mrs. West's warning echoed: "Don't touch any paintings." Perhaps she'd known their secret all along. Perhaps she'd been trying to protect us from a terrible fate.
I forced myself to leave, but Annie's plea echoed in my mind as I hurried down the corridor. A profound loneliness and terror enveloped me—I'd stumbled into something far darker and more dangerous than I could have imagined.
That afternoon in the kitchen, I helped prepare dinner with my mind elsewhere. My hands mechanically chopped vegetables while I pondered those paintings. If Betty and Annie were truly dead, what of the other missing maids? Had they too become part of the princess's "collection"?
"Emily, watch out!" Mrs. Cook's shout snapped me back to reality—I'd nearly sliced my finger.
"Sorry, ma'am. I'm just... tired."
Mrs. Cook studied me, concern in her eyes. "You're white as a sheet, child. Perhaps you should rest."
"I will. Thank you." I set down my knife, but Mrs. Cook shook her head when I reached for another task.
"Go rest. We'll manage." Her tone was gentle but brooked no argument.
Back in my room, sleep eluded me. As darkness fell, I heard footsteps in the hallway—soft but rhythmic, like someone on patrol. I held my breath and peered through the door crack.
A tall figure passed by—the deep purple gown and elegant stride unmistakably the princess's. She carried an ancient copper lamp that cast dancing shadows in the darkness.
She stopped at the corridor's end—at the basement door. From her skirts she produced an ancient key and turned the lock. As the door opened, a cold draft rushed up, nearly extinguishing her lamp.
Then came the sounds—agonized moans, clanking metal, and an eerie melody I couldn't identify. As the princess descended, the sounds grew clearer and more disturbing.
I knew I should return to bed and forget everything. But curiosity and a desperate need for truth pulled me from my room toward the open basement door.
Cold stone steps descended into darkness. The sounds grew clearer—not just moans but sobs and whispered prayers. Most terrifying of all, the voices were all female, and one I recognized... Betty.
My legs trembled as reason screamed at me to flee, yet something pulled me forward. I placed one foot on the first cold step, feeling the chill through my thin slippers. Then the second step, the third...
Just as I committed to the descent, a hand shot out from the darkness and seized my wrist. I nearly screamed before a familiar voice stopped me.
"Don't go down there." Mrs. West had materialized behind me, her face grave in the dim light.
"Mrs. West, I—" I began, but she shook her head.
"Come with me. Now." She pulled me away from the basement, not stopping until we reached the kitchen. Her hands trembled—the first time I'd seen this formidable woman show fear.
"What did you see?" she whispered, tension straining her voice.
"I saw the princess enter the basement. I heard... voices. They sounded like—"
"Like the missing girls?" She voiced what I dared not.
I nodded, my throat suddenly parched. "Is Betty still alive?"
Mrs. West remained silent for a long moment, pain crossing her features. "In a way... yes. But not as you'd understand it."
"I don't understand."
"Some things are better left unknown, Emily." She fixed me with an intense gaze. "But since you've seen this much, I must tell you: Her Highness is not human. She possesses ancient, evil powers that extend life—but at the cost of immense suffering."
A wave of dizziness washed over me. "Are you saying she killed those girls?"
"Worse," Mrs. West whispered, her voice barely audible. "She prevents them from dying. She traps them in pain and despair, using them as sources of her power. Those portraits… they are her masterpieces, each one a cursed soul."
Fear coursed like ice water through my veins. "What about me? Why is she targeting me?"
Mrs. West's expression darkened. "Because you possess something that attracts her. Perhaps your innocence, perhaps your fear. Whatever it is, you are now in grave danger."
"What should I do?" I pleaded, desperate for answers.
"Be careful, extremely careful. Avoid being alone, don't break any rules, and most importantly, don't let her know that you've discovered her secret." Mrs. West gripped my hand tightly. "I will do everything in my power to protect you, but some things are beyond even my abilities."
That night, I tossed and turned in bed, replaying everything I had experienced. I'd been drawn into a terrifying game far beyond my comprehension, with Princess Victoria as its master.
Through the darkness, piano notes drifted from afar—that same eerie melody that had summoned the princess last night. This time, I didn't dare search for its source. Instead, I covered my ears tightly, praying that all of this was just a nightmare.
When the piano stopped, I heard something even more terrifying—gentle knocking at my door.
"Emily," came the princess's voice, gentle and sweet, "are you asleep? I have something I want to share with you."
I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing my breathing to remain steady, feigning sleep. The knocking continued for a few minutes, then stopped. But somehow I knew she remained there, standing outside my door, waiting.
"Goodnight, my dear Emily," her voice finally came again. "Tomorrow we will have plenty of time together. I have so many wonderful things to share with you."
Her footsteps gradually faded, but terror had already taken root in my heart. This twisted game had only just begun, and I had already become the next target on the princess's hunting list.
