Chapter 2 - The Ghost of Copley Manor
The heavy silence that followed the man’s declaration felt heavier than the crystal chandeliers overhead. Julianne Vance gripped the edge of the mahogany serving table, her knuckles whitening beneath her diamond rings as she stared at Rene with wide, terrified eyes. The distinguished man in the dark suit—Arthur Sterling, managing partner of the Copley estate—took another slow, disbelieving step forward, his breath hitching in his throat.
Rene did not flinch, though a cold shiver crawled down her spine. Her name tag still read 'Rene,' a simple plastic clip she had pinned there that very afternoon, yet the older man had addressed her by a name she had not heard since she was a terrified child hiding beneath floorboards.
“My name is Rene,” the waitress said, her voice dropping an octave, steady and devoid of panic. “You are mistaken, sir.”
“No,” Arthur breathed, shaking his head violently. He looked from Rene’s sharp jawline to the elderly woman sitting quietly in the wheelchair. “I would know those eyes anywhere. They are Margaret’s eyes. And that jaw belongs to the woman they buried in an unmarked grave behind the carriage house.”
Julianne found her voice, though it hitched with hysteria. “Arthur, you’re losing your mind! Margaret’s daughter vanished the night of the fire. She’s dead. This girl is just some insolent domestic trying to pull a desperate scam for a piece of the Copley fortune!”
The elderly woman in the blue dress—Eleanor Copley herself—slowly turned her head toward Julianne. A faint, knowing smile touched the corners of Eleanor’s lips, though her eyes remained glacial. “Some ghosts, Julianne, do not rest in graves. They walk the halls they were cheated out of.”
Arthur reached into his breast pocket with trembling fingers, pulling out a faded, folded photograph that had clearly been handled thousands of times. He stepped closer to Rene, ignoring the gasps of the surrounding socialites who had stopped dancing to watch the unfolding drama. He held the photograph up, comparing the image of a young woman from decades past to the living, breathing waitress standing before him. The resemblance was undeniable, terrifyingly precise.
“How did you get that name tag?” Arthur whispered, his voice cracking. “Who put you in this ballroom tonight?”
Rene stared at the photograph, her breath catching in her throat as she recognized the necklace the woman in the picture was wearing—the very same diamond tennis bracelet Julianne had just tried to rip from Eleanor’s wrist.
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Before Rene could utter a single word of explanation, the ballroom lights flickered violently, plunging the glittering room into sudden, absolute darkness.
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