Chapter 4 - Midnight Footsteps
The grandfather clock in the grand foyer chimed eleven-fifty, its deep, resonant gongs vibrating through the floorboards and rattling the crystal decanters on the sideboard. Julian stood motionless in the center of the dimly lit hallway, his black suit jacket buttoned tight, his eyes fixed on the sweeping staircase that ascended into the murky shadows of the second floor. Behind him, Martha stood just inside the kitchen doorway, her grey uniform blending into the dark mahogany panels of the wall. She held a heavy brass candlestick in her right hand, her knuckles white against the metal.
“Are you certain?” Julian murmured, his voice barely audible over the ticking of the antique clock.
“Every single night for the past month,” Martha replied in a breathless whisper. “Always at this exact hour. The floorboards outside the master nursery always groan in threes. Just like they did the night Mrs. Vance disappeared.”
Julian didn’t answer. He took a slow, deliberate step forward, his polished leather shoes making no sound against the thick Persian runner. The air in the hallway felt suddenly colder, carrying a faint scent of damp earth and expensive French tobacco—a scent he associated with only one person in the world. Arthur. If his brother had returned to the estate without his knowledge, hiding within the sprawling maze of unused guest suites and servant quarters, it meant the entire security apparatus of the Barker mansion had been compromised from within.
They reached the foot of the grand staircase. Julian gestured for Martha to stay back, but she shook her head firmly, refusing to let him face whatever waited upstairs alone. Together, they began the silent ascent, keeping close to the carved wooden bannister to avoid the spots where the wood was known to squeak.
At the landing, the darkness was absolute. The large stained-glass window that usually cast moonlight across the gallery was blocked by heavy velvet drapes that had somehow been drawn shut, despite the staff’s strict instructions to leave them open. Julian reached out, his hand brushing against the cold wall until his fingers located the brass wall sconce. He flicked the switch, but nothing happened. The bulb had been unscrewed.
“He knows we’re tracking him,” Martha whispered, her breath brushing Julian’s ear.
“Stay behind me,” Julian commanded softly, pulling the snub-nosed revolver from his jacket pocket with practiced ease. The cold steel felt grounding against his palm.
They crept down the long, carpeted corridor of the east wing, passing the heavy oak doors of the children’s rooms. Through the polished wood, Julian could hear the soft, rhythmic breathing of his daughters asleep in their beds. That brief moment of paternal comfort only fueled his rage. Whoever was lurking in this house was endangering his girls.
At the very end of the hall, the door to the master study stood slightly ajar. A thin sliver of amber light spilled out across the dark Persian carpet, cutting through the shadows like a blade.
May you like
Julian raised his weapon, his finger resting lightly on the trigger. He crept forward, his heart hammering against his ribs, and kicked the heavy door wide open.
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