Chapter 7 - Echoes in the Dust
The third floor of the Blackwood estate was a labyrinth of forgotten memories, draped in ghostly white dust sheets that covered towering armoires, Victorian fainting couches, and portraits of ancestors whose eyes seemed to follow every intruder. The air up here tasted stale, thick with the scent of dry cedar, old parchment, and a faint, underlying metallic tang of rusted iron.
Julian led the way up the narrow servants' staircase, a heavy flashlight casting a harsh, sweeping beam across the peeling floral wallpaper. Marisa followed closely behind, carrying a kerosene lantern whose flame danced erratically in the drafty corridor. Arthur trailed in the rear, his old joints cracking with every step.
"You are wasting your time," Julian muttered over his shoulder, though he gripped the handle of his concealed pocket knife tightly inside his trousers. "The attic hasn't been opened since my father died. The wood of the door warped decades ago; it probably just shifted in the storm."
"Wood doesn't slide a dead-bolt lock, Julian," Marisa pointed out sharply, her heart pounding against her ribs.
They reached the end of the narrow hallway. Looming before them was the heavy oak door of the attic, its surface scarred by deep gouges and soot stains that dated back to the minor electrical fire the estate had suffered a decade ago.
Julian stepped up to the door and grabbed the iron handle. He tested it. It didn't budge. He pushed his shoulder against the wood, throwing his weight into it. The heavy oak frame groaned, but the deadbolt held firm. It was undeniably locked from the inside.
"See?" Julian breathed out, stepping back and wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. "It's rusted shut. The moisture from the storm caused the mechanism to jam."
"Then how do you explain that?" Arthur whispered, pointing down with a trembling, arthritic finger.
At the base of the heavy door, a small, dark puddle of water was slowly spreading across the warped floorboards. And floating directly in the center of the puddle was a single, fresh, perfectly preserved white rose petal, dripping with condensation.
Marisa knelt down slowly, extending a trembling hand to touch the petal. It felt ice-cold, as if it had just been plucked from a winter frost.
"Roses don't grow in the attic, Julian," Marisa whispered, looking up at him with wide, accusatory eyes. "And they certainly don't stay fresh in the dark without water."
May you like
Before Julian could answer, a soft, scratching sound echoed from behind the locked wooden door. Scratch. Scratch. Pause. Followed immediately by the unmistakable sound of a little girl giggling—a sound that belonged to someone who wasn't Valentina.
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