The bell tolled. It hung in the attic of the crumbling manor, rusted and silent for decades. Now it rang. The sound was not of metal. It was of bone. Margaret sat on the floorboards. Her hands were still. Her mother, Elspeth, stood by the window. The glass was fogged. Elspeth’s face was clear. She looked at Margaret. Her eyes were hollow. Dark pits.
"Why does it ring?" Elspeth asked.
Margaret...
The storm did not arrive; it erupted from the marrow of the earth, a jagged tearing of the sky that left you, Eleanor, standing in the wet, churning mud of the valley floor with the heavy, rusted iron of the family seal pressed so hard into your palm that the metal had begun to sink into the meat of your hand, a cold, biting anchor in the chaos of the wind that screamed through the skeletal...
The clock in the hallway has not stopped, yet I feel the air around it has thickened, turning viscous and cold, as if the room itself is holding its breath in anticipation of a verdict that has already been rendered. I am standing at the window of the study, looking out over the grey expanse of the moor that stretches beyond the estate’s crumbling walls, and I can see the fog rolling in from...
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