Chapter 21 - the music box in the dark
The interior of the mansion smelled of damp plaster, decayed floral wallpaper, and ancient cedar. As Roman pushed the door inward with the barrel of his weapon, the hinges groaned like dry bones. The vast entrance hall opened before them, a grand marble staircase sweeping upward into impenetrable shadow.
Every piece of furniture was draped in pale linen dust sheets, giving the great hall the appearance of a room filled with motionless, silent specters.
"Clara," Roman warned under his breath, raising a hand to signal a halt.
From somewhere above them, drifting down through the high gallery railings, came a sound that made the blood freeze in Clara’s veins. It was the delicate, mechanical chime of a music box, playing a slow, mournful rendition of Brahms’ Lullaby.
Clara’s hand flew to her mouth. "That was in my nursery... my father locked it in the attic after she died. He swore he gave it away."
"Don't move ahead," Roman commanded, his flashlight sweeping the marble stairs. The beam cut through swirling motes of dust, illuminating a trail of fresh wet footprints tracking upward toward the east wing.
Without waiting, propelled by an uncontrollable surge of desperate longing and paralyzing terror, Clara took a step toward the staircase. Roman grabbed her wrist firmly, pulling her back against his side.
"Keep your head, Clara. Nostalgia is the easiest trap to spring," Roman whispered sharply, his senses hyper-alert to the silent void of the estate.
They ascended the marble steps side by side, Roman clearing each shadowed landing with professional precision. The sound of the music box grew louder, resonating from behind a heavy pair of oak doors at the end of the east corridor—the old master study.
As they reached the entrance, the music box gave a sudden metallic screech and fell dead silent. A floorboard creaked inside the dark room.
May you like
Roman kicked the door wide, his weapon drawn and light slicing through the darkness. The beam swept past shelves of rotting leather-bound books, resting squarely upon a high-backed velvet armchair turned toward the rain-streaked bay windows.
Seated in the chair, silhouetted against the flash of distant lightning over the lake, sat an elegant figure holding a porcelain cup, wearing an emerald velvet gown that Clara had seen in portrait after portrait.
