Following the chilling success of their first collection, Lady Eckland, Glenn Riley, and new collaborator, Bella Darkwood return to guide you through the shadowy corridors of fear with their second compendium, *Whispers In The Dark 2*. These master...
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In the twilight of 1882, the sprawling grounds of Hawthorne Manor quivered with anticipation, the Victorian estate mirroring the excitement stirring in every shadowed corner. Inside, servants moved with hushed haste, their whispers mingling with the melodies of a string quartet that drifted through the opulent halls. The Hawthorne name, synonymous with wealth and a peculiar fascination for the macabre, carried whispers of yet another outlandish gathering. Tonight was no mere soiree.
"Have you heard?" A gloved hand tapped a jeweled fan. "An orb, they say. One that awakens the spirits of the departed."
"Lady Hawthorne dabbles with dangerous forces, wouldn't you agree?" There was awe in the other woman's voice, carefully veiled by a hint of disapproval.
The object of their gossip, Lady Beatrice Hawthorne, swept through the receiving line. Her porcelain skin and raven hair offset the crimson of her gown. Her beauty was edged with something…otherworldly. A woman on the cusp of youth and something more. It was rumored she had an uncanny ability to sense the unseen, and her late nights spent poring over ancient texts only fueled the speculative tongues of high society.
"My dearest Beatrice," Sir Reginald Winthrop boomed, the scent of whisky clinging to his words, "what marvel have you discovered this time? A dancing mummy, perhaps?"
A laugh, delicate and brittle, escaped Lady Hawthorne's lips. "Perhaps something more…interactive, old friend."
Her gaze swept over the curious faces of her guests—wealthy industrialists, aging actresses, scholars, and the occasional titled rogue drawn like moths to the promise of the macabre. Her husband, Lord Edwin Hawthorne, hovered nearby, his countenance a mask of polite boredom. Their marriage was a union of convenience, an agreement long drained of affection. Beatrice's eccentricities were his shield from society's prying eyes and her family's vast fortune lined his pockets quite comfortably.
The hour grew late, candles casting an ethereal glow upon heavy velvet draperies and the collection of curiosities that adorned the drawing room. An embalmed mermaid stared balefully from its glass case, its scaly hand poised near a chipped Grecian urn. The prized possession was the orb, resting on a velvet cushion atop an antique mahogany table. Its silver surface was etched with strange symbols, rings of brass revolving around it with an unnerving fluidity.
"It…moves," Lady Clara gasped, a hint of true fear breaking through the practiced coyness of her tone.
"It is a testament to genius," Beatrice breathed, her gaze fixed on the artifact. "The finest minds of the Orient and the esoteric geniuses of the West. All to create a bridge to those who linger beyond the veil."
A tremor of unease passed through the gathered guests. Sir Reginald snorted. "All that for a parlor trick?"
Before Beatrice could respond, a chilling silence descended upon the room. The candle flames flickered violently, then dimmed to a mere thread, plunging the room into a twilight gloom. A gasp echoed through the chamber.
