𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐑 - Short Halloween stories

The last Toast

As the clock struck midnight, the grand hall of the old Whitmore estate was aglow with the flickering light of chandeliers, casting long shadows across the polished floors. I stood quietly in the corner, the butler, observing the six guests gathered around the fireplace, their laughter tinged with an undercurrent of tension.

The evening had begun with champagne and casual chatter, but beneath the surface, the atmosphere crackled with secrets. Each of them—a disillusioned writer, a faded actress, a shrewd businessman, a glamorous socialite, a doctor with a tarnished reputation, and a once-prominent politician—had received a letter earlier that week, blackmailing them with their sins. Their shared guilt tied them together like a noose, and I could see it tightening as the night wore on.

It started with a scream.

Margaret, the actress, stumbled into the room, her face pale, eyes wide. "The gardener! He's dead!" The party erupted into chaos. I led the guests to the garden, where poor Thomas, the gardener, lay sprawled beneath the ancient oak, a bloody knife sticking from his back. The laughter and pretense fell away, replaced by fear.

As we returned indoors, it became clear: this was no accident. One by one, each of the six guests turned suspicious eyes toward the others, and I, their devoted servant, took my place as a silent observer. Tensions ran high, and whispers turned to accusations.

The first to go was Gerald, the businessman. Found in his room, a bottle of poison spilled beside him. I noticed the trembling hand of Helen, the socialite, as she recounted how he had once betrayed her in a shady deal. "He had it coming," she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper.

The next was Leonard, the doctor. He was discovered in the library, his throat slit. The other guests gasped, pointing fingers. I recalled how he had ruined the life of a patient once, a desperate act of malpractice. Each death revealed a thread of their dark histories, binding them together in a tapestry of betrayal.

With each passing hour, I watched as fear escalated. The remaining five decided to form an alliance against the unknown killer. I served them drinks, their faces pale and gaunt, each secretly wondering if the others were complicit in the murders. They exchanged furtive glances, and I could almost hear the gears of paranoia turning in their minds.

Then came the turn of Susan, the writer. She was found hanging in the attic, a note pinned to her dress—"You will pay for your sins." The others erupted into blame, but I stood apart, knowing that each of them had a hand in this nightmare.

Finally, only three remained: Helen, the socialite; Martin, the politician; and Agnes, the shrewd businesswoman. They gathered in the dining room, voices raised, desperate to prove their innocence while condemning the others. I watched, ever the quiet sentinel, as alliances crumbled and accusations flew.

In the midst of the chaos, a storm raged outside, the thunder shaking the estate. Just when it seemed that the last shred of sanity would vanish, Helen was found dead, a knife buried deep in her chest.

Martin and Agnes turned to me, wild-eyed. "You must know something!" they yelled. In that moment, I realized how deeply they had fallen into their own traps of greed and jealousy. I quietly recalled each of the servants they had dealt with, each carrying their burdens of guilt.

As the final clock struck, the lights flickered ominously. I gathered the remaining two and led them to the drawing room, where the last light illuminated the wall—a simple portrait of the original owner of the estate. It bore witness to all the sins committed under this roof.

"Now, let us reveal the truth," I said, my voice steady. I pulled a drawer open, revealing a ledger that contained the details of each blackmail—the letters, the sins, the secrets. "You see, all six of you have blood on your hands."

"Enough of this!" Agnes shouted, lunging at me. In that instant, I stepped aside, and she stumbled into the shadows.

Martin turned to me, realization dawning. "But you... you knew everything."

"Indeed," I replied, my heart steady. "But I'm not the killer." I watched as Agnes finally returned from the shadows, the light glinting off a knife she held. "Only one of you is innocent, and it's time the truth came to light."

As the storm raged outside, I revealed the final twist. The only servant not killed was the one who had tried to protect them all—Thomas. The gardener's death had been an accident, an attempt to shield their darkest secrets. "Only the innocent can remain," I said softly, feeling the weight of their sins.

With a swift motion, Agnes plunged the knife into Martin, who collapsed. The silence that followed was deafening. I turned to Agnes, and she smiled, the madness finally consuming her. "Now, it's just us," she whispered, the shadows closing in.

As I faced the last of the guests, I understood that in the end, it wasn't just the servants who had died. The night had claimed them all, one by one, and as dawn broke over the estate, I would remain, the sole witness to their unraveling.

I was the butler, but I was also the last keeper of their secrets. And now, I would make sure their legacy of murder was never uncovered.