𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐘𝐒𝐓

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐧𝐞

The soft sound of tiny footsteps filled the expansive halls of the manor. As soon as you arrived that morning, Flora insisted on giving you the grand tour of the main house. You pretty much knew where everything was already, but you figured you'd let her have her fun. She had been nearly bouncing in excitement since the moment you appeared in the driveway, bags in hand.

Before making the trip over, you turned on the TV to see that every news channel in the country was covering roughly the same story. Kurt Cobain committed suicide late last night and the world was fresh into mourning. You were no exception but you didn't want Flora to see you upset so you did your best to hide your sorrow as she pulled you up a short flight of stairs.

Was it a bad omen? A beloved musician dying on the eve of your new life? It certainly felt like it.

You finally shook your hand free from Flora's as she began skipping down the hallway that was littered with toys. The gardens and first floor were always kept in beautiful shape. However, in the East wing, where Flora's bedroom was, there always seemed to be something amiss. The ceiling was much shorter there than it was in the entryway and red, rusty water damage seeped through the chipped white paint.

As you looked around, Flora threw open the door on the left and stuck her head in. "This is Miles' room," she announced and you peered inside cautiously. You've been in there a few times, but you never made it your mission to stay very long.

It wasn't excessively dirty, but it wasn't that clean either. Unlike Flora's room, which was bathed in warm pink light and had stuffed animals scattered around the carpet, Miles' room was desolate. The only proof that someone lived there was the terrarium on his dresser, where a hairy Tarantula was scuttering about. Every so often during your visits, you would pop in and feed it a handful of pellets from the jar beside the tank.

You had a sneaking suspicion that Mrs. Grose never came to this part of the house, anyway, and you didn't want Miles to come home to a dead pet. That was to say if he ever came home at all.

You didn't have much time to look around before Flora was yanking you back out into the hallway and back up the short staircase. "And this," she smiled, running up ahead to tug on a heavy-looking wooden door. "This is your room."

The door thrust open to reveal a tall-ceilinged bedroom. It was considerably larger than both Flora and her brother's room combined with rich emerald-colored walls that complimented the deep red of the canopy bed that was pressed against the same wall as the door. It was so large that you had to step in completely to view the whole thing at once. "Woah," you mumbled, just then noticing that your bags were tucked neatly at the end of your bed. "It's gorgeous."

"It's empty," Flora observed indifferently, spinning around with her arms outstretched as she often did when she was bored. "But you can always have sleepovers in my room if you get lonely."

Your awed expression melted into one of pleasant surprise and you smiled down at her. "That's very kind of you to offer."

Upon closer inspection, you discovered that the room was connected to an equally impressive bathroom coupled with a fully stocked sewing room. However, you decided that the latter was off-limits after peeking your head in and seeing an alarming array of headless mannequins splayed about.

After making sure all of your belongings were present and accounted for, you noticed that Flora was being suspiciously quiet. When you looked up from your luggage, you were surprised to find her lounging on the sofa beneath the window. As gently as you possibly could, you stepped up behind her and looked out in the general direction of where she had been staring.

The window gave you a new and interesting perspective of the front of the estate. The rounded gravel driveway stood out against the lush green grass and a long row of skeleton trees lined the entire length of it, ending abruptly where the dark, wrought-iron gate marked the end of the property. "(Y/N)?" She whispered, fingers tracing frosted shapes on the glass. "What's after the gate?"