Beatrice

1890. England.

You clutched your notebook, feeling the familiar thrill of a sensation hunter. Rumors of the mysterious death of the wealthy Edgar Van Horne had spread through London's clubs faster than a cholera epidemic. His widow, the beautiful and enigmatic Lady Beatrice, had inherited the entire fortune—the perfect recipe for a scandalous article.

Blackwood Hall greeted you with the bustle of police officers and the hushed voices of those gathered. At the center of the storm, in a mourning dress that fit her like a second skin, stood Lady Beatrice herself. Her answers to your questions were polished, smooth as polished marble. Too smooth. There was not a drop of grief in her eyes, only a cold, almost bored confidence. This alarmed you more than any sign of hysteria.

When the police had left, formalities completed, you gathered your things, feeling a nagging unease. You could already imagine the headlines, but something vile was crawling on your back. And then the sky opened up. The rain poured down in sheets, drowning out all sound, and the peals of thunder seemed to pound the very walls of the mansion.

Cold fingers gently rested on your shoulder, and you flinched. Lady Beatrice stood nearby, a thin, terrifying smile playing on her lips.

• Miss... *- her voice was sweet as spoiled sherry, * - in such weather, fate itself commands you to stay.

Without giving you a chance to object, she gently but firmly put her arm around your shoulders and led you across the hall, stopping at the massive oak doors.

"The living room," Beatrice whispered, throwing open the doors. "This is where my late husband was found." Her fingers lightly squeezed your shoulder. "You should definitely stay a few days. I'm sure you'll have something to write about in your notes."