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“It is too dangerous,” Lady Ferguson said. “Wait until tomorrow when the storm has gone. Besides, it will be pitch dark in the blink of an eye, and you don't want to be wandering around the island after dark, unless you know the place. And even then...”
"Thank you, Lady Ferguson," Amelia said. "We appreciate your hospitality, and after our journey, it would be good to get an early sleep."
“The kitchen is on the ground floor to the rear of the house, if you would like some food and refreshments,” she said. “Please do help yourselves.” The old woman's eyes narrowed, her faint smile somehow becoming fainter. "Just one other thing. Don't open any windows. You wouldn't want anything crawling in. It's not safe."
Finn couldn't let that go. "What do you mean by 'not safe'?"
But Lady Ferguson turned, ignoring his question. "Goodnight," she said, her voice carrying with it a mounting sadness as she walked away.
Finn and Amelia exchanged a concerned look as the older woman retreated down the shadowy hallway, her steps quiet against the worn carpet.
"Charming place, isn't it?" Finn quipped, trying to dispel the discomfort that Lady Ferguson had left in her wake.
"Utterly delightful," Amelia responded, her voice tinged with sarcasm. "Maybe you should share a room with her; you both seem to have a unique sense of humor."
Finn shrugged his shoulders. "Tempting, but I think I'd be safer facing the hidden folk or whatever they call them here. Speaking of which, want to bunk together? Safety in numbers, you know."
Amelia laughed softly, shaking her head. "I'll take my chances with the local ghosts and legends, thank you. I think I will lie down for a bit, I have a little bit of a migraine coming on. I might just sleep. Scream if you need anything."
"Will do," Finn grinned. "Pleasant dreams."
With that, they unlocked their respective doors and stepped into their rooms. Finn's space was larger than he'd expected, dominated by a massive four-poster bed that looked like it belonged in a different century. Dusty portraits hung on the walls, their eyes seeming to follow him as he moved. He couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched, and it wasn't just by the people in the paintings.
He threw his bag on a rickety chair and began to unpack, setting down his identification and notepad on the bedside table. The room was cold, the kind of cold that seemed to seep into your bones, and he wished not for the first time that he was back in the cozy embrace of the cottage at Great Amwell.
Settling into the bed, he pulled the heavy drapes closed, but they did little to keep out the persistent draft. The wind outside howled and rattled against the windows, as if angry for being denied entry. He decided that an early bed wasn't too bad an idea. He read for a couple of hours and then tried to phone Rob, but couldn't get a signal. That didn't seem so bad a thing.
At least Demi can't put any more doubt into my mind,he thought.
After another while of letting his thoughts swirl around like the storm outside, he lay there for what felt like hours, listening to the creaks and groans of the ancient house, each noise magnified by the clawing wind and rain and his own heightened nerves.
But then another sound caught his ear, something different—scratching, like fingernails against glass. It was coming from his window.
Finn sat up, heart pounding in his chest. He stared at the window, half-expecting to see a face staring back at him, but there was nothing there. Still, the scratching continued, slow and deliberate, as if taunting him.
"Okay, that's enough," he muttered to himself, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Taking a deep breath, he moved cautiously toward the window. Every step felt like an eternity, every creak of the floorboards loud as thunder in the silence of the room.
With a swift motion, he yanked back the curtains. But there was nothing there—just the dark, impenetrable night and the relentless rain pelting against the glass. He could see that small pieces of grit and grass were occasionally being blown against it in the dark. He hoped that was what had been causing the noise.
Just as he was about to turn away, convinced that his mind was playing tricks on him, he caught sight of something. A shadow, just for a moment, darting away from the window and disappearing into the blackness of the storm. His heart sank as he realized that Lady Ferguson's warning may have been more than just the ramblings of an old woman.
Peering out into the darkness, he wondered if it had simply been his imagination. He certainly wasn't going out into that storm to find out.
Finn stepped back and took a deep, shaky breath. "This is going to be a long night," he murmured, eyes never leaving the window as he climbed back into bed. He kept staring at it, even as his eyelids began to feel heavy, wondering if among the shadows out there on the island, a killer lurked.
In the morning, he would know one way or the other.
CHAPTER FIVE
After a night of fitful sleep and unsettling dreams, Finn woke up to the faint aroma of coffee wafting through the air. Outside, the wind still blew, but it and the rain had calmed to an almost bearable dull howl.
He dressed quickly and made his way downstairs, following the smell to a large, grand dining room adorned with an elaborately set table. A massive chandelier hung from the ceiling, its many crystals throwing soft light across the room.
Amelia was already there, sipping on a cup of coffee and flipping through a file. "Morning," she greeted, not looking up from her reading.
"Did you sleep well?" Finn asked, taking a seat across from her.
"As well as one can in a haunted mansion," she replied, finally setting down her file to give him her full attention.
