Chapter Two
1433 Words
The morning light filtered through long velvet curtains, pale and diffused by a thick blanket of snow outside. Annie blinked awake, momentarily forgetting where she was. The bed beneath her was too firm, the ceilings too high, and there was no familiar hum of the city. Just quiet. Still. Heavy.
She sat up, pulling the thick comforter around her shoulders and glancing around the grand guest bedroom. A large dresser stood against one wall, and an antique mirror reflected the pale light at her. The entire room smelled faintly of cedar and something older, dust and time, maybe.
She padded across the floor and opened the heavy curtains, revealing a snow-covered courtyard and beyond that, the tops of bare trees. It was beautiful. Cold, but beautiful.
Her breath fogged against the window as she whispered to herself, "Let’s get this over with."
After a quick breakfast of toast and black coffee, Annie slipped on thick socks, a sweater with gold stitching, and her most practical jeans. She grabbed the massive key ring left for her on the foyer table and began exploring.
The estate was even larger than it had appeared from the outside. Two parlors, a ballroom, and a grand staircase that split halfway up. A massive dining room. Multiple guest rooms. Hallways that seemed to twist on themselves. She half expected to get lost.
Boxes of holiday decorations had been delivered ahead of time by the agency. They waited in the main hall like forgotten gifts, stacked beside a towering but undecorated fir tree in the center of the room.
She knelt to start unpacking, muttering to herself, "Red ribbons, gold ornaments… let’s see if we can make this place look less like a gothic set."
She reached into a box and pulled out a delicate glass bauble. It shimmered in the light, catching her reflection, just her face, slightly pale from the cold. She was turning to hang it on a branch when she heard a voice.
Low. Smooth. Very close.
"I prefer silver."
She gasped and spun around.
No one.
Her heart kicked up. She scanned the room slowly—nothing but empty hallways, the grand staircase, and the dusty chandelier swaying ever so slightly overhead.
"Hello?" she called, her voice stronger than she felt.
Silence.
She shook her head, laughing nervously. "Okay. Great. We’re already hearing things."
She turned back to the tree and nearly dropped the ornament.
A figure stood across the room.
Leaning casually against the door frame, dressed in a dark, tailored coat that looked oddly out of time. He had high cheekbones, a refined jaw, and dark, wavy hair that brushed the collar of his coat. His eyes were unreadable. Deep.
She stumbled back a step. "Who the hell are you?"
He didn’t move. "You heard me earlier."
"I thought I was alone."
"Technically," he said, stepping forward, "you still are."
Annie’s breath hitched. "You’re trespassing. You can’t be here."
"Neither can you, really," he said, glancing at the Christmas boxes. "All these… decoration. It doesn’t suit the house."
She swallowed hard. "You didn’t answer me."
"I’m part of the estate," he said simply, a small smile playing at his lips. "And you… You’re not what I expected."
"You’re the caretaker?"
He didn’t reply. Just watched her.
She felt heat rise in her chest, but it wasn’t from fear; it was something else. Something strange.
"I’m going to have to ask you to leave," she said, trying to sound firm.
He stepped closer, just enough for her to see the faintest shimmer around his edges. For a second, she thought she was imagining it, but then it shifted. Like he was flickering. Like a candle in a draft.
She blinked.
And he was gone.
No footsteps. No sound. No door creaking.
Just gone.
Annie stood frozen, her heart thundering in her ears.
Behind her, one of the silver ornaments rolled gently across the floor and came to a stop at her feet.
She stared at it. Then whispered, "Oh no. Absolutely not."
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of garlands, lights, and mental breakdowns.
She tried to convince herself it was stress. Travel fatigue. Too much caffeine. That the man had been real. Maybe she had imagined the whole thing. Maybe someone was playing a trick.
But when she finished decorating the first tree and turned to hang the garland on the banister, another voice drifted from behind her.
"The last woman who decorated that banister fell off the landing."
She turned so fast she nearly toppled the garland herself.
Nothing there. Just a faint trace of cologne in the air, faint and old. Like something worn long ago.
And, once again, no footsteps to follow.
The last ribbon was tied, the final candle set into a golden holder on the mantle.
Annie stood in the middle of the main hall with her hands on her hips, staring up at the massive Christmas tree she’d just finished. It glittered in soft whites and silvers, with deep cranberry reds woven through like threads of velvet. Crystal snowflakes caught the lamplight and threw delicate reflections across the wooden floors. Garland lined the staircase, wrapped with twinkling lights, and wreaths hung on nearly every door.
The house looked alive.
Warm, somehow.
She wasn’t sure if it was the holiday charm or simply her own exhaustion making it feel that way.
Still, she took a deep breath and smiled faintly to herself. "Well… this place doesn’t look half as haunted now."
She wandered back toward the kitchen, brushing pine needles off her sweater. The kitchen, unlike the rest of the estate, had been lightly updated, still vintage, but usable. She didn’t have the energy for anything fancy, but the cold air had given her a craving for something comforting.
She rifled through what had been stocked and found pasta, garlic, a small wheel of Parmesan, and a bag of fresh cherry tomatoes. That would do.
As the scent of roasted garlic and butter filled the kitchen, she set a pot of water to boil and chopped tomatoes with rhythmic precision. A glass of wine sat beside the cutting board, already half gone.
Twenty minutes later, she curled up in the small breakfast nook beside a fogged-up window, a steaming bowl of buttery tomato pasta in front of her. The estate was quiet, still. Somewhere deep in the house, a radiator groaned.
She picked at her food, her mind drifting back to earlier. That man. The way he looked at her. The strange glimmer in his eyes. Like he knew something she didn’t.
Who was he?
Why wouldn’t he answer her?
A cold draft brushed the back of her neck.
She turned.
He was there.
Standing in the archway between the kitchen and hall, like he had always been there, tall and composed, his hands tucked behind his back. The same tailored coat. The same dark hair.
And those eyes. Observing her. Always watching.
Annie’s fork froze mid-air.
"You again," she said slowly. "You’re not exactly subtle."
He didn’t move. "You’re a very practical woman."
She blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Most people wouldn’t stay after seeing me. Especially not alone in a place like this."
"You say that like I’m supposed to be afraid of you."
His head tilted. "Aren’t you?"
She set her fork down. "No, should I be?"
He smiled, just slightly. "Not yet."
Something about the way he said it made her spine tighten. But his voice wasn’t threatening. It was… curious. Like he was trying to solve her.
She leaned forward. "You keep showing up, asking questions, not answering mine. Who are you? Do you work for the estate?"
"Not anymore."
"That’s not an answer."
He took a step closer, shadows pooling at his feet.
"You’ve brought life back into this house," he said. "It’s been quiet for a long time. Silent."
Annie stood. Slowly. "Are you stalking me?"
"If I were, would you leave?"
She crossed her arms. "Depends. Are you going to tell me your name?"
He didn’t.
She sighed in frustration. "You’re the worst conversationalist, you know that?"
"And yet," he said, "you keep talking to me."
A flicker of something passed behind his expression.
"Is this a game to you?" she asked.
"No," he said softly, and this time, something flickered in his voice. Something old. Wounded.
Then, like mist evaporating in sunlight, he was gone again.
No footsteps. No closing door. No rustle of cloth.
Just the soft rattle of the wind against the windows.
Annie stood alone in the kitchen, heart racing, staring at the empty archway.
- Writer
