Beretta ^hot^ — Brooke

The first floor was mostly intact, though water damage had ruined the parquet floors and wallpaper hung in sad ribbons. The second floor held six bedrooms, each with a fireplace and a view of the overgrown garden. The third floor was a labyrinth of servants' quarters and storage rooms, many of them locked. The keys were long gone.

Brooke arrived on a gray November morning with two suitcases, a tool belt, a tablet loaded with the original 1892 blueprints, and a growing sense that she had made a terrible mistake. The front door, massive oak banded with iron, was unlocked. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of dry rot, mouse droppings, and something else—something sweet and metallic, like old blood mixed with rosewater. brooke beretta

And tonight, on the last night of October, when the veil is thin, Silas intends to turn it. The first floor was mostly intact, though water

But things started to happen. Small things at first. The keys were long gone

She backed toward the front door. The door was gone. In its place was a wall of smooth, warm obsidian, pulsing with that slow, terrible heartbeat.

Brooke knew she should leave it alone. The will had been explicit: no research, no digging into the house's history. But the book was right there, and she had never been good at following rules she didn't understand.