Page 4 of Wicked Beasts
Three
It’s difficult to sum up exactly how this house feels—quite simply, it has an atmosphere unlike any other I’ve ever entered. I think perhaps the only word I can imagine that comes close ismemory; every room, every hallway, feels thick with memory—as if I’m not the only one there. It’s as if everyone who ever walked these halls is still somehow tangibly present.
Mortimer leads me to the guest bedroom, and I am immediately struck by its grave beauty. It’s bathed in a soft, dim glow, courtesy of the candles arranged haphazardly, their flames flickering like fireflies against the walls and surrounding furniture. An ornate mirror, framed in detailed ironwork, hangs above a small writing desk near the door. The dark wood floor groans softly beneath my feet as I take a few steps inside.
There’s an oversized armchair standing guard in a far corner, upholstered in deep crimson velvet, that I somehow find both inviting yet foreboding. The walls are lined with deep burgundy wallpaper, embossed with floral patterns that seem to sway in the flickering lights.
A large, carved wardrobe is pressed up against one wall, its doors slightly ajar, revealing nothing but a dark emptiness within. Above the fireplace, a faded portrait hangs, its eyesfollowing me with unease. As I take a hesitant step, a chill runs through me, and the sensation of being watched encompasses me further, between the painted eyes and the distant howl of the wind. Slivers of moonlight seep through the dark velvet drapes, their fabric heavy and rich, framing the tall, arched windows. The eeriness of the fluttering drapes wraps around me like a scarf, seeking to choke me and yank me out of the room.
I can’t help but think this will be a good place to write.
In the center, a grand, four-poster bed sits proudly, draped in layers of dark lace and embroidered silks. The mattress, piled high with plush, black pillows, invites me to sink into its depths. But with the unease that lingers in the air, the offer of comfort almost seems like a trap. Like a siren’s call, it promises solace but also a sense of potential ensnarement.
It’s creepy, but?—
“Beautiful,” I whisper and look back at Mortimer.
But he’s gone, and I stand alone.
I swallow the lump growing in my throat and bring my bags into the room to get settled.
I place my laptop on the writing desk next to my rose, the vibrant red in bold defiance of the surrounding darkness. My countless journals and pencil cases find places alongside it. Then, I pull my suitcase to the bed, ready to unpack my clothes and confront the void of the looming wardrobe eager to swallow my belongings.
A few minutes later, after I’ve somehow conquered and tamed the dark interior of the wardrobe, a sharp, intruding knock thunders through the silence as I tug my now-emptied suitcase back off the bed. The sound of bone against wood reverberates off the walls, sending a jolt of adrenaline through me. I’d left the door to the hall ajar but hadn’t heard anyone approaching.
I turn as I let go of my suitcase handle. Standing in the doorway is a woman of obvious authority, her posture straight and unyielding. Her lips are pressed into a firm line as she surveys me with both mixed impatience and expectation. Yet, for some reason, beneath that stern exterior, a part of me is convinced a motherly tenderness lingers in her eyes.
“Hello. I am Mrs. Wong, the housekeeper,” she says, her slender hands cradling a sleek, elongated vase filled halfway with crystal-clear water. “Mr. Black said you needed this.”
“Oh, for my rose,” I say as she hands it to me. I set the vase on the writing desk, submerging the long stem in the water. “Thank you,” I add, turning back to her. “That was so thoughtful of him.”
“Yes,” she says curtly as she presses her fingers together in front of her stomach, forming a diamond shape with her hands. “Mr. Black is a very kind and dedicated man.” There’s a familiar prickle of chill coming from her words. While she speaks highly of him, she seems to deliver it like a warning. Without another word, Mrs. Wong glances back into the hallway and leaves.
Before I can react, a face peeks through the still-open doorway, this time youthful and friendly. The younger biracial maid—white and East Asian, if I were to guess—with a petite stature accentuated by a black-and-white uniform, flitters into the bedroom like a fairy made of sunlight. Her tousled, bleach-blonde hair is thrown up loosely in a bun, two loose tendrils framing her heart-shaped face. Her cheer stands in stark contrast to the manor’s heavy atmosphere, and her brown eyes glisten with curiosity as she looks me over.
“Hi!” Her voice is excited and welcoming, and I take a hesitant step back as she surprises me with a hug. “You must be Amara! I’m Gisella,” she says as she pulls away just as quickly. “I’m so glad you’re here. Everyone here is so…old.” Her voice trails off as she speaks, as if she’s revealing classifiedinformation she knows she shouldn’t be saying out loud. “I sort of feel like I’m surrounded by death.”
“Why are we whispering?” I ask, my volume dropping to meet hers.
“I-I don’t know,” she replies, her voice returning to a normal volume as she adjusts her uniform. “It feels safer. That was rude of me to say, wasn’t it?” Gisella forces a pained smile as her cheeks flush with embarrassment. “I just started two weeks before you, so I’m still getting adjusted as well. It’s a lot to take in.” She slithers her arm to link around mine like we’ve been friends for years. The closeness makes me a little uncomfortable, but I feel pulling away from her may hurt her feelings, so I let her hold on to me like a possession. “Did Mortimer go over all of the weird house rules? Don’t wander out of your room after curfew, and definitely don’t go in the east wing or out into the forest off the gravel, no matter what you hear. Manu is very strict about it, so stay on the path and in the gardens.”
“Who’s Manu?” I ask.
“The gardener,” she answers, a slight, surprising hiss in her voice. “Well, I suppose he’s more like a groundskeeper. He’s kind of mean. I just stay out of his way.”
“Oh, I haven’t met him yet.”
“Maybe tomorrow. Come on, let me show you around,” she says as she leads me out of the bedroom and back into the dark, intimidating foyer. My eyes fixate on the chandelier overhead, its crystals casting fractured, gentle light on the walls.
“Do you know what’s in the east wing?” I ask, my gaze flickering to the door Tristan had disappeared behind. “Mortimer mentioned it briefly but didn’t elaborate. He just told me to stay out of it.”
“He didn’t tell me either,” Gisella admits casually with a shrug. “He and Mrs. Wong keep a lot of secrets. I wouldn’tbother asking questions if I were you. Gets you nowhere with either of them.”
“What do you know about Mr. Black?” My eyes remain steady on the double doors, as though the ghost of him lingers there, taunting me. “He seems…reserved.”
“Oh, he’s a charming man!” There’s enthusiasm in her voice as she nods. “Very intelligent andsohandsome, although a bit awkward.”
I feel a strange prickle at hearing Gisella call Tristanhandsome.Am I feeling…jealous? Over a man I only just met?
