Page 52 of Wicked Beasts
The faint sound of footsteps drifts through the hallway, soft but purposeful, and I turn toward the door, half-expecting the police to question me—to demand answers, to ask me where I was during witching hour, or his time of death. But only silence follows. No one comes.
Rather than remain in my bedroom, idly waiting for nothing, I step outside into the muted quiet of the afternoon. I wander along the manor’s perimeter, tracing the line of overgrown bushes that cling to the stone walls, the faint rustle of their leaves swallowed by the heavy stillness. The only sound is the slow, deliberate scrape of my boots against the weathered stone pathway, each step a dull echo in the solitude that surrounds me.
A strange unease coils in my gut, something I can’t quite shake. It’s far too quiet, especially considering the crime scene discovered this morning. Shouldn’t there be a flurry of activity? The police, the whispers of an investigation, people moving through the house, searching for answers? Yet, there’s nothing. The silence presses in. My stomach churns as I walk slowly around the house, the sun a relentless weight on my skin, its rays cutting through the air with an intensity that scorches my cheeks. The wind whips at my hair, as if trying to pull me into the silence.
I stop at the scene, my eyes drawn to the stone path where blood should stain the earth, clinging to the cracks, with the last drops still seeping into the roots of the bushes nearby, the body sprawled in its grim stillness in a pool of its own drying blood.
Except the ground before me is pristine. I stand there, staring at nothing. The air feels heavy with the imprint of what occurred. I blink, shake my head, and step carefully around the withered foliage, my gaze searching, instinctively trying to find what isn’t there. My jaw clenches tightly as I start upturning stones, searching for even the smallest drop of blood. Therehadbeen a body. I had seen it clearly from Gisella’s window—his body, lying lifeless in that very spot. I saw him, I swear I did.
But there’s no blood.
There’s…nothing.
My gaze drifts once more to the shadowed woods, and there she is—the same woman I had glimpsed from my window. Her long, lackluster blonde hair floats in the breeze like fragile strands of silk. She watches me, unmoving, her gaze steady and knowing, as if she's waiting for something.
I remember watching Tristan wander into those woods, as if drawn by some invisible force. Manu’s warnings echo in my mind, pressing on my chest, heavy against my lungs.
I wonder what lies hidden there. What secrets are being kept from me, buried deep within the darkness of those trees? Who is she?
There’s a magnetic pull in my chest, a force drawing me toward the woods, as though something within me is tethered to that dark, silent place. I take another step, my eyes fixed on her, unable to tear myself away. Her face remains a blur, elusive, hidden in the shadows of the trees.
The crunch of dead leaves underfoot seems to amplify each step, melding with the soft, haunting whistle of the wind. It carries a faint, almost melodic hum—a love song, gentle andpersistent, calling to the trees. It’s faint at first, but it strengths with every step. A summons.
A cold, firm grip suddenly seizes my arm, and I whirl around, the pressure tightening.
"Where do you think you're going?" Mrs. Wong's voice cuts through the air, sharp and commanding, shattering the haunting melody of the wind. She begins pulling me back toward the house, her fingers digging into my skin as she tugs me away.
I glance over my shoulder toward the woods, but the woman is gone—vanished, like mist.
I blink rapidly, as if trying to clear the fog clouding my thoughts.
Am I losing my mind?
Forty-Six
By Monday morning, Gisella is gone. The house feels emptier now, quieter than it did before. Her absence weighs on me like a heavy quilt, the halls no longer brightened by the particular ray of her positive energy.
With the man who stops by to help Tristan with his project, I find myself slipping further into the background as he needs less and less of my assistance. I’m not sure if it's purely from a lack of necessity, or if they don’t want me snooping around in their business. Whatever the reason, I suppose it doesn’t particularly matter. I don’t protest. My mind is swirling too much to give it significant thought, and I welcome the extra hours for my mind to wander.
I start taking over more of Gisella’s old tasks, the chores she’d once managed on her own. Without truly deciding to, I find myself cleaning, helping Mrs. Wong with the endless household duties. I’d never been one to care much for these menial tasks; they always seemed tedious, and I had a passionate hatred for chores and cleaning. But now, with everything swirling in my head, there’s a strange comfort in the repetition. The act of folding laundry, smoothing down freshsheets, vacuuming the old carpets and mopping the floors—each motion becomes a way to numb my mind.
It’s almost therapeutic, in a way, to focus on something so mundane, to let my hands work while my mind drifts somewhere else entirely. Dusting the surfaces, sweeping away the remnants of another forgotten day—each motion is a distraction, a way to keep my mind from sinking deeper into thoughts I’m not ready to face. My thoughts drift like leaves in the wind, scattered and unfocused, as I go through the motions, losing myself in the quiet rituals.
I find myself avoiding my desk now, steering clear of my laptop and the blinking cursor impatiently awaiting words that won’t come. I avoid writing altogether. Perhaps it’s because I don’t want to actually let Tristan read anything I write. Perhaps I just fear my own thoughts, afraid to let them surface, afraid of what might emerge if I allow myself to dive too deep into the confusion that’s tangled everything up, to let my imagination run wild with the information I can’t comprehend. I can’t help but feel if I give in—if I try to make sense of what’s happened—I might slip too far into my fears and lose myself in the process.
What happened to the man’s body? Who took care of it, and how? Why?
I had expected to be interviewed by police, but the truth is, I never saw a single officer or detective on the estate. Did Manu bury the body somewhere in the garden?
And who was that woman in the woods? Did she have anything to do with it? Did she kill him?
Is she the mysterious ‘C’ from the letter?
Those questions linger, waiting for me to confront them, but I can’t. I’m not ready. I don’t know where to start and what secrets might be waiting for me. Before, this mystery intrigued prying and erotic reasons. Now, with a mysterious murder added, I’m not sure I want to uncover all these secrets.
As I reach Gisella’s closed door, I think of the last words she spoke to me. She didn’t even say goodbye. She left too early in the morning, before anyone was awake.
“You shouldn’t stay either, Amara. It’s not safe. It’s not safe.”
