Chapter 8 - The Ghost of the Corridor
Above them, the muted strains of classical waltzes and polite aristocratic laughter drifted down through the floorboards, a jarring reminder of the opulent indifference of the world outside their prison. But inside the cellar, time seemed to stretch and distort into an agonizing eternity. Every shadow cast by the moonlight felt like a creeping threat, and every groan of the ancient timber overhead sounded like footsteps coming back for them.
Suddenly, a sharp, metallic scrape echoed from the heavy door. The rusty bolt shifted with a slow, agonizing shriek.
Margaret and Elena scrambled backward, pressing themselves flat against the damp brickwork as the oak door creaked open a fraction of an inch. A thin sliver of warm, golden hallway light cut across the darkness, illuminating the swirling dust motes in the air. A pair of polished leather shoes stepped over the threshold, followed by the familiar, heavy thud of a gold-handled cane.
It wasn't Arthur.
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A pale, trembling hand reached inside, sliding a small, wrapped bundle across the stone floor before the door clicked shut once more, locking tight.
Margaret crept forward cautiously, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She knelt down and unwrapped the rough linen cloth. Inside lay a heavy brass cellar key and a folded piece of stationery bearing the crest of the estate’s head butler, Thomas—a man who had served their father faithfully before Arthur assumed control of the household.
