Grimshaw Hall rose like a monument of stone and shadow against the twilight sky, its towers cutting sharp lines across the sinking sun. The mansion was a testament to Duke Edmund's wealth and authority, with sprawling lands that fed his power and halls that gleamed with imported marble and gilded chandeliers. Yet for all its grandeur, there was a silence that seemed to breathe through its walls, a silence that carried something unspoken—like a secret waiting to be revealed.
On that evening in 1781, the iron gates swung open as a horse-drawn carriage rattled across the cobblestones. Servants rushed to bow at the entrance, their voices lifting in greeting.
"Papa!" A joyous cry rang out, breaking the quiet like bells in springtime. Emelda, the Duke's eldest daughter, leapt down the steps, golden hair streaming behind her, and flung herself into her father's arms. Edmund's face, hardened from years in England's royal court, softened instantly as he laughed and kissed her brow.
"My darling Emelda," he said warmly, holding her as if she were a priceless jewel. He carried her up the steps with no hesitation, his boots echoing in triumph.
Behind them, half-hidden by the marble column, stood Emily. Smaller, quieter, her dark hair hung loose over her face as her eyes searched desperately for her father's. "Papa…" she whispered, so faintly that the word was nearly lost to the wind. But Edmund did not hear—or perhaps chose not to. His world was full with Emelda, and there was no space left for her younger sister.
Emily's heart sank, and she clenched her small fists to keep from crying. She wanted to run forward, to tug at his sleeve, but her feet would not move. She was rooted in place, a shadow to her sister's brilliance.
Sabella, their mother, descended the steps slowly. Her beauty was timeless, her face serene though her eyes shimmered with something unspoken. She reached for Emily, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. "Do not be sad, my love. Mama is here." She pulled the child into her arms, her voice tender.
Emily buried her face against her mother's gown, but the emptiness in her chest did not fade.
---
Later that night, Grimshaw Hall dimmed beneath a stormy sky. The corridors flickered with candlelight, their shadows stretching like clawed hands along the walls. In his private chamber, Duke Edmund sat hunched over a desk, a letter crumpled in his fist.
The door opened. Sabella entered, her eyes sharp, her presence filling the room like a sudden wind.
"How could you?" she hissed, her voice shaking.
Edmund looked up, startled. "What now, Sabella?"
"She's a child!" Sabella's words struck like a whip. "She stood there, waiting for you. Did you not see her eyes? Did you not hear her? She is your daughter, Edmund!"
Edmund rose slowly, his face hardening into stone. "Do not start this again. Emily is not—" He stopped, bitterness curling in his mouth. "She will never be my daughter. She is not ours, Sabella. You know it."
Sabella recoiled, horror flooding her features. "How dare you! You think denying her makes it true? She is flesh of my flesh, Edmund. She is your child as much as Emelda is."
Edmund slammed his hand on the desk, the sound thunderous. "No! She is the reason our house trembles! Every time I see her, I am reminded of—" His voice broke, but he forced it steady. "She will bring ruin upon us. Mark my words."
Sabella's hand flew, striking his cheek. Edmund staggered back, stunned. Her eyes glistened with tears as she whispered, "If you cannot love her, then you are no father at all." She turned and stormed from the chamber, the door slamming behind her.
Unbeknownst to them both, in the cracks of the wall, a small mouse stirred. It had been still and silent, but now it scurried away as though to carry secrets into the dark.
---
Midnight fell, heavy with rain and the mutter of thunder. Emily lay curled beneath her blanket, her dreams restless. The sudden creak of her door snapped her awake. She sat up with a start.
"Emelda?" she whispered.
Her sister stood there, cloaked in mischief, her eyes alight with strange excitement. "Emily, come on. I want to show you something."
Emily rubbed her eyes. "It's too late. Please, go back to bed."
But Emelda shook her head, her grin widening. "No. You'll want to see this." She seized Emily's hand with surprising strength and pulled her from the bed.
Barefoot, they crept through the halls, the silence broken only by the distant roll of thunder. Down they went, past the kitchens, past the storerooms, until at last they descended the narrow stone steps into the mansion's forgotten basement.
The air grew cold, damp, and heavy. Shadows clung to the walls. At the far end of the chamber, beneath a shroud of dust and cobwebs, stood a mirror. Its frame was wrought of darkened silver, carved with symbols that glimmered faintly in the candlelight.
Emily froze, her heart hammering. "I don't like this place," she whispered. "Emelda, let's go back."
But Emelda only laughed softly. "Don't you hear it? The voices? They're calling us."
Emily shook her head, trembling. "There's nothing. I hear nothing."
Emelda stepped forward, pressing her hand to the mirror's surface. The glass rippled, liquid and alive. A low hum filled the chamber, followed by whispers, countless whispers, rising like wind through a forest.
"Come closer," Emelda urged, her eyes wide.
Emily clutched her sleeve. "No, please! I'm scared."
"Don't be. I've seen this before," Emelda whispered, her voice dreamy. "It's beautiful."
Emily tried to pull her back, but the mirror pulsed with light. Lightning cracked overhead, shaking the mansion. The surface of the mirror swirled like water, and in it, Emily thought she saw figures—faces, reaching hands, shadows flickering in the depths.
"Emelda! Stop!" Emily cried.
But with one last glance, Emelda stepped forward. The mirror swallowed her whole, her body dissolving into silver waves.
"Emelda!" Emily screamed, her voice breaking. She lunged forward, but the mirror hardened instantly, her reflection staring back at her with hollow, tear-stained eyes.
The chamber shook with thunder. Emily stumbled back, sobbing, then turned and fled up the steps, her cries echoing through the mansion.
---
Morning came with chaos. The maids shrieked, their voices trembling with fear.
"My lord! We cannot find Emelda!" one cried.
Sabella collapsed into a chair, her sobs unending.
Duke Edmund stormed into the hall, his face ashen. His eyes found Emily standing at the top of the staircase, pale and silent. He rushed to her, seizing her arms so tightly it hurt.
"Where is she? Where is Emelda?!" His roar shook the hall.
Emily's lips quivered. "I—I don't know," she whispered.
"Liar!" Edmund's face twisted with fury. "You jealous, wicked child! You stole her from me!"
"Papa, I didn't—" Emily sobbed, but her words fell to deaf ears.
"Enough!" He thrust her back, his voice thundering. "From this day forward, you are nothing to me. You will never be my daughter. Get out of my sight!"
The hall fell into silence. The guards stared. The maids averted their eyes. Even Sabella, weeping, said nothing.
Emily fled up the staircase, her tears blinding her. She slammed her chamber door shut and collapsed onto her bed, her cries muffled by the thunder outside.
---
From that day, joy died within Grimshaw Hall. The grand chandeliers no longer sparkled as they once had; the corridors seemed colder, darker. Duke Edmund rode forth, searching in vain for his beloved Emelda, clinging to hopes of ransom or rescue. Sabella remained, her soul fractured, trapped between her husband's fury and her daughter's isolation.
And Emily… she alone carried the truth. The truth of the mirror. The truth of the voices.
The truth of where Emelda had gone.
And though she was but a child, she knew: the mansion's silence was not emptiness. It was waiting.
Waiting for her.