EHM 52🔐

Chapter 52 ….

The sky above Brichester was, as always, overcast.

Unlike London, which was smothered in smog, the gloom here came from the heavy mist rising off the vast pond beside the manor.

On cold days, the damp chill of the wetlands seeped into the bones of the elderly.

“…No matter how often I see it, the landscape is as desolate as ever.”

Abigail clicked her tongue as she gazed out at the fog-choked window.

Beside the manor sat a pond too large to be called a pond, yet too small to be called a lake. What was strange was that not a single creature lived in it.

The water was far from clear. Murky with impurities, it gave off a foul stench when approached.

Looking at the slimy, greenish surface, one might imagine gelatin rather than water.

Sir Bridle insists that wretched pond is the very identity of Brichester Manor.

But Abigail, along with every servant in the house, knew the truth.

…That something dreadful lurked beneath it.

“Ugh, just looking at it gives me chills.”

Abigail shuddered violently at the thought of what might lie under that water.

And though no one could explain why, it was said that the servants with chambers closest to the pond suffered more nightmares than anyone else.

Abby, did you hear? Mrs. Sullivan finally quit—she couldn’t last even a month.

It wasn’t unusual for people to resign, worn down by the unending nightmares.

Abigail cast a wary glance at the ominous pond, then threw on some clothes and left her room.

As bleak as ever today.

The damp air filled her lungs the moment she stepped out of the servants’ quarters.

Dragging reluctant feet, she made her way toward the wine cellar.

Why did I have to be the one stuck with wine cellar duty?

The task itself was simple: pick up the wine bottles from the cellar and deliver them to the kitchen.

But everyone avoided it for one reason.

She descended the creaking wooden stairs to the basement.

The wine cellar stored every bottle used in the manor.

At the door, she dabbed herself with a few drops from the basin that stood nearby, as was customary.

When she opened the door, it groaned and belched dust into the air.

A few dim lamps cast the only light inside, cloaking the place in shadows.

“I-it’s my turn today,” she said hesitantly.

There was no reply.

She didn’t want to step in—but she had no choice.

With a sigh, she entered, only to gag as a nauseating stench—fishy and rotten all at once—assaulted her nose.

“Ugh…”

She instinctively pinched her nose.

And then she saw them.

“…!”

Figures stood with their arms outstretched, groaning softly.

“Uhh…”

“Ehh…”

They looked just like any other maid or laborer—except their faces were bloodless and gray, their limbs bent at unnatural angles, and their eyes were crimson, bloodshot, and fixed.

“Uhh…”

The moment they noticed Abigail, they shuffled toward her.

Their movements were grotesque, not like people walking on their own, but like marionettes pulled by invisible strings.

Like the puppets I saw as a child…

Worst of all were their eyes—at a glance they looked normal, but closer inspection revealed there was no focus, no movement in the pupils.

“Ghh… uhh…”

There were perhaps ten of them, all servants of Brichester, said to have worked the wine cellar long before Abigail’s time.

They’re just normal people, Abby—aside from being ugly and unable to speak properly, her roommate Mary had once insisted.

But Abigail couldn’t accept that.

Normal? You call that normal?

She had seen them enough times that the initial shock had dulled, but the horror never lessened.

Her heart raced with instinctive fear, every nerve screaming at her to flee.

Still, she forced herself to speak.

“C-could you please give me today’s wine?”

Her voice came out no louder than a whisper.

One of the ghastly servants lurched forward, clutching two bottles of wine.

“H-here…”

At least one among them could still form words.

Abigail swallowed hard, waiting for her to hand them over.

This is exactly why I hate coming here.

Brichester Manor was famed for its generous wages.

Yet workers constantly came and went, and staff shortages were chronic.

“Ehh…”

“Uhh…”

The reason was clear enough. Word spread quickly among the servants about these things.

Horrible.

Abigail didn’t know what they were, why they moved as though controlled by some unseen force, and she had no wish to find out.

She only wanted to leave—immediately.

I’m not overreacting.

Some servants outright refused cellar duty, no matter what.

Go where the devil’s cursed ones dwell?

Step in there, and a ghost will cling to me!

Even when the housekeeper scolded them for superstition, some chose pay cuts over entering.

Just grab this and get out.

Thankfully, there were only a few bottles to carry.

This particular wine, unique to Brichester, was rare and used only for Lord Bridle’s table or honored guests.

“Ehh…”

The female servant drooled and moaned as she handed over the two bottles. Abigail quickly accepted them and turned to flee—

“…!”

A hand clamped around her wrist.

Cold, hard, like a piece of wood. Abigail gasped and looked back.

The same servant who had given her the bottles held her wrist, her bony fingers clutching tight.

“We… must… hold… the masquerade…”

“L-let go of me!”

But the servant didn’t. Instead, she muttered to the air.

“Fresh… food will come… for the mask… the masquera—rade…”

“Ahh!”

Abigail tore free with all her strength and bolted.

Thud-thud-thud.

She didn’t dare look back. The wine sloshed in her arms as she ran.

But she couldn’t shake the image of those bloodshot eyes, glaring with unnatural intensity.

The masquerade again…

Abigail shivered violently.

Everyone in Brichester Manor dreaded the masquerade balls.

To outsiders, they were decadent displays of luxury.

But the servants knew all too well—those nights were the most horrific of all.

Sally Melbourne.

As the eldest of six sons and six daughters, attending a ball was something she could never have dreamed of.

And to serve at a real ball, one where nobles gathered, was a privilege so rare that only a handful of maids ever experienced it.

I never imagined I’d be so lucky.

Her mistress Emily would likely have been horrified by such thoughts, but Sally could hardly contain her excitement.

Even if it meant facing spirits and monsters, she was thrilled at the chance.

And more than that…

Her eyes sparkled as she gazed at the two ladies before her, dressed for the event.

Emily had chosen to appear as Elizabeth I in her prime. A starched ruff framed her face, and a hoop skirt held out the wide satin gown. Glittering jewels adorned her figure, dazzling Sally.

“My lady, you look magnificent.”

“Thanks,” Emily replied coolly, before frowning.

“But honestly, how did the queen ever wear this? Another hour and my spine will snap.”

She complained about the weight of the skirt, prompting Helena to laugh softly.

“That’s the weight of the crown a monarch must bear.”

“Easy for you to say, Helena. Male rulers never had to suffer corsets or hoop skirts.”

Sally turned to Helena.

Her attire was styled like that of an Indian noblewoman: a long sapphire-blue sari wrapped around her figure. With her gypsy blood, the outfit suited her perfectly. Golden bracelets glittered on her arms, and a red bindi gleamed on her forehead, completing a breathtaking look.

“You look stunning too, Lady Helena.”

“Thank you, Sally.”

Helena smiled gracefully, then glanced between Emily and Sally. She recalled the rules stated on the invitation.

“Just to remind you both—Lord Bridle’s masquerade has strict rules.”

[1. “The Masquerade of Brichester” is held for three nights, only after dusk.

2. Guests may not interact with anyone outside their own party unless all are masked.
3. During the day, you may freely request food or refreshments from the servants, and explore the manor as you wish.
4. However, approaching the pond after 10 p.m. is strictly forbidden.
5. Brichester wine is to be consumed only during the hours of the masquerade.