PETRA
For some strange reason, the venue for the engagement party has changed. Now, it’s being hosted at the Snowden estate.
But the information I’ve received in my dreams clings to me like a shadow as I make my way through this beautiful, haunting house.
What if that wasn’t just a dream? What if Snowden truly is keeping some rotting corpse hidden in his basement? What if it gets out—tonight—and terrorizes the very guests he’s hosting?
There are dozens of people here, all the wealthiest in Radcliffe. Unsurprisingly, no one from my congregation is present. This kind of excess doesn’t align with our values. Everywhere I look, there’s extravagant food, wine, and champagne flowing freely, greedily consumed in every corner.
It’s a far cry from the teachings of our church. And yet . . . in the last few months, my father’s entire worldview seems to have spun on its axis. It’s as though I no longer recognize him.
As for my brother, I can’t entirely fault him. He’s only following in our father’s footsteps, as he’s always done. But that doesn’t mean I can reconcile this new, gilded version of our family with the strict, pious household I grew up in.
Naturally, today I was instructed once more not to wear my veil. To put on the gifted dress. To look pretty. And, most importantly, not to speak unless spoken to.
My mother, too, has come out tonight without her veil—a first for her. Yet even without the physical evidence of her conditioning, her behavior remains the same. She’s quiet, absent, invisible.
If there’s one piece of dogma my father has chosen to preserve even as he strays away from our congregation, it’s the belief that a woman’s role is ornamental.
A decoration. Nothing more.
I walk quietly through the ballroom. I hadn’t seen it during my previous visits, but it’s every bit as opulent as I imagined—perhaps even more so.
The ceiling is adorned with neoclassical designs, while the walls boast a mix of Renaissance paintings and a few Romantic-era pieces that catch my eye.
Of course, I’m drawn to them. But I am not allowed to stray far from my mother’s side. I’ve been expressly instructed to stay close, remain quiet, and above all, make myself invisible.
The paintings in the ballroom mirror those in the hallway—gory, bloody, and almost ritualistic in their depictions.
As I gaze at them from afar, my mind drifts back to the dream .
. . and to the unsettling thought that Snowden might have made a deal with the devil, too.
That he’s just as guilty as the very people he publicly condemns.
The music blares through the ballroom—an orchestra that came in from New York City, no less. People speak loudly over the din, their voices clashing with the music. There’s a disorganized frenzy to the room, with everyone moving in a constant swirl, never staying still for even a moment.
My mother, however, chooses a quiet corner and settles there, content to simply observe the chaos. I join her, taking in the spectacle. Across the room, I spot my brother, my father, and Mr. Snowden deep in conversation with a circle of important guests.
Leah hasn’t made her appearance yet.
I find myself anxiously scanning the room for her. I want to check on her, make sure she’s all right. After all, she’s the real victim in all of this. If only I had more power . . . if only I could do something to save her.
“Would you please excuse me for a moment? I need to go to the restroom,” I murmur to my mother.
She glances at me out of the corner of her eye, offering only a small, almost imperceptible nod in response.
I slip away, cutting through the crowd and heading for the double French doors that lead into the main hallway.
Guests continue to arrive, with some veering off to the cigar room and others lured into the gambling parlor.
The entire estate has been designed to mimic the opulence of English aristocracy, complete with lavish ballrooms and indulgent side rooms.
But the farther I walk down the hallway, the thinner the crowd becomes. Eventually, the noise fades behind me, and the house grows quieter.
And once again, my thoughts return to that creature.
The one Mr. Snowden might be hiding in his basement.
It’s not real . . . right?
It couldn’t possibly be real. It was only a dream.
Or was it?
I remember, with eerie clarity, the sound I heard last time I was here—a shriek, unearthly and chilling, just as I was eavesdropping on my father and Mr. Snowden. Seconds later, my brother had caught me and dragged me away.
But that sound still lingers in my memory.
What had it been?
Perhaps my curiosity is a flaw after all. But I can’t stop myself. I move deeper into the darker corridors of the mansion.
And before long, I realize I’m completely lost.
The sound of the party fades into a distant hum. As I try to retrace my steps, I realize I’m facing the same problem I had during my first visit to this place: The hallways all look identical. They twist and curve into endless little corridors, and I no longer know which way I came.
I take a deep breath and turn around—only to freeze when I hear it.
That same shrieking sound from before.
It’s faint, barely perceptible. But it’s there.
My heart leaps into my throat. I close my eyes and focus. Another shriek, closer this time, comes from my left. So I follow it.
Maybe one day I’ll regret this decision, but right now I feel like I’m losing my grip on reality. I don’t know what’s happening to me anymore. These dreams—are they even dreams at all? They seem so real. And yet, every time I wake up, everything is back in place. It’s as if I never left my bedroom.
Still, something in me says it’s not just imagination. That something is truly happening to me in those hours of sleep. And the only way to confirm it is to find out if the so-called creature really exists.
So, against my better judgment and all reason, I march forward.
The sound grows louder, no longer a shriek but a wail—low, pained, and strange. Step by step, I follow it until I reach a door. Pressing my ear to the wooden frame, I listen.
A moan, ragged and strained, echoes from behind it, like someone in deep pain.
My fingers tremble as I grip the handle. I open the door.
But it doesn’t lead to a room.
It reveals a staircase.
A long, narrow staircase that descends into pitch-black darkness.
There’s no light down there. Nothing.
Do I dare?
Sin warned me against this. But if this is all just a product of my imagination, then what harm could come of it?
If it’s only my mind conjuring wild, delusional scenarios—born of loneliness and dissatisfaction—then I’ll find nothing. And maybe then, I can finally admit that I’m simply going mad.
So, though afraid, I steel myself and descend.
I count the steps. One . . . two . . . ten . . . eleven . . . twenty . . . twenty-five.
At the twenty-fifth step, I reach a landing. The chamber is utterly dark. I take a tentative step forward, trying to make out anything, but I’m surrounded by nothingness.
“Guess it really was just a dream,” I whisper aloud, almost relieved.
But then, I feel it.
A gust of wind brushes against the back of my neck—cool, sharp, unnatural. I shiver.
I turn quickly, heart racing.
“Who’s there?” I call out, voice wavering.
No answer.
I try again. “Who is it?”
Still nothing.
I stand frozen for a moment, trying to see through the suffocating dark. Another gust of air hits me—this time over my face. My eyes sting, and I raise my hands, reaching blindly for anything solid.
But there’s nothing.
“Is there anyone there?” I whisper, barely able to keep the tremor out of my voice.
Then it starts.
A hum, soft and melodic.
A lullaby.
I recognize the tune. Vaguely. It drifts through the space, its source unclear, moving, circling. I turn, trying to track it, but I can’t find the origin.
“Are you . . . Are you Mr. Snowden’s mistress?” I ask, instantly regretting how ridiculous it sounds aloud.
Just when I decide I’ve had enough, that I don’t need to know anything else, I start back toward the stairs.
And that’s when the lights come on.
Every wall ignites in a sudden blaze of electric light, flooding the chamber with clarity.
The room is empty. Bare.
Nothing.
And yet . . . I still feel it. That awful sensation of being watched.
“That’s it,” I whisper. “I need to get out of here.”
I bolt for the stairs.
But as soon as my foot touches the first step, another gust of wind slams into me so powerful that it lifts the hem of my skirt and sends loose strands of hair whipping across my face.
There’s still nothing I can see.
But maybe, just maybe, it’s not something meant to be seen.
Thoroughly shaken, I flee the chamber, racing up the stairs. I slam the door shut behind me and lock it with trembling hands.
“Good Lord,” I whisper, chest heaving. “I really am losing my mind.”
It takes me a few moments to find my way back to the party. I follow the sound of music until the soft thrum of the orchestra leads me back to the ballroom.
My mother immediately corners me, demanding to know where I’ve been and why I took so long. I tell her the truth: I got lost. After a few sharp words about how improper it is to wander in someone else’s house, she finally drops the subject.
In the meantime, more guests seem to have arrived. The ballroom is full now, buzzing with conversation and movement. Then the orchestra stops playing.
A sharp clink of a fork against glass cuts through the room. Everyone quiets.
Mr. Snowden is the one holding the glass. “If I could have your attention for a moment, please,” he begins. “I’m very pleased to welcome you all into my home today for a most special occasion. My daughter, Leah, is now officially engaged to Mr. Robert Creig.”
The room bursts into polite applause.
“The wedding will take place in three weeks,” he continues, beaming. “And all of you are invited.”
But before the clapping has even subsided, my father steps forward, his voice louder, eager.
“But that is not all,” he says. “We have another surprise for you. Another engagement we would like to announce.”
I frown, confused. Another engagement?
Then my father’s eyes lock with mine.
And everything clicks into place. No.
“Besides my son marrying Miss Leah Snowden,” he says, pausing to glance at Mr. Snowden, as if seeking confirmation, “I am also pleased to announce that my daughter, Petra, will be marrying—”
No. No.
The blood drains from my face.
Now I understand. The times he told me not to wear my veil when Mr. Snowden was around. The strange looks. The dress. The silence. All of it.
He intends to marry me off to Mr. Snowden.
A widower. A man at least three times my age.
It makes sense why, though. He has no heir, only a daughter. A man like him would hate to leave his wealth to his daughter and new son-in-law.
And that’s why he wants me.
My father did not just sell my brother; he sold me, too.
But perhaps, just perhaps, the fates are on my side tonight; because as my father begins to name Mr. Snowden as my intended, something strange happens.
Mr. Snowden freezes.
His eyes widen, fixed on something beyond the glass doors leading out to the garden. His face goes pale, like he’s seen a ghost.
He abruptly places a hand on my father’s arm and whispers something into his ear, shaking his head. My father hesitates, clearly startled, but Mr. Snowden quickly excuses himself and vanishes into the crowd.
Trying to salvage the moment, my father clears his throat.
“Ah, that was . . . a mistake. Please excuse my, uh, rash announcement. Let us celebrate the engagement of my son and Miss Leah. Eat, drink, and enjoy the dances tonight.”
The orchestra resumes its playing.
And I finally exhale. Thank God.
But I don’t walk away. I walk straight up to him.
Without thinking of the consequences. Without caring that I’m not supposed to speak.
I plant myself in front of him and ask, “What did you mean by that?”
He glares down at me with that familiar, condescending look.
“What do you think I meant?” he snaps. “You are to be engaged. That is not up for discussion.”
“You can’t be serious,” I whisper. “You expect me to marry Mr. Snowden?”
“I told you to be quiet,” he hisses. “Yes, you will marry Mr. Snowden. Perhaps we didn’t announce it tonight, but we will—soon.”
“What?” My voice rises, trembling. “He’s three times my age, for God’s sake!”
“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain,” he snaps. “You will marry him because I say so. I am your father, your guardian, and I know what’s best for you. And what’s best for you is Mr. Snowden.”
“No,” I say. “I won’t do it.”
“Excuse me?” he sputters.
“I said no.” My voice is louder now, firmer. “I will not marry him.”
He tries to stare me down, to intimidate me, but I don’t budge. I won’t let him destroy what little life I have left. I won’t exchange one prison for another. One tyrant for a richer one.
“I will not marry Mr. Snowden. In fact, I won’t marry anyone.”
And before he can say another word, I turn on my heel and run.
I don’t know where I’m going. I just know I need to get away—from him, from this place, from all of them.
I slip through the French doors and out into the garden, desperate for air, for space, for freedom. The moment I’m outside, my legs buckle. The weight of the moment crashes into me all at once. I gasp, the air sharp in my lungs.
“Why me?” I whisper. “Why always me?”
“You didn’t listen to what I told you,” a voice murmurs behind me.
I whirl around and come face-to-face with Sin.
Dashing as always. But is he . . . real?