three | 03.

TIME FOR A DRINK.

    The next morning had dawned quietly, a grayish hue spilling through the lace curtains, casting a pallid light across the house.

    Daphne sat in the kitchen as she had the two days before, cradling her cup of coffee, her eyes lingering on Brahms, who sat as ever in his usual place. A sense of routine had settled over her, but it was a routine tinged with unease.

    The doll remained eerily compliant, though Daphne couldn't shake the feeling that it was always watching, always aware of her every move.

    For the past day, she had done her best to adhere to the list of rules, despite how absurd they felt.

    She read to Brahms, albeit in a voice heavy with irony, and kissed his cold porcelain cheek at night, shivering at the unnatural chill that lingered on her lips. She even tried to remember to keep him close, but her mind occasionally wandered, her attention slipping.

    It was during those moments of forgetfulness that the house seemed to come alive, creaking and groaning as if in protest.

The footsteps had returned, the bumps in the night, subtle but insistent, as if someone was reminding her that she was not alone.

    Despite her best efforts, Daphne couldn't help but be fascinated by the strange happenings.

    The supernatural had always been a subject of distant curiosity for her, something to be read about or watched in movies, not experienced firsthand. Yet here she was, living in a decaying mansion with a doll that seemed to demand her attention in increasingly peculiar ways.

    The logic she had clung to was slowly eroding, replaced by a growing sense of intrigue. It was unnerving, but also strangely captivating.

    Still, the oppressive atmosphere of the mansion had begun to wear on her, the silence weighing heavily on her spirit. The rooms were too quiet, the air too thick with secrets.

    She needed a break, a breath of fresh air that wasn't steeped in paranormal activity. The village, she remembered, was only a short walk away, a quaint little place she hadn't yet explored.

    The thought of bustling streets, the sounds of life, and the sight of other people was enough to rouse her from her seat.

    Daphne set her cup down and rose, glancing once more at Brahms. "I'll be back soon." She said, half-expecting some sort of response.

    But the doll remained still, its painted eyes fixed on the wall. She shrugged off the discomfort, grabbed her coat, and made her way out the door.

    The walk to the village was bracing, the cool morning air filling her lungs, chasing away the lingering unease.

    The road ahead of her wound through a small wood, the trees whispering as the wind rustled their leaves. Daphne let her mind wander, trying to shake off the remnants of her strange new reality.

    Finally, the trees thinned, revealing the village ahead. The village itself had a dreary and worn charm, the kind that spoke of history and years gone by.

The cobblestones beneath her feet were uneven, polished smooth by the passage of countless footsteps. The houses and shops, though well-maintained, bore the marks of age.

It was a place where everyone likely knew everyone else's business, where secrets were few and gossip abundant.

    Daphne took a deep breath, savoring the normalcy, the chatter of voices, and the laughter of children playing in the square.

She wandered through the narrow streets of the village, but couldn't help but acknowledge the curious glances that followed her.

She had forgotten it was a small, tightly-knit community, and the sight of a stranger—especially one who had taken up residence in the old Heelshire mansion—was bound to attract attention.

She kept her chin up, pretending not to notice, but the weight of their gazes pressed down on her, serving a rather heavy reminder that she was an outsider there.

As she strolled along, her eyes caught sight of a pub nestled at the corner of a quiet street. Its wooden sign, swinging gently in the breeze, creaked as it revealed the faded name, "The Thistle and Thorn."

The building itself was unassuming, a little rundown even, with peeling paint and a roof that looked as though it had weathered one too many storms. But there was something about its unpretentious air that drew her in.

Daphne pushed open the heavy door, a soft bell chiming as she entered. The interior was dimly lit, with a low ceiling and thick wooden beams that made the space feel both cozy and cramped.

The scent of aged wood, old leather, and a hint of ale greeted her, a comforting contrast to the damp chill outside. A few locals sat scattered about, nursing their drinks and speaking in low tones, their conversations pausing momentarily as they glanced in her direction.

She made her way to the bar, choosing a seat at the far end, away from the murmuring crowd. The bartender, a grizzled man with a barrel chest and a thick, ginger mustache, acknowledged her with a curt nod as she slid onto the stool.

Before she could speak, her attention was drawn to the figure seated next to her—a man who seemed to belong to the pub as much as the battered wooden furniture.

The old man had a presence that was hard to ignore, even if she tried. His hair was thin and white, hanging in wisps around his face, and his beard was long, almost reaching the worn wool of his coat. His eyes, though clouded with age, held a sharpness that belied his years.

He regarded her with an expression that was somewhere between scrutiny and wariness, the lines on his face deepening as he studied her.

Feeling the weight of his stare, Daphne shifted uncomfortably, trying to focus on the drink she had just ordered—a local brew, nothing fancy.

She could feel the old man's gaze, like an itch she couldn't scratch, but she resisted the urge to meet it. Instead, she stared straight ahead, her fingers tracing the rim of her stein, willing herself to appear unbothered.

After what felt like an eternity, the old man spoke, his voice raspy and worn, like the creaking of an old door. "You're not from around here." He stated, his tone neutral but laced with the faintest hint of accusation.

It wasn't a question; he already knew the answer.

Daphne finally turned to look at him, meeting his gaze. "No, I'm from America." She replied with a soft smile, taking a sip of her drink. The ale was strong and bitter, a sharp tang to the smoothness of the wine she was accustomed to.

The old man nodded slowly, as if her answer had confirmed something he already suspected. He took a long swig from his own glass, then set it down with a heavy thud.

"Not many visitin' these parts, especially not strangers." He remarked with his thick Welsh accent, eyes narrowing slightly. "Most of the folk around here stay put. And those who leave... they rarely look back."

There was an edge to his words, a subtle warning buried beneath the surface.

    Daphne's pulse quickened, but she kept her expression neutral, refusing to be intimidated. "I'm staying in the old Heelshire mansion." She said, her voice steady as she stared into her cup. "It's a bit... isolated, but it's where I'm living for now."

At the mention of the Heelshire name, the man's expression darkened. He muttered something under his breath, something Daphne couldn't quite catch. "That place," he said, louder now, "is cursed. Been that way for years. Ain't no good come from anyone who steps foot in there."

Daphne felt a chill creep up her spine, but she pushed it down. "It's really a lovely place." She replied, though the uncertainty in her voice betrayed her. "It's just an old house. Nothing more."

    The old man's expression darkened, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. "Old houses hold old secrets, lass." He warned. "Mr. and Mrs. Heelshire had a demon son that nearly burned the house down, and everyone inside it with him."

    Daphne felt her breath hitch, the revelation unsettling her more than she could have imagined. The realization of what he had said slowly sank in.

    "It was their son who started the fire?" She asked, her voice tinged with disbelief.

    "Aye." the old man confirmed, his gaze hardening. "Brahms was his name. There was something not right about him, something twisted. Some folks said he was possessed, that the devil himself had a hold on him. Spoiled beyond reason, that boy. His parents indulged his every whim, but it wasn't enough. The fire... that was no accident. It was him, lashing out in a fit of rage, trying to take them all with him."

    A shiver ran through Daphne, the story chilling her to the bone. The doll she had been dutifully caring for, following its bizarre rules, was tied to a boy who had been consumed by some psychotic darkness.

    The thought left her unsettled, yet as she recalled her own experiences with Brahms' spirit, she felt a flicker of doubt.

    The presence she had encountered didn't seem malevolent. If anything, it had been more desperate than sinister, perhaps even a touch protective.

    But she kept her musings to herself, not daring to voice them to the stranger beside her.

    Instead, she pushed forward with her questions, seeking clarity. "Were you here when Mr. and Mrs. Heelshire supposedly... took their own lives?" She asked, her voice carefully controlled.

    The old man nodded, a shadow passing over his features. "I was around, most definitely." He replied, the words weighted. "It was about seven years ago, maybe a bit more. They said they were going on holiday, left some young woman to mind the place. But they never came back. Word spread that they'd died, though the details were murky. Something never sat right with me about it."

    "What happened to the young woman?" Daphne inquired, her curiosity clawing at her even as a sense of foreboding began to grow.

    The old man shrugged, the movement slow and lazy. "No one knows for sure." He admitted. "The house fell silent not long after the Heelshires left. No one saw or heard anything after that. The girl, she just vanished. But then again, she was never one to be seen much. Kept herself locked away in that house, didn't come into town, not like you have. And then... nothing. The place just sat there, empty and forgotten."

    Daphne's thoughts swirled, the pieces of the puzzle gradually aligning, though the image remained elusive.

    The Heelshires, their son, the mysterious young woman—they were all part of the same tangled history. But how did it all fit together? And what role was she playing in this eerie narrative?

    She cast another glance at the old man, noticing the distant look in his eyes, as if he were lost in the fog of his own recollections.

    It was clear he knew more than he was saying, but pressing him further would likely yield little more. Resigned, Daphne finished her drink, her mind still racing with questions.

    As she left the pub, the man's words lingered in her thoughts, dampening her mood.

    The walk back to the mansion felt longer, the shadows in the trees deeper and more ominous.

    When she finally stood before the front door, she hesitated, her hand hovering over the doorknob as if she were about to step into a place from which there might be no return.

    But retreat wasn't an option. Not now.

    With a deep breath, Daphne pushed the door open and stepped inside. The mansion greeted her with its familiar, suffocating silence.

END OF CHAPTER III.