Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 99700 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99700 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
The mansion’s façade was weathered by centuries of wind and rain, bearing the scars of time, little cracks that bloomed across the grey stone surface.
There was something truly beautiful about its imperfections. Dignified and timeless, it wore its age like a cloak.
Though, to humans, it had all of the spooky and none of the charm. There was some sort of glamour on it that kept people from getting too close. Just a glance at it would send a shiver down their spines, would nudge their fight-or-flight instincts until they felt the need to flee.
The cobblestone path snaked up toward the heavy oak front door. The stone surfaces were slick with the recent rain and the moss that crept across them, making Pandora slide a bit as she walked.
Tall, skeletal trees loomed overhead, their limbs twisted and gnarled as if they were writhing in pain. The last few orange leaves still clinging to them rustled with quiet promise as the wind swept across them.
Pandora made her way to the entrance, the door groaning under its own weight as she pushed open the brass doorknob.
The inside was cast in shadows, like a secret that didn’t want to be revealed.
The foyer stretched upward toward the vaulted ceiling, and heavy velvet burgundy drapes cascaded from the windows, blocking out even a hint of daylight. Only the flicker of candlelight illuminated the space, dancing behind glass sconces lining the walls, casting trembling shadows across the space.
The floor beneath Pandora’s feet was gleaming black-and-white marble that led toward the grand staircase, its balustrade carved from dark mahogany, the spindles shaped into figures of coiled snakes, their teeth sharp and gleaming, ready to strike. Pandora could swear that sometimes you could practically see the venom glinting from those fangs.
She had lived through nightmares about those snakes suddenly coming alive, slithering up into her room, then wrapping around her limbs, coiling tighter and tighter until the pressure made her implode.
The air in the space always seemed oppressive, like the house itself was holding its breath.
Above her head, the chandelier hung lazily from the ceiling. Whenever someone walked across the floor above, the chandelier would sway, its crystal pendants clanking lightly. It was a sound that made Pandora think of bones knocking together.
To the right of the staircase, an arched doorway opened into the sitting room. Everything was upholstered in black velvet, the furniture all stiff and angular, the kind of seating meant to be looked at, not necessarily sat upon.
A massive fireplace yawned at the far end of the room, the grate in front of it a pattern of vines and thorns. When a fire was lit, the shadows of those vines crept across the walls like some spooky children’s story.
Above the mantel was a timeless painting of a woman, her skin ashen and framed in deep auburn hair, her distinguished grey-blue eyes on display.
That was Ambrosia Von Ashmore, Pandora’s great-great-grandmother. A woman so revered in their household that they spoke her name with awe. Despite the fact that no one had ever even met her.
Pandora hated that painting. And the way Ambrosia’s eyes seemed to follow her around the room. She swore that if she could just look over quickly enough, she could catch the painting blinking.
Dark wooden bookshelves lined the walls, their shelves bowing under the weight of ancient leather-bound tomes.
These were not the kinds of books that Pandora enjoyed. These were her mother’s books. Grimoires, alchemical texts, and records of family bloodlines long forgotten to anyone but their current caretaker.
Near one of the windows was her father’s chess set, the pieces carved from bone. The white king was lying on its side in forfeit.
Not her father’s.
He never conceded.
The game was never done until he’d won.
Dante, Pandora assumed, had given up. Her younger brother hadn’t inherited their father’s competitive spirit.
Down the hallway, the dining room was a cavernous space dominated by a table nearly as long as the room itself, its wooden surface polished to a mirror shine.
Pandora walked through the doorway into the kitchen. If it could even be called that. The space was fully functional, but devoid of the clutter of domesticity. Long, empty stone worktops sat unblemished by bowls of fruit, coffee makers, or microwaves.
The walls were lined with open shelving featuring glass jars full of herbs and powders.
Hanging over the island, a threatening display of knives hung like a butcher’s chandelier, their edges menacingly sharp, their surfaces catching even the faintest slivers of light.
Pandora walked over to the fridge, reaching behind the bottles of wine until her fingers closed around the small plastic container of pig’s blood.
She pulled it out, giving it a little shake, then removed the lid before taking a long swig.
She cringed as she sipped. At the taste. At the texture. But there was no easy way for her to heat up the blood, so she was just going to have to choke it down.