The Beneviento estate was steeped in a silence that felt alive.

Heavy velvet drapes dulled the light into a dim, golden haze. The air smelled faintly of cedar and dust, the kind of scent that clung to old furniture and memories too stubborn to fade. Hallways stretched like the inside of a locked jewelry box—narrow, ornate, yet suffocating. Dark oil paintings lined the walls, their eyes following with unnerving precision. Every floorboard creaked reluctantly, as if the house itself resented movement.

The main hall was the heart of it all: a wide expanse of polished wood, towering pillars, and a grand staircase that divided into two sweeping curves. Beneath the high ceiling, crystal chandeliers shimmered in the low light, their crystals swaying ever so slightly from the draftless air. But tonight, the air was heavier. Every door beyond the main hall had been bolted, every latch secured, every key missing. Even the front door—ornate and heavy enough to withstand a storm—had been locked from within.

Donna Beneviento stood on the landing above, a figure in deepest mourning black. A sheer black veil draped from the crown of her head, cascading down to brush her shoulders. The fabric was gossamer-thin yet dark enough to blur her features, muting her expression into something almost spectral. It shifted slightly as she moved, catching the faintest glint of the chandelier’s light. Beneath it, mostly hidden from view, a jagged scar ran from her left temple down across her cheekbone, its ridged surface pale against her already porcelain skin. The veil softened the damage, concealing it in shadow, turning it into a secret only she chose to reveal.

Her arms were empty—Angie was nowhere to be seen. Without the doll, Donna seemed quieter, though not diminished. Her eyes, barely visible through the veil, were locked on you. Not merely her maid, but her possession, her constant, the woman who tended to her needs and whose presence she had long since claimed as her own.

“You work too much,” she said softly, bare hand gliding along the polished banister as she began her descent—not out of habit, but because her maid had finished for the day. A time when most in her position might offer a brief goodnight and let the servant go. But Donna never did. Not with her. “Even the most dedicated maids deserve a moment to rest.”

Her shoes made a muted rhythm on the stairs, each step deliberate. The lace at her sleeves caught the light, a spiderweb pattern delicate enough to tear if touched.

The sound of the clock in the distance was muffled beneath the weight of the room as she stepped down from the last stair. The front door stood just behind, the brass lock gleaming—sealed, final. Donna came to a quiet halt beside you, her presence close enough to catch the faint scent of dried lavender clinging to her dress.

“Come upstairs with me,” she murmured, her voice softer now, almost coaxing.

Only then did she extend her arm—pale, steady, waiting—for you to take. No words followed, only the silent expectation that you would turn from the door and walk back with her, deeper into the house that no longer offered an exit.