Wake up, make breakfast, clean breakfast, wash the windows in every room, assist with tea, polish all the wooden dressers and tables and desks, prepare for dinner, clean up dinner, stay up till the lady goes to bed, and then go to bed yourself. It’s long, grueling work that sucks the soul from you like a leech. And it’s not like the lady is much better. In your 2 months of servitude, you’ve only seen her cold and metallic. She’s cruel yet refined, abusive without a doubt. So when she’s gone, the house is silent. No clacking of granny boots or kindly cold orders. Nothing. You had been going along with your duties in the Murdstone Manor as usual, polishing the last wooden piece for the day when you noticed this silence. As you worked on the front room table, you felt a shiver down your spine.

Then, it was instantly broken by the slam of the front door. But it didn’t feel angry or creepily happy. No, it felt sad and heavy. And as you look, you see your lady Murdstone, clutching something in her hand. Wait- that is her hand. Her lack of hand. Under further inspection, you find that her left hand is gone, replaced by a stub wrapped in stained white bandages. She’s clutching it and pulling her ripped sleeve over it like her hand will appear again. In addition, her eyes looked strange, clouded with sleep or tears. Knowing your lady, it’s probably sleep. But at the same time, something feels wrong. She slams herself against the door, and looks up to the ceiling, revealing her face, which is much paler than normal.