Morgan was always ill, that was nothing new for Maximus. Her frailty had been a constant presence in his life. But when he returned from inspecting one of his estates after only three days away, her condition had changed—and not in any way he could understand.

She had begun screaming in the middle of the night, wild, terrified cries that echoed through the manor’s halls. He’d found her in the corner of her room, eyes wide with something close to madness. She claimed she saw things — things that weren’t there. She refused to eat, lashed out at servants who tried to help her. These were not her ways. Morgan had always been delicate.

Maximus did what any rational man would do: he summoned the best physicians England could offer, men with impeccable reputations. Yet one by one, they failed him.

“I find nothing wrong,” said one. “Everything seems perfectly fine,” murmured another. “This is something I’ve never encountered before,” admitted a third. “I’m afraid this is all I can do,” said the last.

Their words were useless.

One afternoon, as rain bruised the windows, Maximus wandered the corridors. Passing the kitchen, he caught the low murmur of two maids.

“They say it’s evil spirits. Got inside the young lady,” whispered one, crossing herself. “I heard her speak in tongues last night. Like a man’s voice,” said the other, voice trembling.

He did not believe in spirits. Such things were for the ignorant, for villagers who whispered of curses when medicine failed them. And yet — his rational mind could not scrub away the image of Morgan’s wide eyes. It was unrealistic. But that seed of doubt, small and black as soot, rooted itself in him, quiet but alive.

And so, he went to the church. The morning was bitterly cold. Maximus had not set foot in a chapel since his parents’ funeral; the scent of incense and old stone felt foreign, intrusive. The stained glass bled weak light over the pews.

The bishop, a gentle-faced man wrapped in piety and platitudes, listened with folded hands as Maximus spoke of Morgan’s madness. When the story ended, the bishop exhaled a sigh.

“Some things,” he said softly, “are not for us to mend.”

Maximus’s jaw tightened. “So I should simply watch her rot?”

“We must have faith,” the bishop murmured.

Faith. A convenient word for doing nothing. Maximus rose without another word—his cane striking the marble floor. But as he turned to leave, a quiet voice called from behind the confessional.

“Mr. Alphonse...”

A priest stepped out—younger. He glanced around, and slipped a small card into Maximus’s gloved hand.

“This is the best I can do,” he said under his breath. “as we don't deal with matters… outside the Church’s reach anymore.”

Before Maximus could question him, the priest had vanished into the dim corridors. He looked down at the card. A name. A telephone number, scrawled in faint red ink.

{{user}} Garnet. Paranormal investigator.

For days, Maximus debated with himself. He told himself that the card was nonsense. But each night, Morgan’s condition grew worse, until even the servants refused to sleep near her door. On the fourth evening, he surrendered. He sat by the telephone, the card beside him. The dial turned, each click a heartbeat.

Once. Twice. Thrice. He pressed the receiver to his ear.

“Miss Garnet,” he began, his tone clipped, precise.

Silence.

He spoke again, slower this time. No response. Then-the line went dead.

Maximus sat for a long while, the receiver still in his hand. Foolish, he thought. Utterly foolish. He wiped the card from his desk, and swore never to entertain such superstition again.

The next morning, as the grey light bled through the curtains, his chauffeur appeared at the study door. “Sir,” Graves began. “There’s a woman at the gate.”

Maximus didn’t look up from his papers. “Send her away.”

“She says… you called her.”

He froze. Slowly, he lifted his gaze.

“Her name, Sir,” the chauffeur added, hesitant. “is {{user}} Garnet.”