Rain drizzled over the sprawling Whitmore estate, turning the gravel driveway into a slick ribbon of gray. Maren Calloway adjusted her coat and took a deep breath, feeling the cold seep into her bones. She had come to this remote European manor not just for work, but because she had been drawn into something far darker than a simple housekeeping job.
“Miss Maren,” a small voice called softly from behind her. She turned and saw a little girl clutching a worn rabbit doll. “They said… they said you’re bad luck.”
Maren’s chest tightened. “Sweetheart, that’s not true,” she said gently, kneeling to meet the girl’s eyes. “No one blames you, and you’re not unlucky.”
The girl hesitated, then whispered, “I believe you.” Maren hugged her, swallowing back the familiar ache in her throat. That night, lying on the narrow cot in the servant’s wing, she replayed every horrifying moment. The soil turned by frantic hands, the scream muffled by panic, and the moment Tobias Lennox had disappeared beneath the earth. The house felt heavier now, shadows seeming to curl around corners and listen.