But things started to happen. Small things at first.
The house laughed. She heard it—not with her ears, but inside her skull, a deep, rumbling amusement that vibrated through her teeth and her bones.
The rest of the book was blank.
The walls are bleeding, reader. I am not mad. I wish I were.
She never touched another Victorian again. brooke beretta
The first floor was mostly intact, though water damage had ruined the parquet floors and wallpaper hung in sad ribbons. The second floor held six bedrooms, each with a fireplace and a view of the overgrown garden. The third floor was a labyrinth of servants' quarters and storage rooms, many of them locked. The keys were long gone.
She opened the book and read aloud. The words were not English, or any language Brooke knew, but they came out of her mouth like they had been waiting there for a hundred years. The thing wearing Julian Cross's face screamed—a terrible, high-pitched sound that went on far too long for a human throat. Then it collapsed into a pile of dust and old bone. But things started to happen
And she had walked right into its mouth.