The inheritance documents were straightforward—house, grounds, garden. But walking through those decaying corridors unsettled Andrew. Wallpaper peeled in curling strips, chandeliers sagged, and the air was thick with mildew. He felt like an intruder, as if Henry’s silence still pressed down on every room, suffocating and judging.
The strangest legacy, though, was the house’s whispers. Villagers in the nearby pub murmured about Henry, about his tragic wife. She had fallen down the stairs decades ago, breaking her neck. The coroner ruled it an accident. But locals muttered otherwise—that Henry had pushed her, and that his coldness hid something darker.