Wasn't Wilfred's door locked from the outside and inside according to what Betram stated he did every night? How could he have opened it from the inside and escaped?
The pace of the boy's movements roused me from those thoughts. I felt like I should pursue him, but judging how no servants in the manner thought about going after him, this was either a normal occurrence or they were oblivious to this predicament.
Inhaling deeply, I entered a state of logical contemplation. I could either fill this gap and pursue Wilfred down the hall, or I could inform a servant of his distress and have them talk to him.
"That's the norm." I heard a voice behind me say. My eyes darted backwards, and I turned around to see Raymond standing in the hallway, crossing his arms.
"...he just runs off like that and no one helps him?" I was taken aback by the other boys' apathy. Wasn't he the one who took him in to begin with? Wouldn't a good adopted brother help and comfort him in a situation akin to this?
I pointed down the hallway at Wilfred, who was still speed-walking. "He's your brother, you're not gonna help him?"
At that moment, Raymond's eyes flickered with amusement as he raised his head slightly. "Aren't you the babysitter my mother hired? Go talk to him yourself and do your job."
Raymond's mocking made my blood simmer, causing me to take a defensive step forward.
"You're his damn brother; you go help him!"
"I'd rather confine myself to my studies." The black-haired boy turned around and walked away.
After being left alone, my focus quickly switched from Raymond to the smaller boy who had fled from his supposedly locked room. He had fled even when Betram said it was locked every night to prevent problems, but Wilfred's easy escape aroused my suspicions.
Turning around and facing the empty hallway, I took a deep breath and silently proceeded. For the most part, the halls of the manor were empty aside from the faint noises of carriages and snowfall outside. The walls were lined with kerosene-powered lamps that shone dimly, reflecting the numerous paintings and figures of the house.
Most of them appeared just as regal-looking as Madame Fitzgerold and her sons, while others looked like they had plucked from the streets like Wilfred's initial condition. Does this house have a secret lineage of adopters or something, or were the servants underfed and not taken good care of?
I rounded another counter and came to a staircase that split down the middle, spiraling to the second floor. In between the parted stairs was an indoor fountain. In the corner of my eye, I saw a figure brush by the hallway, followed by the sounds of colliding and discarding clockwork. This was most likely Wilfred; he was the one with the broken music box!
I inhaled deeply and followed my gut, slowly making my way up the stairs. At that moment, the staircase in front of me seemed to stretch and warp, elongating to a seemingly infinite distance. Dark fog enveloped my surroundings, and numerous black pillars shot up from the ground, which had transformed into a barren stone and dirt wasteland.
"Even if you try, it's worthless to assist him." An illusory voice called out in front of me. Suddenly, the dark fog dissipated in a particular spot, and I caught sight of a figure clad in black and red bloodstained armor. On their head was a crown of thorns and spikes, and they possessed a head of long, black hair with traces of red at its roots.
This was my father, though his appearance was uncanny to any portrayal I had seen beforehand. This wasn't a regular human or an illusory demon, this form resembled what appeared to be a tyrannical, demonic warlord. My hand habitually darted for the Blood-Moon Charm, but I didn't feel the object in my pockets.
That's right, I never brought it over to this establishment.
The demonic tyrant smirked, his left hand resting on the armrest of his throne, which was carved from crystalized blood and demonic energy that pulsed deep within the creation like a pale imitation of a heart.
"Gaze upon me, son." His voice suddenly turned layered and ethereal, and my heart tightened into a ball as I felt my head raise on its own, gazing into the eyes of this monster clad in armor. Its appearance wasn't terrifying like the demon, it was rather intimidating, but edgy—somethinng I'd see akin to the drawings on the fridge, the ones I had trouble recognizing as my own.
"W-why are you haunting me?" I whispered, the words dripping from my throat as I struggled to speak. It was like the demon had some sort of petrifying gaze.
The pale-skinned demon grinned, showing me its countless rows of sharp teeth the size of daggers. My eyes widened when I caught sight of its mouth. The entire body part was akin to a tunnel, lined with the sharp fangs of countless animals of all shapes and sizes. Sitting in the mouth was a forked tongue like a snake's.
Upon hearing my question, the tyrant's lips twitched upwards even more, almost to an inhuman extent. "So you don't lose the way I designed you."
At that moment, the fog grey hazier, along with the images it showcased. The pillars that stood erected to an infinite height shrank back to nothingness, and the staircase manifested once again, contracting and converging to reassemble its original, ordinary shape. The lights shone brighter when I regained consciousness, and I realized I was lying on a sofa bed.
A cold rag had been placed on my forehead, and the female servant before, now clad in a pink nightgown, was dabbing me gently. She parted her lips and spoke in a gentle voice.
"The Madame returned a few hours ago, I handled Bertram's necessities in the meantime."
I tried to lean up, but the swift hand of the servant prevented much movement. Her yellow eyes gained a sense of callousness as her brows furrowed slightly in an almost motherly way. "Don't move so suddenly, you'll vomit."
I nodded slowly, leaning back on the sofa and sighing. In an instant, my eyes shot open and I inhaled deeply. "How's Wilfred? I saw him run off."
The female servant paused, looking out of the room and down the hallway. I too slowly gazed, and I took note of the thick, metal padlock on the surface of Bertram's door handle. I made a deduction. Bertram most likely found Wilfred and took him back to his room, reinstalling the lock.
"He ran off?..." Her voice lowered, and she leaned forward slightly to listen closer to my explanation. I nodded.
"I saw him break a music box, look terrified, and dart out of the room."
"A music box?..." An almost reminiscent flash crossed the woman's expression, and she looked deeper into my eyes as if using some strange ability. "What did it look like?"
My memory of the encounter must have altered from my incident a moment ago. I knew it was a music box, I knew it played music, but I had trouble recalling it exactly aside from its dark-colored appearance and faint hints of gold on the edges.
"I don't...it's hazy." I replied, leaning back on the sofa and placing my head under the soft pillows. At that moment, the female servant stood up and bowed like a madame. "I apologize."
"Huh?" My face contorted into a mask of blatant confusion. Catching sight of my current state, she blushed and sat back down, exhaling.
"My name is Florence. I apologize for my lack of introduction as of earlier."
This was either an honest mistake on the woman's part, or she was attempting to shift the topic and mood in a lighter sense. I committed the name to my memory and nodded my head slowly.
"I have a question." I announced.
"Yes?" Florence gazed at me with a now curious expression.
"Has...Wilfred's room always been locked like that?" I lifted my arm and limply pointed down the hallway towards the door.
Florence paused for a short while before sighing. "Since Bertram's...abnormal shift in behavior, he's locked his door shut every night, saying how the inability to hear his screams and shouts puts him at ease in a way."
At that moment, I felt a rush of confusion. "But...locks can't stop sound from coming through; they simply make a door unable to be opened."
"That's...logic I have considered to a degree. Bertram claims he yells every night, but I find myself resting peacefully even through rain storms."
"Where's your bedroom?" In order to deduce the proximity of any screaming, I had to know where the servants slept within the manor.
Florence paused for a moment, gazing at my form for a short while. She then slowly extended her hand and adjusted the rag on my forehead. "If you promise to keep that in place, I'd be happy to show you."
...
Florence led me up the staircase once again—and this time, I didn't pass out or experience fatigue or visions. The kerosene-powered lamps provided ample enough light to navigate in the late hours of the night. As we crossed a specific section of the manor, Florence's steps paused, and she lit the candle she carried on a tray in the hallway.
"At this time, most of the lamps power down."
As if on cue, all of the lamps in the hallway—along with the house—powered down, the low rumble of the flames extinguishing in an instant filling the space. The entire hallway now sat in a tranquil, but almost uneasy darkness, accompanied with a silence only penetrated by the breathing of me and Florence.
"From this spot in the manor." She continued.
"I sleep well at night, even the most viscous of rain storms fail to rouse me."
She turned her body and extended her left hand, opening the door slowly and stepping inside her bedroom.
The woman reached up and turned on the lamp overhead, filling the room with a warm, orange glow of the bulb. Unlike the rest of the manor, the servants' rooms possessed bulb-powered lamps, whilst the hallway and larger spaces had flame-powered lamps.
Taking note of this, I arched an eyebrow. "Why the difference?"
Florence approached her desk by the window, opening the curtains and sighing. "The Madame insists we have ample lighting."
"Do...the boys rooms have this lighting aswell?" I pointed to the bulb-powered lamp overhead.
Florence looked up, before biting her lip. Her yellow eyes seemed to flicker like the light above her as she silently hummed to herself in an attempt to recall.
"In the few accounts I have of entering their rooms for cleaning, I never bothered to take note of the type of lighting she supplied; they all look the same in my opinion."
"I take it they all don't reside on the same floor, Wilfred sleeps on the first floor from what I saw." I crossed my arms.
"Maybe Wilfred's room doesn't get light to begin with, and he relies on the moon to see. That's quite pitiful." I sat down on a chair beside her desk, gazing up at the crimson moon that hung in the air as if suspended by a string.
I rested my hand on my cheek and sighed. "I wonder why the moon is that color anyways..."
At that moment, we heard noises behind us. My body turned around at an instant, and I caught sight of a figure standing in the doorway. It was Raymond, clad in an exquisite robe and silk pajamas.
His arms were crossed over his chest, and his face resembled a scowl.
"You haven't left yet?" He asked, arching an eyebrow as his emerald eyes flickered with animosity in my direction. I felt a strange, clammy, and cold sweat down my back as I looked at the taller boy, feeling a strange surge of intimidation.
Florence stood up, adjusting her posture straight, almost like a soldier following a commander's orders.
"He suffered an injury on the staircase and he's under my medical supervision in the meantime." She spoke in a low, almost dangerous tone.
Raymond's eyes narrowed. Without a word, stepped aside, walking down the hallway as he mumbled something incoherent under his breath.