Dusk was drawing near when the coach stopped outside an inn. Mr Ripley, the lone passenger, stepped out to have a word with the driver.

"Pardon me," he began, "is this Willows Grove?"

"Melville," replied the driver.

"Then why have we stopped?"

"There's a fog rolling in—"

"And what of it?" Ripley interrupted.

"The road to Willows Grove is treacherous by day—I wouldn't be caught dead on it at night in this fog."

"But we've already lost a day due to a broken wheel—"

"Deduct the lost time from my pay. But I'm not leaving here tonight," he added flatly.

Annoyed, Ripley grabbed his briefcase and stormed off towards the inn. Inside, the innkeeper, Alden, offered Ripley some tea and bread. But before Alden turned to leave, Ripley inquired about the distance to Willows Grove.

"About three miles, as the crow flies," Alden replied. "You're not thinking of walking are yer?"

"I need to leave by dawn and return to the capital. So I must get there tonight."

"Not to pry, but why the rush, Mr Ripley, was it?"

"Yes. I need to see a Mr Thorn—"

"Oh yes," Alden interrupted, "is it about his aunt? Terrible business that—and over a necklace."

"It was very unfortunate, indeed."

"Her blood was crimson red, they said. I always knew her to be kind—"

"Would you mind giving me directions?"

"But it's dangerous—"

Ripley trembled, "I'm aware...."

The fog had grown denser by the time Ripley reached the cemetery. But it was the quickest way to Mr Thorn's home. The tall gravestones looked ghostly in the heavy mists. And more than once, he was sure he heard screaming in the distance. So he hastened on and soon found himself at a crumbling Victorian-style house.

The gate groaned as he opened it. As he advanced, a crow cawed from a twisted tree in the yard. And in the attic window, a shadowy figure held a candle before receding into the darkness. Quivering, Ripley reached for the knocker. Shuffling sounds emanated from within before a ghastly man with bloodshot eyes opened the door.

"Mr...Thorn," he stammered, "Ripley...the...solicitor—"

"Late," Thorn replied in a deep voice. "Come in."

Ripley cautiously entered, and Thorn led the way to a small study by the light of a single candle. In between stammers, Ripley explained what Thorn was to sign to inherit his aunt's estate.

Thorn chuckled upon reaching the final page. "That bitch thought she could disinherit me because of some bastard—believing the word of a whore over her own blood." Then he cut his finger on the edge of the page. "Hell!" he cursed.

A chill ran down Ripley's spine; Thorn's blood was dark grey.

Thorn snickered. "Pity you saw this—for now, you know, I had dear Aunt Katherine murdered."

Ripley smirked, "I know. Her screams still haunt me."

"What?"

Ripley pulled a dagger from his coat and cut his palm.

Thorn turned bone-white. Shuddering, he pointed at the blood, "It's...it's...pitch—"

"Black," Ripley interrupted, before licking the blade.