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It lasted only a second, but I saw it, in the uppermost window of the manor.

It shouldn't have been there.

The Vandelines are dead. The house is cursed and in ruins. No one dares go there.

But someone was there.

Or maybe it was just the wine.

I glance at my glass but find only a small portion has been drunk.

Perhaps my mind isn't playing tricks on me this time.

Or perhaps it is.

Either way I think I should investigate.

Laurette and her love are still busy in the gardens, and I don't think anyone is going to bother looking for them anyway.

I'm sure she won't mind if I leave for just a few minutes.

Oh, I'm sure she wouldn't even notice if I left entirely.

Stealing myself away from the balcony, I sneak down the staircase into the kitchen.

The servants don't spare me a second glance, and I deposit my wine glass near the sink, swiping a small lantern on the way out the back door.

I can be at the Vandeline manor and back in no time. All it will take is quick feet and keen eyes to watch the way through the rickety paths.

The lantern is light enough, and my feet are nimble, pattering away from the mansion along the dusty pathway.

An occasional glance behind shows that none have followed me.

The golden lantern swings with every step, and my satin gown drags along the ground.

Only a little further to go, almost there.

The fences that run parallel to the road are broken and overgrown with weeds curling around the rusted metal.

I reach the front entrance, slightly out of breath.

The gates are wide open, and beyond lies the manor.

As if beckoning me to enter, I hear a raven caw, and fly past my head into the depths of misty expanse before me.

I'm being stupid.

I shouldn't be here.

But I am, and it's too late to go back now.

The edge of my gown is already dirtied and if I don't go in now, what was the point?

I'll be scolded either way, might as well find the truth to the light.

But what if it's just a beggar, or a traveler, looking for shelter?

What if they see my pearls and rob me?

I step back hesitantly.

But if there is a Vandeline in the house, if there really is, then it is my duty to find out and tell Mother Whisper.

And I don't think any surviving Vandeline would be ignorant enough to kill me, let alone approach me, an Ophera.

The very name is sure to strike fear in their hearts.

With a new boldness to my step, I enter through the gates, and up the narrow, winding path to the manor house atop the hill.

The fog laps at my heels, and my lantern grows ever dim, and I reach the front door mostly by guide of the moonlight.

There is a big brass knocker, with the head of an owl, staring me in the face as I stand on the porch, and I reach a hesitant hand out to grab it by the neck.

Three loud knocks echo through the house, but not so much as a whisper answers.

I suppose it was rather silly of me to bother knocking.

Lantern in hand, I slink to the nearest window, and peer inside as best I can.

The glass is smudged and undusted for years, and I can just barely make out vague outlines of a grandfather clock, but no more.

The window frame is solid wood, but upon further inspection, I find the latch on the inside is undone, allowing for easy access.

Seizing the bottom half of the frame, I push upwards, and the window slides open with a groan.

Silence answers my greeting as I climb inside, holding the lantern above my head to catch a better view of the place.

I am standing in the middle of a living room, grandfather clock in the corner, and a long couch set in front of an empty fireplace.

On the mantle above the fire, are three perfectly centered photographs.

The first, a faded black and white portrait of an unsmiling man and wife in black garments.

The second of a beautiful girl, perhaps a little older than I, also with a face void of emotion, wearing a mourning gown and silver necklace.

And the last, is a little boy, barely more than ten years of age, but unlike the others he wears a grim expression, as if he's staring into the depths of my very soul with every bit of hatred he can muster.

It's unsettling, and I back away, moving deeper into the house.

There is a corridor once I leave the living room, an utterly barren corridor, without even a single painting to mask the oaken paneling.

I tread carefully along it, mindful of my footing.

I can hear every creak in the floorboards as I walk, every breath I take seems a little too loud, even my heartbeat is breaking the sombreness the manor seems to possess.

I feel like I'm walking through a graveyard of memories.

The corridor ends abruptly at a narrow, spiral staircase.

The light was in the highest room of the manor, perhaps this is the way.

I ascend the stairs swiftly, grateful for my soft shoes that keep my presence silent, and once at the top, find myself standing once again, in a narrow corridor.

But this one is different.

There is a tattered Egyptian rug, leading to the west of the manor, and large, faded portraits hang from the panelling.

I really shouldn't be here. It feels wrong. This place is wrong.

But that light. That light. Someone is here, and I must know who.

Swallowing my apprehension, I force myself to go on.

Every few paces there are doors to my side, some with numbering, others without. But none, none are open.

At long last, the doors end, and the hall takes a slight incline up and up and up.

I follow the hall until I draw into a small common room, set apart from the rest of the house.

There is a small fireplace in the wall, and a couch with a broken leg slumps in front of it.

A telescope rests against the tall window, through which the moon casts a sullen glow over me.

I move to the window, and peering out from it, over the overgrown gardens of the manor, I can just see the Ophera Mansion, and the glimmering lights from the party.

This is where the light came from.

But why would anyone want to be up here?

It's cold, and it smells aged, musty, like an old church.

And it's rather dirty too.

I run my finger over the rim the windowpane, and it comes back grey and sticky.

"Ew-"

"Ah, ah." Says a whispery voice, and I feel something cold, and sharp press against the soft skin of my neck.

I freeze, unmoving, eyes wide in horror as I stare in vain at my smudged reflection in the window.

"What are you doing here?" The voice asks, and I conclude it belongs to young man. His voice itself barely more than a whisper, a slight breeze on a frosty winter morning, and it sends a chill down my spine.

"I just... I just came to see the light." I mutter, closing my eyes tight as the pinch on my neck worsens, "I'm not here to hurt you, please, don't kill me."

"Does anyone know?" It's more of a threat than a question.

"No."

"Who are you?"

I hesitate.

If this man is a Vandeline, my name will surely terrify him, and he will release me.

But I just admitted that no one knows I'm here.

He could chop me into a million piece and none would be the wiser.

And if this man is a Vandeline, I have an obligation to make it out alive and to tell Mother Whisper. She'll gather the townsfolk, and they'll purge this place once and for all.

"I'm Marianne Ophera." A smile plays at my lips, "and you are?"

"None of your concern."

Something feels a little wrong, besides a knife at my throat, of course.

Perhaps it's those faded memories which refuse to relent and be drawn over with new ones.

Everything I know about the Vandelines has been told to me, and I've never really had the opportunity to know for myself.

Perhaps, for once, Mother Whisper is the one with a slightly distorted memory.

Sometimes people forget that even the night is not totally dark.

The memories of the Vandeline children, their smiles as they laughed on the outskirts of the meadows, are still in my mind, shrivelled and aged, but present, nonetheless.

Surely smiles can't be a sign of evil.

"I know you're a Vandeline-" I say, and he presses the knife a little tighter.

"Ow, stop it!" I tip forward on my toes, trying to lessen the pressure of the blade. "I wasn't done talking! Why don't we be friends?"

"You're insane."

"Only a little. Aren't you lonely up here?"

"Quite the contrary."

"Well, I'm lonely, so let's be friends. I can make cookies and tea and – hey, ow ow ow, stop, that really hurts!"

"One word to anyone," he hisses, "and I'll separate your head from your shoulders. Now go."

The knife is gone from my neck, and I turn around in a trice, catch a fleeting glimpse of a shadowed figure vanishing around the corner of the hall.

"Hey, what's your name?" I call out, but there is no answer, and I'm left alone in the darkness, with a burnt-out lantern and a thin trickle of blood running down my skin.