When Maya finally reached the apartment, the silence was a relief. Kim wasn't home—likely spending the night out with her latest fling—which meant Maya didn't have to explain the dizzying high of the half-million-dollar contract just yet. She stripped off her professional clothes, collapsed onto her bed, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep before her head even hit the pillow.
Morning came way too fast. Maya hated mornings with a passion, but she'd set three different alarms to make sure she didn't blow this.
By 9:40 AM, she was standing on the sidewalk, clutching a travel mug of coffee. Right on time, a massive black SUV with pitch-black tinted windows pulled up to the curb. It looked like something a government agent would drive.
The window rolled down just enough for her to see the driver. "Miss Rush?"
"Hi. Yes. Good morning," she said, trying to sound more awake than she felt.
"I was told to drop you off ".
She hopped into the back seat. The interior smelled like expensive leather and silence. As they left the city and headed toward the outskirts, seems like her new job is outskirt of the City.The smooth ride lulled her back to sleep. She didn't wake up until the driver cleared his throat.
"We're here."
Maya blinked, wiped her eyes, and stepped out of the car. The air was different here—colder and salty, like the ocean was nearby but hiding.
Then she saw it.Rosewood Manor
The house was a giant. It was made of dark, jagged stone that looked like it had been pulled straight out of a horror movie. Tall spires poked at the grey sky, and thick, messy ivy crawled up the walls like it was trying to strangle the building. The windows were narrow and dark, staring back at her like empty eyes.
"Miss Rush?"
Maya jumped, nearly dropping her coffee. Marcus was standing near the gate, looking as polished as ever in his suit.
"Good morning! Sorry, I didn't see you there," she said, heart racing.
Marcus adjusted his glasses, looking remarkably out of place in his sharp suit against the backdrop of the crumbling estate. "This is Rosewood. Mr. Clarke couldn't make it this morning, so he sent me to get you settled. Shall we?"
They passed through the heavy iron gates and stepped onto the premises. The grounds had turn into a labyrinth of overgrown gardens and headless stone statues. The air here felt thick, almost heavy, as if the oxygen itself was tired. Maya felt a sudden, sharp chill race down her spine, despite the morning sun.
When they reached the towering front door, Marcus produced a heavy brass key. As he turned it, the lock groaned in protest—a long, metallic sound that echoed through the dead silence of the hills.
The door swung open, and the atmosphere shifted. If the outside was eerie, the inside was suffocating.
The lobby was huge, with a ceiling so high it was lost in the shadows.Stepping into the lobby felt stepping back a hundred years It smelled like old wax, dusty books, and something sharp, like rusted metal. Huge crystal chandeliers hung above them, covered in thick, grey cobwebs that looked like old lace. A giant wooden staircase curved up into the dark second floor.
Maya took a step onto the black-and-white marble floor. The sound of her boots echoed through the empty hall like a gunshot.
"It's... a lot," she whispered.
"It's a vault of history, Miss Rush," Marcus replied, his voice echoing. "Mr. Clarke wants it emptied. Every painting, every rug, every asset. Do you think you can handle the weight of this place?"
Maya looked at the shadows moving on the walls. It felt like she had stepped out of modern and straight into the 1800s. The air was thick, and for a second, she felt like she wasn't alone in the room.
"I can handle it," she said, though her skin was still crawling. "Let's get to work."
"Good," Marcus said, checking his watch. He looked like he couldn't wait to get back to the clean, modern air of the city. "I'll leave you to it, then. The driver will be back to pick you up at five. If you need anything, my number is on the contract."
With a quick nod, he turned and disappeared through the heavy doors. The sound of the lock clicking shut echoed through the house like a final warning.
Maya was alone.
She stood in the center of the massive foyer, the silence pressing against her ears. She dropped her heavy messenger bag onto a dusty marble side table and took a deep breath, trying to shake off the creepy feeling that someone was watching her from the top of the stairs.
"Okay, Maya. One room at a time," she whispered to herself. Her voice sounded thin and out of place in the grand hall.
She decided to start with the main living room. It was the largest space on the ground floor, a cavernous room with ceilings so high they disappeared into the shadows. The furniture was draped in heavy, grey ghost-sheets, making the room look like a graveyard of sheets and jagged edges.
Maya pulled her high-intensity flashlight and her digital camera from her bag. Step one: Documentation.
She walked over to the nearest piece of furniture and gripped the edge of the dusty sheet. With a sharp tug, she pulled it off. A cloud of dust exploded into the air, making her cough, but as the air cleared, she gasped.
Underneath was a Victorian-style sofa, its velvet upholstery a deep, bruised purple. The wood was hand-carved mahogany, intricate and expensive. Even with the dust, it was beautiful.
"This is going to take forever," she muttered, pulling out her iPad to start the digital log.
For the next few hours, Maya moved through the room like a machine. She uncovered a massive grand piano that looked like it hadn't been played in decades, its ivory keys yellowed with age. She found a set of silver tea services that were tarnished black, and a collection of oil paintings in heavy gold frames.
The work was physical and exhausting. She had to move side tables, lift heavy rugs to check for floor damage, and climb a small ladder to inspect the crystal drops on the wall sconces. By 1:00 PM, her white shirt was streaked with grey soot and her hair was pulled into a messy knot, but she was making progress.
The deeper she got into the room, the more she felt the history of the place. After pulling a particularly heavy, moth-eaten sheet off a massive frame against the far wall, she stopped dead in her tracks.
It was a portrait.
The painting was enormous, encased in a heavy, tarnished gold frame that looked like it weighed a ton. It depicted a family of five, all dressed in stiff, dark clothing from a time long forgotten. The father stood tall and stern, his hand resting on the shoulder of a woman who looked elegant but deeply sad. Three children stood before them, their faces pale and unsmiling. They were all dressed in the gothic style—high lace collars, heavy velvets, and dark wools that seemed to swallow the light.
Maya stepped closer, her flashlight beam dancing over the canvas. The eyes of the man in the painting were familiar. They had that same cold, piercing intensity she had seen in the office yesterday.
They have to be Kevin Clarke's ancestors, she thought inwardly. The family resemblance is almost scary.
Her job has always felt strange, She was essentially taking apart someone's life, piece by piece, and putting a price tag on it. Every item in this room had once been chosen by someone, loved by someone, and now it was just "Asset #402.
By 4:30 PM, the living room looked completely different. the light in the room change slowing welcome the evening ray She had filled three digital pages of inventory. Her back ached, and her hands were covered in fine grey grit, but she felt a sense of pride. This was what she was good at—finding order in the middle of a mess.
She checked her phone. 4:55 PM.
Standing there, with the painted eyes of the dead watching her, the "creepy" feeling she had felt earlier started to crawl back up her neck. In the dim light, the shadows across the marble floor seemed to stretch and move toward the portrait.
Maya quickly packed her camera and laptop into her bag. She didn't want to be here when the sun went down completely and those painted eyes were the only things left awake.
Just as she was swinging her bag over her shoulder, a soft thud came from the hallway outside—right behind the wall where the portrait hung.
She froze, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Marcus?" she called out.
No answer. Only the sound of the wind whistling through the old stone walls.
Maya took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing pulse. Get a grip, Maya, she scolded herself. It's an old house. Wood creaks. Stones settle. It was probably just her imagination playing tricks on her. The creepiness of the manor had clearly gotten to her nerves, making her jump at every little sound.
Still, she didn't wait around to test that theory. She hurried toward the front door just as the black SUV pulled up onto the gravel driveway. She didn't look back at the house until she was safely locked inside the car, watching the dark spires of Rosewood disappear into the twilight.
The driver dropped Maya off at her apartment just as the city lights were beginning to hum. By the time she climbed the stairs and pushed open her front door, it was already 7:00 PM.
The familiar, comforting sound of clicking dishes drifted from the kitchen. Kim was home.
Maya dropped her bag on the sofa with a heavy thud, her body feeling like lead. A moment later, Kim stepped into the living room, drying her hands on a floral kitchen towel. She stopped in her tracks, her eyes widening as she took in Maya's appearance—the dust-streaked blazer, the messy hair, and the exhausted look in her eyes.
"I tried calling you at least five times, but it wouldn't even connect," Kim said, tossing the towel onto a chair. "Where are you coming from? You look like you've been digging up graves."
Maya sank into the armchair, letting out a long sigh. "The reception out there is non-existent. It's like a dead zone."
"Out where?" Kim asked, leaning against the doorframe, her curiosity piqued. you landed a job? "You didn't tell me you landed a job , Who is the client?"