Old Edmund Kensington's room was a stifling crypt of ancient woods and musty fabrics. Heavy curtains, crimson velvet faded by age, hung like shrouds over the high windows, sealing the place in eternal twilight. The air was heavy with the acrid smell of impending death, mixed with the pungent aroma of salves and medicinal herbs that no longer had any effect on the dying man who lay in the center of the room, hunched between yellowed linen sheets.
The bed, a carved mahogany contraption, with twisted pillars that seemed to grip the ceiling like demonic claws, supported Kensington's frail, hunched body. His face, once feared and revered, was now only a mask of bones, stretched skin, and sunken eyes, framed by sparse strands of white hair. His thin, dry lips moved spasmodically, letting out only a broken murmur that echoed faintly in the dim light.
Lady Eleanor Hawthorne, his eldest sister, sat beside him in a high-backed chair, her back stiff as a board, her gaunt, severe face carved from marble. She wore a black lace dress, appropriate for the mourning that was looming over the family, and a gold cross-shaped brooch pinned to her high collar. Her hands, thin and wrinkled, rested one on top of the other in her lap, but trembled slightly, like dry leaves in the wind. Despite her imperturbable appearance, concern was reflected in her icy gaze as she leaned her ear toward her brother's stammering lips.
"What are you saying, Edmund?" Her voice, though soft, had a sharp edge that seemed to slice the very air. "Speak clearly."
Old man Kensington, with a titanic effort, managed to open his bloodshot eyes. He seemed to see through her, beyond the room, beyond life itself. His trembling hand, bony as a corpse's claw, rose with difficulty, pointing towards the window.
"The... curse..." he whispered, his voice breaking into a rattle. "The wolf... will come... for us all..."
The murmur died away into a plaintive moan, and his eyes went unfocused, lost in some terrifying vision only he could see. His chest rose and fell in an irregular rhythm, as if each breath cost him his very life. The air grew colder, as if an invisible presence was creeping in from the darkest corners of the room.
The other heirs present exchanged glances of uncertainty and fear. Emily Penrose, Tori's young cousin, pressed herself against the wall, her face pale as alabaster. Her wide, frightened eyes were filled with unshed tears, and her small hands clutched a rosary hanging around her neck, the beads jingling lightly.
"This is a delusion!" exclaimed Frederick "Freddie" Beaufort, the charismatic cousin, his voice hoarse and laden with nervous laughter. Standing by the unlit fireplace, his slender silhouette stood out against the dancing shadows. Dressed in Parisian fashion, with a dark blue velvet jacket and a silk scarf around his neck, he seemed out of place in the oppressive atmosphere of the mansion. "It's just the words of a dying old man. We all know the curse is nothing more than a stupid superstition."
"Hush, Freddie!" Lady Eleanor chided, not taking her eyes off her brother's agonized face. "Show some respect!"
Freddie pursed his lips, suppressing a scathing retort. Instead, he reached into his pocket, pulling out a cigarette which he lit with trembling hands. The smoke floated through the air, creating eerie shapes that seemed to writhe in the oppressive silence.
Dr. Alistair Pembroke, the family physician, approached with measured steps, his stern, professional face framed by a neat beard. He wore a gold pocket watch that glinted in the candlelight. She leaned over the old man, placing two fingers on his slender neck to measure his pulse.
"His condition is critical," she announced in a low tone, as if she feared the very mention of death might drag the old man into the abyss. "He is leaving…"
Lady Eleanor leaned toward her brother, her face impassive, but her eyes betraying a shadow of fear.
"Edmund, listen," she murmured, coming so close that her voice was almost a whisper. "You must tell us what to do. What do we do with the estate? What do we do with the curse? Who is the heir?"
Old man Kensington let out a deep, shaky sigh, his lips parting one last time, and then he spoke in a trembling voice, barely a murmur in the silence.
"Victory…" he gasped. "Blood… must be… paid for…"
And with those last words, his body relaxed, tense muscles giving way to the inevitable fall. Her head fell to the side, eyes wide and glassy, as if they had seen the face of death. Lady Eleanor stood still, her face unchanging as the wind outside howled loudly, as if some hellish beast were screaming in rage and triumph.
Emily Penrose sobbed, bringing a hand to her mouth to stifle the sound. Freddie stepped back, his cigarette hanging limply from his fingers. The others present stood silent, like statues, not daring to move or even breathe.
That was when it was heard. A deep, guttural howl that echoed in the distance like a primal lament, a voice lost in the night that announced the end of time. It seemed to fill the entire mansion, penetrating the thick stone walls and echoing in the dark hallways, like an echo of death and desolation.
"My God!" Emily whispered, her voice barely a broken gasp. "It's the wolf! The wolf is coming for us!"
Lady Eleanor stood with impressive dignity, her eyes cold and impassive. She turned to James Wycliffe, the family lawyer, who stood in the doorway with a pale face and shaking hands.
"Wycliffe, tell us, what does all this mean?" he demanded, his voice firm and authoritative. "Who is Victoria? Why did Edmund mention her?"
The lawyer swallowed, his eyes blinking nervously behind his round glasses. He was a man of medium height, thin, with carefully combed dark hair and a small mustache that moved as if it had a life of its own when he spoke.
"She is…" he began, his voice breaking. He cleared his throat and tried again. "She is a great-niece of Mr. Kensington. Her mother, Miss Catherine, was one of Mr. Kensington's illegitimate daughters. He acknowledged her before his death and included her in the will."
"A bastard?" Freddie spat, his voice laced with contempt. "A bastard American is going to inherit all this?"
Lady Eleanor held up a hand to silence him. Her eyes narrowed as she looked at the lawyer.
"Where is she now?" he asked coldly.
"She is on her way to England," Wycliffe replied, his voice shaky but firm. "She is expected to arrive in London in two days. I have sent a carriage to collect her and bring her here. As her lawyer, it is my duty to ensure that she is present for the reading of the will."
A hush fell over the room again. Lady Eleanor nodded slowly, her face a mask of calculated serenity.
"Very well," she said, straightening. "Then we shall receive her duly. But we must be cautious. We do not know what her intentions are."
Freddie gave a bitter laugh and stubbed out his cigarette on the marble fireplace.
"And what if we bring a circus along as well?" he said sarcastically. "A bastard American as heiress to Kensington. What next, a jester to liven up the evening?"
"That is enough, Frederick!" Lady Eleanor thundered, her voice cracking like a whip through the room. "You have said enough."
The young man waved his hand dismissively and walked away, walking towards the door with long, brisk steps.
"Well, I am not going to stand by and watch some American ghost steal our bread from our mouths," he declared before disappearing into the hallway.
Lady Eleanor watched him go, her face cold and unfazed. Then she turned to the lawyer.
"Tomorrow, make sure everything is ready for his arrival," she ordered, her voice returning to its controlled tone. "We must maintain the appearance of a united family, at least until we know what he wants."
Wycliffe nodded quickly, bowing his head.
"Yes, my lady," he murmured before retreating as well.
Silence fell upon the room again, heavy and suffocating. Lady Eleanor stared at her brother's corpse for a moment longer, then turned and headed for the door.
"May they rest in peace, Edmund," she murmured, her voice low and heavy with repressed emotion. "May hell have mercy on your soul."
And without another word, she left the room, leaving behind the lifeless body of the last patriarch of the Kensington family, the echo of the howl still ringing in the ears of those present, like a dark omen of what was to come.
Somewhere in the woods surrounding the estate, a wolf howled again, its voice fading into the night, filled with hunger, rage, and a promise of blood that would soon be fulfilled.
Lady Eleanor slowly descended the mansion's main staircase, an imposing black marble structure that seemed to absorb the little light that filtered through the Gothic windows. With each step, her heels echoed like an omen in the vast silence of the house. The light from the golden chandeliers flickered faintly, casting dancing shadows on the walls covered with tapestries that told stories of ancient battles and dark family pacts. The heart of the Kensington estate was a labyrinth of secrets buried beneath layers of opulence and decadence.
At the foot of the staircase, in the wide hall decorated with marble sculptures and gilded mirrors, the other heirs waited, their faces tense and full of expectation. The news of the patriarch's death had spread like poison through the house, poisoning every corner with fear and suspicion.
Gideon Kensington, the closest nephew and ruthless businessman, watched his aunt with calculating eyes. He was a middle-aged man of average height, with brown hair combed back and a moustache that hid a crooked smile. His impeccably cut black suit seemed to blend into the shadows around him. His fingers drummed impatiently on the knob of his cane, an almost imperceptible gesture that betrayed his nervousness.
"Well, Aunt Eleanor?" he asked in a soft but venomous voice. "What did the old man say? Any last wishes? Any shocking revelations about our fortune?"
Lady Eleanor looked at him with a mixture of disdain and pity, as if he were a pathetic and insignificant creature.
"Poor Edmund didn't even have the strength to curse us properly," she replied coldly, raising her chin in a haughty gesture. "His last word was 'Victory.' It seems he was referring to the young American girl."
A murmur ran through the room, a surge of pent-up emotions spilling over in an instant of confusion and distrust. Emily, who had followed her aunt downstairs, put a hand to her chest, her pale face reflecting a mixture of relief and fear.
"What does that mean?" the young woman asked in a trembling voice. "Is she… the sole heir?"
"We don't know yet," Lady Eleanor said, her cold eyes darting over each of the people present with a warning glint. "We will know when the will is read. Until then, we must remain calm and wait."
"Wait?" Frederick burst out, having returned to the hall with a glass of brandy in his hand. "Wait for what? For a stranger to come and steal what is rightfully ours? This is a farce!"
"Freddie, control your emotions!" Lady Eleanor rebuked, her voice ringing with authority. "Causing a ruckus will only put us in a more vulnerable position. Everyone here has reason to be nervous, but we must act with prudence."
Gideon let out a bitter laugh and took a step forward, his eyes shining with a dangerous light.
"Prudence?" he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "What we need is a plan. If that American girl comes here with intentions of claiming our inheritance, we must be prepared to… dissuade her."
"Dissuade her?" Emily murmured, her eyes filled with horror. "Gideon, you are not suggesting…"
"Suggest what, cousin?" he interrupted, his dark eyes boring into her. "What would you do if someone came to take away everything you've ever known? Would you just sit there, praying for everything to turn out okay?"
"This isn't about possessions, Gideon!" she protested, her tears threatening to spill over. "We're talking about a human life, about our family…"
"Enough!" Lady Eleanor's voice cut through the air like a sharp blade. Everyone instantly fell silent, their gazes fixed on the matriarch. "I will tolerate no more absurd discussions. We do not know who this Victoria really is or what her intentions are. Until we know more, we will act with intelligence and caution. Is that clear?"
The heirs nodded, their expressions tense and filled with resentment, but none dared to contradict her. Lady Eleanor sighed, feeling the weight of responsibility on her shoulders. Though her face was a mask of serenity, inside she was fighting a storm of doubt and fear.
"Emily, come with me to the library," she said, her voice softer. "I need to speak with you in private."
The young woman nodded quickly, following her aunt down the hallway decorated with portraits of ancestors whose gazes seemed to follow them disapprovingly. The mansion's library was a sanctuary of knowledge and secrets, its walls lined with shelves filled with leather-bound books, their gilded spines reflecting the light of oil lamps. The smell of old paper and tanned leather filled the air, creating an atmosphere of intellectual oppression.
Lady Eleanor closed the door behind them and turned to Emily, her expression changing from stern to worried.
"Listen to me carefully, my dear," she said in a whisper, her grey eyes fixed on her niece's. "We do not know what kind of person this Victoria is, or what she intends." But we cannot allow her to take control of everything Edmund and our ancestors built. We must be united, you and I.
Emily blinked, surprised by the almost pleading tone in her aunt's voice. She had always seen Lady Eleanor as a strong, impenetrable woman, a fortress of dignity and righteousness. But now, for the first time, she seemed vulnerable, almost desperate.
"Aunt Eleanor… I… I don't know what to do," she admitted in a broken whisper. "I'm scared. This is all so… confusing. What does what Uncle Edmund said about the curse mean? And the wolf?"
Lady Eleanor reached out and took her niece's hands in hers, squeezing them tightly.
"The curse is just an old story, a tale to scare children," she said firmly, though her eyes betrayed a shadow of doubt. "But that howl…" her voice trailed off, and a chill ran down her spine. "The wolf is real. I've heard it before, and it always heralds death and misfortune. But we cannot allow fear to control us."
Emily nodded slowly, though her eyes were still filled with terror.
"And what about Victoria?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper. "What will we do when she arrives?"
Lady Eleanor let out a deep sigh and closed her eyes for a moment, as if fighting back a surge of emotion.
"We will do whatever it takes to protect our family," she said finally, her voice hardening. "We cannot let anyone stand in our way. Edmund mentioned blood. If necessary, more will be spilled to preserve our legacy."
Emily shuddered at those words, but did not dare question them. The shadow of death loomed over Kensington Manor, and Victoria's arrival only seemed to hasten the inevitable descent into chaos and destruction.
Meanwhile, deep in the woods surrounding the estate, a dark figure moved among the trees, its eyes shining with a fierce glint in the moonlight. The wolf had heard the call, and was waiting, lurking, to play its part in the tragedy that was about to unfold at the cursed Kensington Manor.
