During the winter of 1912, there were (excluding the many visitors and servants) around eight residents in Rosedale House. Eight victims of what was to come. Firstly, there was Sir Alfred Ashworth, a retired soldier of the British Empire, who had served his duty on the battlefields of the Boer War, and a historical artifacts collector, priding himself in the accumulation of wondrous treasures from ancient worlds. His first wife tragically died in a riding accident, and he was currently married to Agnes, a gracious, noble woman whom had previously been widowed three times but bore no children of her own. Sir Alfred had conceived two children with his first wife. Thomas, the eldest, was a shy, bookish young man who spent most of his days hidden away in the library, pouring over piles of books from Geometry to Astronomy. The second-born was Alexandria, named after the great Egyptian city, a beautiful, intelligent young woman whose free spirit broke free of the boundaries of educated women at the time. Though unconcerned with her intellect, Alexandria’s beauty attracted countless suitors. Eventually, she was betrothed to the dashing, wealthy Jonathan, who then lodged with the family whilst his parents travelled to Africa in hope of curing his mother’s ill health. The numerous servants included Crooks, the ageing butler who had served Rosedale House long and faithful, and Beatrice, a dainty young parlor maid. Finally, there was Andrea; Sir Alfred’s orphaned niece and ward.

What began as just a bitterly cold night on 15th December 1912 became the most eventful night Rosedale House ever experienced, and a mystery, to this day, that was never really explained. The servants had gone to visit their relatives for their rare weekend holiday, except Beatrice and Crooks, since Beatrice’s mother also served in the domestic service and had to accompany her mistress to India for the winter, while Crooks had no family to go home to at all.
Snow was falling thickly past the frost-tinted window panes when a carriage draped in black velvet arrived at the house. Rubbing his hands together for warmth, the driver rapped on the brass knocker, answered sweetly by Beatrice. The man was delivering a significant artifact to Sir Alfred. A rather small wooden box adorned with lilies painted in gold. After joyfully taking the box, he offered the man shelter for night, only to be turned down.
“My sister lives up in the hills alone, and I promised her I would reside in her company tonight.” The man bid a diminutive farewell and swept his horses away into the shadows of crystal white. Slightly confused, Sir Alfred wondered where the man was going to as there were no houses in the hills he knew of reachable before morning. Brushing the thought away like a housemaid to dust, he had Beatrice summon the family to the dining room where they crowded around the little box.
“Father, what is that?” Alexandria asked curiously.
Sir Alfred gave her a look as if she had just declared she was going to elope with a secret lover.
“This.” He explained. “Is over three hundreds years old. Crafted around the same time Sir Eric Ashworth was master of this house, yet the rest of its origins are shrouded in mystery. Then, six months ago, Lemingfield Manor was burnt to ground and the only object found untouched was this beauty. It was then placed under the care of the local antiques dealer from which I bought it from.”
Slowly, he lifted the lid. Alexandria leaned over to examine the contents, only to sink back with a disappointed frown. Within the attractive box, were eight candles of dull, beige wax. Alfred’s grin faded.
“Well.” Agnes tried to lift the sullen mood. “At least the box is very pretty. Perhaps I can keep my jewelry in there. Beatrice, lay out the candles above the fireplace.”
Dutifully, Beatrice took the candles and neatly arranged them along the ornamental mantelpiece, their taupe wax illuminated by the crackling fire beneath. Agnes yawned.
“I am so tired. I believe we should all retire.”
In agreement, the family ascended to their rooms. Before Beatrice herself could retire, Crooks informed her that, since the other servants were away, she would have to sweep the floor. Passing her a broom, Crooks descended to the kitchen to polish cutlery. The lonely maid sighed and gently brushed the broom across the wooden floorboards. Ice crept along the windowpanes, bordering the glass in a pallid frame. Outside, the blizzard grew wilder, battering against the windows like a monstrous creature scratching at the frosted panes desperate to get inside and pounce on defenseless prey.
Something moved behind her. Nearly discreet enough to pass unnoticed yet able to send a bitter chill down Beatrice’s neck.
“Whose there?” the maid whispered, struggling to hide the fear in her voice.
The glint of a silver blade emerged from the darkness behind her...
Too late to scream, before the knife fell...

When Andrea returned to the dining room to fetch her fur coat, anyone present could have sworn the house itself shook amidst the poor girl’s horrified screams. Seconds later, the entire household gathered and witnessed for themselves the dreadful sight. Beatrice was strewn across the table and a river of blood streaming down her back from the gaping wound in her cold flesh. Her childlike face was forever frozen in terror. Andrea trembled still in shock, eyes transfixed upon the dead maid. Retaining a little authority amongst the horror, Alfred ordered Crooks to contact the police immediately. Crooks nodded and went to the house’s old telephone, returning a while later with the unfortunate news that, due to the blizzard and the isolation of the house, the police would be unable to arrive until morning.
“Oh dear.” Alfred shook his head sadly, “Then we must prepare for the long night ahead. I suspect that whoever murdered the poor girl- may her soul rest in heaven- must be hiding somewhere in this house. A thief could have broken in somehow and killed her before she could raise the alarm. Let us all go back to our rooms and lock the doors. Hopefully we can stay there safely awaiting the law’s arrival.”
Solemnly like a funeral procession, the family departed back to their rooms. Andrea managed to compose herself and tear her eyes from the corpse. Helping her cousin to her feet, Alexandria noticed something that the rest of the household seemed to miss. One of the candles that had brought dissatisfaction before being overshadowed by the horrifying ordeal of Beatrice’s death had been extinguished. It could not have been smothered by the storm-like gale, for that was still confined to the torrents of white outside, and nobody would simply blow it out without a reason to extinguish the rest. A box of matches lay beside it on the mantelpiece, so Alexandria struck a match and laid it on the charred wick. It would not light. Again and again she tried, but each time only a wisp of smoke curled into the air. Frustration at such an undemanding thing seemed unnecessary considering death had struck the house, so Alexandria gave up on her hopeless attempts and soon Beatrice’s corpse lay alone in the dining room, caught in a never-ending scream.

With feet skimming across the floor soft and hushed like a gifted ballerina, the killer approached her. A wisp of silver moonlight caught a glimpse of the blood-stained knife clutched between gnarled fingers. Slow, heavy breaths mingled with the creaking of ancient stairs. Reaching the top, it encountered a door and gazed upon the polished oak with bloodshot eyes of utter insanity. Cracked lips twisted the smile of an executioner. Savoring the atmosphere, the killer pushed the silent door open, leaving no creak of warning for the bedroom’s inhabitant. A beautiful young woman slept in the bed. Its hand brushed aside her flowing, silken hair like a nanny to a sleeping child, before clasping its palm tightly around her mouth. The blade sliced through the air and into flesh...
Alexandria’s eyes sprang open. Only empty darkness surrounded her. No one stood in her presence. Sweat glued the white sheet to her body. Whilst her vision adjusted to the dark, the shapes and curves of her room began to appear in the gloom as if they were emerging from a thick black fog. She scolded herself for ever believing that silly ghost stories of cloaked, undead figures could possibly reflect reality. Yet, with Beatrice’s death still hanging over her like a foul scent, she felt uneasy to be alone; especially considering a murderer was lurking in the house.
Alexandria signed; “Perhaps I should keep Andrea company. Her parents died not seven years ago, so I imagine Beatrice’s death caused her much distress. What she needs now is a woman’s companionship.”
Inside her head, an unwanted thought whispered maliciously: ‘Surely, you need Andrea’s company yourself, since your own mother is dead.”
“That is something I will not speak or think of.” Alexandria told herself firmly, trying to wipe the notion from her mind that was nagging her.
The doorknob rattled. Alexandria stared at it in shock. It rattled again and frantic hands thumped against the door like a person caught in a storm anxious to get inside. She attempted to cry out but, in pure fright, no more than air left her lips. Slowly, one of Alexandria’s sleek hands reached for the brass, ornate candlestick on her dressing table (a present from a former suitor), whilst the other grasped the key in the lock. Defensively raising the heavy object above her head and preparing to strike, she turned the key...
Agnes appeared at the doorway, her face bearing fear similar to that of a criminal being lead to execution.
“Poor child, you must come with me. Be warned, you will despise what you see.” She murmured; her voice barely above a whisper. Given that her guest was her meek stepmother and not a murderous entity, Alexandria breathed a massive sigh of relief, before inquiring why she was being summoned.
Agnes’s lips quivered; “I am afraid Beatrice is no longer the only life taken this night. Andrea is dead.”...

To be crowded around one murdered person is a tragedy for any household that would leave an imprint on their hearts evermore. However, to be glaring in terror at a second corpse in one night is a nightmare at its most hellish worst. Andrea lay curled in her bed like a sleeping dog, her lifeless face hidden mercifully beneath a veil of chestnut hair. The knife wound in her back left a vast patch of blood on her silk nightgown like a scarlet lake. She seemed so peaceful; someone who had sighted her without knowing of the murder would have thought she was still sleeping. Silence gripped the family, until Albert broke it;
“I regret to say it seems we are not in the company of a thief, but someone intent on murder. The police cannot arrive until morning. Still, we shall have to make do. Therefore, we must be vigilant.” He then lifted a Civil War rifle- another one of his prized antiques- from the wall. “However, vigilance is useless without weaponry. Thomas, my boy, you can take this. Jonathan, I understand you carry a pistol.”
Yes sir I do.” Jonathan replied, drawing it from his belt with the hand that was not embracing Alexandria, “My father gave it me, said it was the beginning of manhood.”
“Good, now, Crooks, do you have a weapon?”
Crooks nodded, “Indeed sir, I keep it to guard the kitchen from street urchins. They come from the village to steal our food.”
“Indeed. Rather then cowering away in our rooms, we must spilt up and seek out this monster before they strike again. Agnes and I will go together and we will search the bedrooms, since it seems that is where the killer last struck. Thomas and Jonathan can patrol the downstairs rooms from the library to the drawing room. Crooks, you can inspect the kitchen and the basement, and take Alexandria with you.”
One by one, the family separated in pairs. Though he found it unnecessary, Crooks allowed

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Texte: Sophie Mander
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 21.05.2012

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