The Storm's Deception

The storm raged outside, a tempest of howling winds and torrential rain that lashed against the windows of the isolated Victorian manor. Clara stood in the dimly lit parlor, her fingers tracing the edge of a silver letter opener on the mahogany desk. The clock struck midnight, its chimes swallowed by the thunder. He would be home soon.

Three months. That’s how long Edward had been gone—off to “settle business affairs” in Prague, or so he’d claimed. But Clara knew better. The faint scent of jasmine on his suitcase the last time he’d returned, the cryptic phone calls in hushed German, the way his eyes avoided hers when he lied… She had pieced it together like a shattered vase, each fragment sharper than the last.

The headlights of his car sliced through the storm’s darkness, illuminating the skeletal trees lining the driveway. Clara smoothed her black lace dress, her reflection in the hallway mirror a ghostly imitation of the woman she’d once been—pale, hollow-eyed, lips painted crimson like fresh blood. She practiced a smile. It didn’t reach her eyes.

The Return

The front door creaked open, and Edward staggered in, soaked and cursing. His tailored suit clung to his broad frame, his usually impeccable beard now unkempt. “Clara?” he called, his voice rough. “Why are all the lights off?”

“The storm knocked out the power,” she replied, stepping into the foyer. Her voice was honeyed, calm. “Welcome home, darling.”

He dropped his luggage, rainwater pooling at his feet. “Christ, this place is freezing. Couldn’t you have lit a fire?”

“I tried.” She gestured to the cold fireplace, its ashes long dead. “The wood was… damp.”

Edward grunted, shrugging off his coat. Clara watched him—the way his shoulders tensed, the flicker of annoyance in his steel-gray eyes. He didn’t kiss her. Didn’t ask how she’d been. Typical.

“I’ll fetch you a drink,” she said. “Whiskey, neat?”

“You know I prefer bourbon now.” His tone was dismissive, already turning toward the study.

Clara’s nails dug into her palms. Bourbon. Of course. She drank bourbon. The woman in Prague, whose name Clara had carved into the cellar wall in fits of sleepless rage. Anya.

The Poison

In the kitchen, Clara’s hands trembled as she poured the amber liquid into a crystal glass. The vial of aconite extract—a “gift” from her late mother’s apothecary collection—glinted in the candlelight. Three drops. Enough to stop a heart within minutes. Enough to mimic a sudden, tragic cardiac arrest.

She stirred the poison with a silver spoon, humming a lullaby her mother used to sing. Sleep, my darling, close your eyes…

When she returned, Edward was slumped in his leather armchair, flipping through mail. He took the glass without thanks, downing it in one gulp. “God, I needed that,” he muttered, wiping his mouth.

Clara sat across from him, her posture rigid. “How was Prague?”

“Cold. Busy.” He avoided her gaze, crumpling a letter. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“No,” she whispered. “I suppose I wouldn’t.”

A log shifted in the fireplace, though there was no fire. Edward frowned, rubbing his chest. “Did you… open my mail?”

“Only the ones that mattered.”

His face paled. A sheen of sweat coated his brow. “What did you do, Clara?”

She smiled then, wide and unhinged. “I met Anya.”

The Revelation

Edward lurched to his feet, knocking over the side table. “You—you’re insane—”

“Am I?” Clara rose, her voice a serpent’s hiss. “You thought I wouldn’t find out? That I’d sit here, playing the dutiful wife while you built a life with her?” She pulled a photograph from her pocket—Edward and Anya, laughing outside a café, her belly rounded with child.

He choked, clawing at his throat. “Clara… please—”

“You were going to leave me. To take everything.” She stepped closer, the letter opener now visible in her hand. “But this house… it whispered to me, Edward. It showed me what you deserved.”

The floorboards groaned. Shadows writhed on the walls, though no candle flickered. Edward collapsed, his breath ragged. “You… you don’t know… what she is…”

“Oh, but I do.” Clara knelt beside him, her breath cold against his ear. “She’s dead. I made sure of it.”

His eyes widened. “No—”

“Yes. A tragic accident in her bathtub. Such a shame.” She pressed the blade to his jugular. “But you’ll join her soon.”

The House Awakens

Edward’s body convulsed, foam staining his lips. As his last breath escaped, the house shuddered—a deep, guttural moan rising from the foundation. The walls bled black ichor. Clara stumbled back, her triumph curdling into dread.

You think you’ve won? The voice echoed from every corner, feminine and ancient. Foolish girl. You’ve fed me well.

The photograph of Anya ignited, ash swirling into the form of a woman—pale, ethereal, her eyes voids of endless night. Edward’s corpse twitched, reanimating into a marionette of bone and rot.

Clara screamed, but the storm drowned her out. The house had hungered for generations, fed by betrayal and bloodshed. She had not been the first wife to kill here. She would not be the last.

As Anya’s ghost descended, Clara understood: some secrets are best buried. And some doors, once opened, cannot be closed.

Epilogue: The Storm’s Eye

Days later, neighbors would report the manor swallowed by mist, its gates rusted shut. Occasionally, on stormy nights, three figures are glimpsed in the upper windows—a man, a woman, and a shadowy third, forever locked in their dance of vengeance.