Chapter 4 - The Ghost of Whitmore Estate
Back inside the grand manor, the storm continued to batter the slate roof, casting long, eerie shadows across the sweeping marble staircases.
In the master study, Daniel Whitmore poured himself a heavy glass of nineteen-year-old scotch, his hand shaking slightly as the amber liquid sloshed against the crystal rim. Across the room, Evelyn sat by the fireplace, her knitting needles clicking rhythmically in the quiet warmth of the hearth.
“Are you certain?” Daniel asked, his voice tight with lingering anxiety as he stared into the fire. “Are you certain the structural glass gave way completely? That there was no... body?”
Evelyn didn't look up from her knitting. She didn't miss a single stitch.
“The conservatory was built on a forty-foot drop over an indoor pool during my husband's era, Daniel,” Evelyn said, her voice smooth and devoid of remorse. “When forty tons of reinforced glass gives way under pressure, gravity and water finish the job. There is no body. By morning, the estate dive teams will report that she fell during the storm, and the case will be closed as a tragic accident.”
Daniel swallowed hard, taking a long sip of his scotch. He wanted to believe her. He needed to believe her. Sterling Global’s CEO, Robert Sterling, was scheduled to arrive at the estate tomorrow morning to sign the final merger papers alongside his daughter, Elizabeth. Everything was falling into place.
Yet, an icy knot remained tied tight in the center of Daniel’s stomach.
“The security cameras in the west wing,” Daniel muttered, setting his glass down on the mahogany desk. “Marcus’s old access code... is it completely deactivated?”
Evelyn stopped knitting. She raised her cold, piercing eyes toward her son.
“Marcus was cast out five years ago, Daniel. His keycards were wiped, his biometrics scrubbed from the main server, and he hasn't set foot in this county since the board trial,” Evelyn said firmly. “You are imagining ghosts because you lack your father’s stomach for empire building.”
Before Daniel could reply, a sharp, sudden rapping echoed at the heavy oak door of the study.
Both mother and son froze.
“Come in,” Daniel called out, his voice straining to sound steady.
The door swung open smoothly on oiled hinges.
It wasn't a security guard. It wasn't a maid.
Standing in the doorway was Mrs. Gable, the head housekeeper, her face pale as a ghost and her hands trembling violently.
“Mr. Whitmore... Mrs. Whitmore,” Mrs. Gable stammered, clutching a silver serving tray against her chest.
“What is it, Mrs. Gable?” Evelyn snapped, irritated by the interruption. “Can't you see we are discussing estate business?”
“It’s... it’s the east wing conservatory security console,” the housekeeper whispered, her eyes wide with terror. “The master override... it just flashed green.”
Daniel’s glass slipped from his fingers, shattering against the Persian rug, the amber scotch pooling like blood across the intricate threads.
May you like
“Green?” Daniel whispered, his blood running cold. “That’s impossible.”
“That’s not all, sir,” Mrs. Gable added, her voice dropping to a trembling breath. “The music system in the grand ballroom just turned on by itself. It’s playing the waltz from your wedding night.”
