THE HOUSE THAT BLED MIDNIGHT
Chapter One: The Invitation
The rain fell like whispers on the rooftop, soft but insistent, as if the sky was trying to warn the world of something it couldn’t quite say. Gloria stared out the window of the city bus, watching water blur the streetlights into streaks of gold and crimson. Her reflection in the glass looked unfamiliar eyes tired, mouth tight, and somewhere beneath it all, a flicker of curiosity... or was it dread?
She clutched the old envelope tighter in her hand, the paper damp at the edges from her sweat. The handwriting on it was elegant but foreign. Inside was an invitation formal, cold, and signed only with an initial.
“You are invited to the midnight inheritance at the Mortwell estate. Your presence is requested without delay. Transportation provided.”
No explanation. No return address. No name but hers written on the front.
Gloria’s fingers had trembled when she first opened it. She hadn’t known anyone from the Mortwell estate or so she thought. Yet, something about the letter had stirred a hidden ache in her memory, like the ghost of a story she had once heard as a child and forgotten on purpose.
The bus hissed to a stop on a fog-drenched road lined with trees that loomed like watchmen. She stepped off, suitcase in hand, heart knocking against her ribs. A sleek black car idled at the curb. Its driver, a man in a dark suit and leather gloves, stepped out without a word, opened the door, and motioned for her to enter.
She hesitated.
"Where exactly is this estate?" she asked.
He only nodded toward the back seat.
Gloria’s instincts screamed no but her legs moved anyway.
The ride was silent and endless, the kind that stretched time like melted wax. Outside, the world grew darker. Trees thickened. Fog curled over the windshield like grasping fingers.
Then, at exactly midnight, the car slowed.
The gates loomed ahead wrought iron twisted into shapes that might have once been vines… or bones. A rusted sign hung crookedly from the stone arch: Mortwell House.
The car rolled through.
The mansion emerged like a beast from the fog ancient, tall, and wounded by time. Ivy clung to its walls like veins, and its many windows stared out like empty eyes. A single light burned in the tower, flickering as though it might give out at any moment.
Gloria stepped out into the wet grass, suitcase in one hand, letter in the other. The car reversed and disappeared before she could say a word.
She was alone.
Thunder cracked in the distance.
The door creaked open before she knocked.
Inside, candlelight flickered against peeling wallpaper. Shadows danced along the corridor. The air smelled of dust, wood rot, and something older something that didn’t want to be named.
A voice called from deeper inside.
“Welcome, Miss Gloria. You’re right on time.”
She froze.
The voice was not unfamiliar.
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