" It's almost dark. "
A tiny girl had suddenly appeared at the top of the stairs leading down into the kitchen and workshop. She held several cleaning instruments and solvents in her shaking hands, and she seemed nervous, anxious to leave.
" You shouldn't sta-- " She seemed to come to some sort of a realization as she heard steps coming from upstairs, as Xavier walked around. Then came the sound of running water. " He's...here? They said he almost never comes here. I...I have to go. "
She disappeared through the front door and the sounds of her retreating footsteps grew louder as soon as she was on the outside, as she burst into a run. From the front entrance, the last rays of light began to shimmer out of existence as the day turned to night. Almost immediately the house took on a different appearance. The sound of stirring upstairs had ceased, and the house began to grow unnaturally dark. The only sources of light in the house were the flickering lights amongst the portraits, and an odd glow that seemed to be coming from the knife on the table.
Rumbling. Slow at first, it's existence almost deniable but slowly it began to rise in intensity and volume, the house quaking as a foreign wind blew through the house, despite there being no open doors or windows. The marble tiles near the door they had entered began to crack and shift. Gradually, the air in the room changed direction and began escaping through the tiny hairline wounds in the floor.
Then the tiles began to disintegrate, creating a vacuous black nothingness beneath the floor there. It would cut off any chance of escape, and were she to check her surroundings, the same insane occurrence would be taking place near every window and door, creeping inward toward the three halls and the portraits that lined them. She would be forced to travel toward them, whereby the engravings beneath them would become readable. Even the portraits covered by the black velvet had small gold plates visible beneath them, each with a name and two spaces for dates.
The first, on the right read:
Alistair Baptiste
5029-5144
It would be one of the few which was veiled by opaque black curtains, and the ones that were not were missing the second year beneath their names. At the end of the largest hallway, there was one portrait, larger than the others. She would need to be closer to read it, but from behind it's curtained frame was the source of the wind, which carried a sickly sweet scent of decay.