The Cursed

When Isabelle opened her eyes, an unfamiliar ceiling filled her sight.

She tried to sit up, but her body refused to respond. She must have been asleep for quite a while; her eyes were dry and stiff, making it hard to keep them open. Isabelle attempted to open her eyes again, but after a few seconds, the sharp, burning sting forced her to close them once more.

The brief glimpse of the dim and silent room suggested it was already deep in the middle of the night. In the distance, a faint sound of an owl drifted through the air.

Isabelle gave up on moving her body for a moment and took a deep breath. The chilling and slightly damp night air filled her lungs.

Keeping her eyes shut, she rolled them around, attempting to grasp the last moment before she blacked out. It was certainly not a pleasant one: Splattered blood everywhere, a world flipping, and people shouting her name in panic as they rushed toward her…

In the haze of fading consciousness and flickering vision, the last piece of her memory was the face of a man—drawn in pain, gray-tinged blue eyes wet with tears and full of despair. The tears clinging to his long lashes shimmered like jewels caught in sunlight that filtered through stained glass. He held her growing-cold body and endlessly called her name. After that, there was only darkness.

Her mind, shrouded in a fog, could recall little else.

Isabelle paused her thoughts for a moment. I need to get up first. She tried to will her fingers to move, starting at the very tips. Though she could feel them, response was sluggish. She felt as if bound and restrained. Yet she persisted, wherever she could.

It took quite some time, but a brief tingling sensation signaled her fingers had twitched. She opened her eyes again. Darkness filled the room, but moonlight streamed through the window, casting long rays across the ceiling and allowing her to see things clearly. Starting from her fingers and eyes, then arms, legs, neck… Isabelle managed to lift her upper body and look around.

It was a place she had never seen in her life. The room was spacious, yet the furniture, walls, and ceiling all bore exotic designs. A faint memory stirred—just days ago, she had requested a winter canopy woven from Flemish wool—but now there was no trace of it. Obviously, it felt unusual to see a ceiling instead of the canopy above her bed.

Isabelle looked around. The tapestry that had hung in front of the bed for years, the finely carved stone fireplace, and the silver candlesticks—all had vanished. Instead, her eyes were drawn to strange glass ornaments dangling from the ceiling, then captured by the paintings that lined the walls, extravagant carpets, objects on the table of unknown purpose, and furniture adorned with lavish patterns and carvings—all of which she had never seen before.

She managed to lift her body. As strength returned to her fingers, signals seemed to reach her arms and waist, too. She dragged her legs over the edge and slid off the bed.

“Ugh!”

The moment Isabelle tried to rise, a sharp scream escaped her lips as she collapsed onto the floor. Her legs gave way completely. Thankfully, the thick carpet cushioned her fall, but had her face hit the ground first, it would have hurt badly. Falling like that in winter could easily result in broken bones if luck wasn’t on her side. Using the last strength in her arms, Isabelle pushed herself up from the floor and leaned against the bed as her body sagged.

Resting her head on the mattress, she took a deep breath. Suddenly, an odd sensation crept over her. From her sharpening memories, she knew this must be early winter—but the air filling her lungs was surprisingly soft. Even stranger, there was no fireplace.

Then her eyes caught sight of something peculiar beneath the window. It looked like it was made of metal, hovering just above the floor—a row of small white pillars lined up, producing a hissing sound.

A wave of unease swept over Isabelle. An unknown place, unfamiliar objects, tangled and fractured memories—and from deep within her throat, a name slipped out from her subconscious.

“Ri… Richard!”

Her voice cracked, rough and rusty from disuse. The moment she called his name, fragmented memories flooded through Isabelle’s mind in a swift cascade. She raised her voice to the owner of the blue eyes that had last locked onto hers.

“Richard…! Is anyone there?”

Isabelle frowned and called out the names of the people who came to her mind one after another, but only silence echoed back. She struggled to shift her legs. After much effort, she grabbed the bed and barely managed to stand. Holding onto the bed, she then reached for the table and approached what looked like a door. The door was unlike any she had seen before. If it weren’t for the hinges and what looked like a handle, she might not have recognized it as a door.

Isabelle hesitated for a moment in front of the door. The handle was strange. The usual ring-shaped handle she was used to had been replaced by a round knob. She wrestled with it—pulling and pushing—but the door didn’t budge. Isabelle began knocking on the door.

“Can anyone hear me? Please…!”

Still, no response came from outside. After wrestling with the strange handle for a while, Isabelle gave up. It was clear now: she was trapped. She made her way to the window on the opposite side. Somehow, standing up had helped; she found it easier to put strength into her legs than before.

She gasped.

Isabelle stared out the window at the bizarre sight. Rain was falling softly in a gentle drizzle, and the sky was shrouded in indistinguishable darkness. But close to the ground, mysterious objects floated in the air, emitting light. What she had thought was moonlight was actually a glow coming from them.

‘Is that a torch? No, how could it shine so brightly in this rain?’

Isabelle opened the window and stepped out onto the balcony, scanning the area. As soon as she stepped outside, the damp, frigid air seeped into her body. The coldness was incomparable to the chill inside the room. The stone floor beneath her bare feet felt stinging and fiercely cold. Looking down, she realized she was at least three stories high. Through the dimness below, a vast garden melted into the darkness.

‘Can I get down from here?’

Gripping the railing, Isabelle peered over. The handrail, chilled by the outside air, made her hand numb almost instantly. The dizzying height made the ground below seem like a vast abyss.

Rain lashed against her, soaking her gown little by little. Unable to bear the cold, Isabelle hurried back inside, closing the window. Then, she returned to the door and resumed her struggle with the handle. She had to find a way out.

But the door remained stubbornly closed. Frustrated, as Isabelle struck the handle and turned her back, suddenly it shifted slightly to the side.

‘Hmm?’

Isabelle struck the door handle again as before. But there was no response. Just as she was about to give up again, an idea suddenly flashed through her mind.

She turned the handle.

Creak.

The door opened. This was the first time she had seen a door locked in this way. Isabelle closed the door and then tried opening it again by turning the handle.

Click, creak, click, creak.

Not only did the handle but also the locking parts look remarkably intricate. Whoever crafted this contraption had clearly put great effort into its design. Normally, she would have tried to dismantle it, but the situation didn’t allow for that. Bracing herself against the cold that spilled in from outside, she stepped out of the room, and saw a long corridor stretching before her. There were no candles lit, yet the light coming through the glass windows was enough to discern the shapes within.

Seeing that all the windows were made of clear glass, Isabelle realized this was no ordinary place. Glass was an expensive luxury, far beyond the reach of most. Stained glass was often seen in major churches, but covering an entire corridor with such pristine, transparent glass was a sign of prodigious wealth.

Isabelle walked down the corridor, looking around. With each step she took, the piercing chill seeping from the stone floor numbed her feet, but the uneasy feeling from the unfamiliar scene quickly made her forget it.

Along the corridor, side tables with flower vases were placed here and there, and exotic paintings hung on the walls. Isabelle sensed an odd feeling. Though the decorations and details were different, the structure looked vaguely familiar. If she turned the corner up ahead, there would be stairs…

Isabelle stood before the central staircase, its classic railing elegantly crafted.

“Th-this place…”

Isabelle paused for a second and looked down the staircase leading to the first floor. This seemed to be the summer house in the Blyth area. It had only been three months since her last visit. Many villas looked alike, so perhaps it was just a matter of her feeling disoriented. Yet she hadn’t heard anything from the butler, and the interior and belongings wouldn’t have changed so much without her permission.

Leaning on the staircase railing, Isabelle began to descend toward the lobby. The chill kept reminding her how thinly she was dressed. She wished she had brought a blanket from her room. Was this a dream? The darkness and cold, numbing her senses, blurred her sense of reality.

She continued to scan around, sensing no other presence. Only the sound of rain and silence filled the air.

As her eyes dropped lower, a familiar front hall gradually emerged. While the details had changed, the flooring and entrance layout confirmed it was indeed the summer villa in Blyth. Puzzled, Isabelle opened the front door.

From the distance, someone was walking through the rain in a rush.

The person approaching the entrance seemed a bit startled to see a figure standing in front of the open door but soon began running toward her. Isabelle stood rooted to the spot, watching the man rush closer. Gradually, the light revealed him—a man of great height with short hair dressed in a peculiar manner.

“Hello!” the man called out.

Isabelle instinctively took a step back, wary, but that’s all she managed. Fear gripped her so intensely that she could barely move. The man entered the foyer, casting a shadow over Isabelle. Without noticing her fear, he carefully brushed the water from his wet hair and clothes.

“Thank you for getting the door. Mr. Elliot is parking the car right now. Since it’s raining, he told me to go ahead and wait inside…”

Isabelle didn’t catch all his words; she simply stared wide-eyed. His English was mixed with unfamiliar words and a peculiar accent. He didn’t seem dangerous, but Isabelle didn’t let down her guard.

Soon, his exotic attire caught her eye. He wore a plain black French cloak without a single decoration—no ruff, no falling collar, not even a hat men usually wear as customary. Vagrant? Yet, aside from his rain-dampened hair, the man appeared far too neat for that.

Isabelle’s wary eye seemed to unsettle the man. But she quickly realized the reason for his discomfort: her dress. Draped in a flowing nightgown and barefoot—clearly not dressed to welcome a visitor. The man averted his gaze in embarrassment and said, “Oh, my apologies. Perhaps you weren’t informed of my arrival. It was arranged rather abruptly…”

Isabelle retreated behind the shadow of the door, concealing herself. In the dim light, only her pale face and white gown were visible.

Peering out, she furrowed her brows and asked, “Who might you be? Who was supposed to contact me?”

The man kept lowering his eyes and replied, “My name is Demian Blythe. I am here at Mr. Elliot’s invitation.”

“Blythe? Elliot?” Isabelle sent a quizzical look. “Which branch of the Blythe family are you from? I’ve never heard of you… And who is Elliot?”

“Um… I’m Mr. Elliot’s cousin. I thought you might be his family. I am not sure how to address you now…” Sensing something is off, the man, who introduced himself as Demian, looked up on her.

He noticed Isabelle’s furrowed brows and made a puzzled expression. Isabelle thought he was likely a relative of Richard unknown to her if what he said was true.

“I am Isabelle, the Marchioness of Blythe.”

Demian’s eyes widened in astonishment at her introduction. “Ah, I thought there must be a reason for Mr. Elliot’s distinctive air… It’s surprising to meet a titled noble these days.”

Isabelle made a big puzzled face, clearly not understanding his words. Seeing her confused look, Demian wondered if he had made some mistake and asked again. “Forgive me, Mrs. Blythe. I was under the impression that Mr. Elliot was your husband…”

“I’m afraid you’ve been misinformed—”

Just as Demian was about to respond, he sensed a presence behind them. When he and Isabelle turned their heads, they saw a man standing a few steps away with an umbrella in hand. In the darkness, he stood petrified like a statue, staring at them. His expression was so grim it was as though he had seen a ghost. Demian faltered, while Isabelle’s brow tightened—though altered by a short haircut and different attire, she knew this man all too well.

“Richard?”

At the sound of his name, the man swiftly folded his umbrella, set it aside, and moved toward Isabelle. He slipped off his coat and laid it around her shoulders before shooting a brief remark at Demian in a clipped tone.

“Turn left, at the end of the corridor—you’ll find the guest rooms and the kitchen there. Please make use of whatever you need. I apologise for not being able to show you around by myself, but I must speak with my wife. I’ll see you in the morning.”

And with that, he drew her firmly into his arms and ran up the staircase in front of them. The whole thing happened so fast that Demian had no chance to respond. In the quiet lobby, he stood helplessly as the street lamps outside wavered unsteadily in the rain.