Chapter 1 : THE GIFT WRAPPED IN SILK.
19th October, 1897
Graveshollow, England.
The late afternoon lay in gentle repose; the weather was most agreeable—neither hot nor cold, as though the heavens themselves had chosen to rest. It was the kind of day made for quiet reflection, or perhaps for a solitary cup of tea.
Miss Helena Wren, a young lady in her middle twenties, sat gracefully upon her couch, nursing a delicate china cup between pale fingers. The soft ticking of the mantel clock mingled with the faint rustle of leaves beyond the window. It was Saturday, and the shop was closed—a rare luxury that allowed her to indulge in the calm simplicity of the hour.
She took a measured sip, savoring the tea’s rich flavour, and exhaled a sigh of contentment.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound startled her. She turned her head sharply toward the door, her brow knitting. Who could possibly be calling at such an hour?
With deliberate care, Helena set her teacup upon its saucer, rose from the couch, and crossed the parlour. Her footsteps echoed faintly upon the wooden floor. At the door, she hesitated—then, with cautious curiosity, peered through the small brass peephole.
There, upon the front porch, rested a single parcel. No messenger in sight.
“The postman must have left it,” she murmured softly—yet a curious unease lingered, curling about her thoughts like a gathering mist.
Cautiously, Helena lifted the parcel and stepped back into the quiet safety of her home. Placing it upon the kitchen counter, she brushed a stray curl from her face and examined the box for a name. None was written. Only a letter lay atop it, her own name inscribed in elegant, unfamiliar script.
She hesitated before breaking the seal. Inside, the handwriting was neat, deliberate—almost tender in its precision. No sender’s name, no address, no greeting. Merely a single line:
For you, my dearest Helena.
A faint unease prickled at the back of her neck. She set the note aside and opened the box. Within lay a cluster of black roses, their petals glistening as though damp with dew—or perhaps something darker. Interwoven among them were slender thorns, sharp enough to draw blood at the slightest touch.
Beneath the roses rested a smaller box. Her pulse quickened. A gift, surely—a token from some secret admirer? A jest from a colleague? She dismissed her doubts and opened it.
The scent struck first—metallic, raw, unmistakable. Blood. She recoiled, a trembling hand covering her mouth as her eyes widened in horror.
Inside, upon a piece of folded velvet, lay a human heart—still warm, faintly twitching, and bleeding slowly onto the fabric below.
Beside it, a small scrap of paper, soaked crimson, clung to the side of the box. The ink had begun to run, yet the words remained legible:
For every beat you stole, my darling Helena.
The handwriting was strangely familiar—too familiar. And yet, she could not place it.
Helena grew pale—paler than she was by nature. Unable to endure the ghastly sight, she fled to the bathroom and retched violently. A cold tremor seized her limbs as fear coiled tight around her heart.
What could these dreadful gifts mean? Who had sent them? And what connection did the sender have to her? Her mind swirled with a thousand questions, each more troubling than the last.
After what felt like an eternity, she steadied herself enough to move. Crossing the sitting room on unsteady legs, she reached for the old telephone resting upon a small stool and placed a call to the Graveshollow Police Station. Her voice trembled as she recounted the events, the words barely forming as her thoughts stumbled over themselves.
The line crackled before an officer transferred her to the duty detective—a man who, as she was informed, would take charge of the investigation.
Less than half an hour later, the rattle of carriage wheels echoed outside her home. Two policemen entered at her invitation, grave and silent, their boots marking the polished floor. Helena led them to the kitchen, where the box remained precisely as she had left it, untouched since the moment of its discovery.
Detective Inspector Aldous Greer was a man of few words and fewer expressions. His presence filled the modest kitchen with quiet authority, the kind that made one stand a little straighter without knowing why. He removed his hat, set it neatly upon the counter, and regarded the parcel with cool detachment.
“Miss Wren,” he said, his tone measured, “you are certain no one was seen delivering this?”
Helena shook her head. “None, sir. I only heard the knock.”
He crouched beside the box, gloved hands steady as he examined its contents. The metallic scent had thickened in the air, clinging to everything it touched. When he lifted the blood-soaked note with a pair of tweezers, his brows drew together ever so slightly.
“For every beat you stole, my darling Helena,” he read aloud. The words hung in the room like a curse.
He placed the note carefully into an evidence envelope, his gaze flicking once more toward the heart, still faintly glistening beneath the gaslight.
“Best if you stay elsewhere for the night, Miss Wren,” he advised. “Until we determine who finds pleasure in sending such tokens.”
Helena could only nod, her thoughts lost in a storm of dread. The words, the script—she knew them. Somewhere, sometime before........
To be continued because the author is tired 😩 😩 😩 😴
