Prologue
New Years Day 1920
It was half past four and Cecil DeVille had just managed to tuck himself into bed.
The house finally quieted from the evening's celebratory libations.
Now, it was dark.
Traffic was slowing down the avenue and there was no streetcar ratatatat on the tracks but it was no matter, the nights were cold and Cecil kept the windows shut tight.
Cecil, homeowner and self-professed playboy, managed to catch a few winks; more likely due to the sheer amount of alcohol consumed in the celebration of the new decade.
In the master suite of his grand home, he slumbered.
That was until...
A loud clatter rang out throughout the sleeping mansion and Cecil awoke with a start. He looked over to his left out of habit, but there was no one there. Coming to his senses, he threw the blanket from his legs and stepped into the hallway. His eyes were bleary and his head pounded.
The house had gone quiet again but that did not mean something was not amiss. Cecil backed into his room on the pads of his feet and opened his nightside drawer. Skillfully, he withdrew his pistol and pressed it close to his chest before returning to the hallway to investigate.
To the best of his knowledge, he went in the direction of the sound that had woken him. His bare feet slipped along the oriental carpet with ease: a shadow hunting shadows.
Metallic streamers and leftover bits of confetti lined banisters and littered the floor.
The tick of the grandfather clock filled the great room and signaled nothing amiss. Upon further inspection, Cecil dropped the weapon to his side and brushed off the noise as a fluke, or perhaps a stray cat creating midnight mischief.
Resigning himself, Cecil returned to his bedroom, convinced of his solitude. He replaced his gun to its rightful storage and climbed into bed. The silken sheets formed to his body and the pillow lulled him back into an easy rest.
Easy, until his unconscious senses noted something amiss. Cecil's eyes opened wide. His body was frozen stiff, a cadaver on a slab.
With mounting bravery, he drew his eyes to the other side of the bed. Cecil slept alone: but tonight he did not.
The form of a woman sat atop the bed; he could see right through her and yet her weight on the bed was unmistakable.
"I regret..." the form began in a raspy whisper, "I regret..."
A cold sweat overcame him. The woman's head turned towards him at the most unnatural angle, "I regret..." She repeated. Her eyes were sunken and white, a grisly visage.
"Regret?" he managed.
The woman went quiet for a long moment — Cecil felt it was the longest moment of his entire life. That was until her jaw unhinged from her skull and she let out the horrendous scream of a banshee.
He hurried to cover his ears. The piercing sound chilled him down to the marrow of his bones.
Then, as quickly as she had come, she'd gone. The scream ceased. The calm quiet returned to the room and he felt warm again as if sat beside the fire.
Cecil sat up erect, sweat dripping down his angled features.
Cecil DeVille was haunted.
