Kyuriym - Secrets of the Ancient Estate, Kyuriym

“Did you hear anything?” Sam asked, turning to Doyle, who was standing a few feet away, his face pale and sickly.

Doyle shook his head. “Nothing. I was asleep in my quarters. When I came down to start the morning fire, I found her like this.”

Sam stood, his mind already working through the possibilities. Whoever had killed Mrs. Taylor had done it quickly and efficiently. This wasn’t a crime of passion—this was calculated, deliberate.

“Lock all the doors,” Sam said, his voice low but commanding. “No one leaves the estate until I say so.”

Doyle nodded, looking as though he was barely holding himself together. “What do you think happened, Detective? Do you think this is connected to Lord Andrew’s disappearance?”

“I don’t know yet,” Sam replied, his eyes scanning the room for anything that might give him a clue. “But I’m going to find out.”

By the time Sam finished his initial examination of the crime scene, the sun was just beginning to rise, casting a pale, ghostly light over the estate grounds. He had searched the kitchen thoroughly, but there were no signs of forced entry, no bloody footprints leading away from the body. It was as though the killer had simply appeared, done the deed, and vanished into thin air.

Sam felt a knot of frustration tightening in his chest. The murder was too clean, too efficient. Whoever had killed Mrs. Taylor knew exactly what they were doing—and they had done it in a way that left almost no trace.

But there was one thing that nagged at him, one small detail that didn’t fit: a single piece of paper, crumpled and half-hidden beneath the kitchen table. Sam had almost missed it, but now, as he smoothed it out on the counter, he could see that it was a page torn from an old book. The text was faded, the letters written in an archaic, almost illegible script. But one phrase stood out clearly: “Blood must be paid.”

The words sent a chill down Sam’s spine. It was the same phrase he had seen in the journal entries, the same cryptic warning that had haunted the Colton family for generations. The connection was clear now—Mrs. Taylor’s murder wasn’t random. It was part of something much larger, something tied to the dark history of the Colton estate.

As Sam pocketed the paper, his mind raced. If the killer had left this message, then they were playing a game, and Sam had just stepped into the middle of it. He needed to act fast. There was no telling who might be next.

The village of Brackenmoor was already buzzing with rumors by the time Sam made his way down to the village square later that morning. Word of Mrs. Taylor’s death had spread quickly, and the small cluster of villagers who had gathered near the general store were speaking in hushed tones, their faces etched with fear and suspicion.

Sam pushed through the crowd, his mind still turning over the events of the morning. He had a plan—one that involved talking to the villagers and piecing together what they knew about the Colton family’s past. But as he approached the store, he was stopped by a familiar face: Father Thomas, the village priest.

“Detective McAlister,” the priest said, his voice low and solemn. “I’ve heard what happened. A terrible tragedy.”

Sam nodded, his eyes narrowing as he studied the man. Father Thomas was well-respected in the village, but there was something about him that had always struck Sam as odd—something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

“Father,” Sam said, “I need to ask you some questions about the Colton family.”

Father Thomas hesitated, his brow furrowing. “I don’t know how much help I can be. The Coltons have always been... a private family.”

“I’m aware of that,” Sam replied. “But I also know that you’ve been the priest here for nearly thirty years. You’ve seen a lot—more than most people in this village. And I think you know more about what’s been happening at the estate than you’re letting on.”

Father Thomas glanced around, as if to make sure no one was listening, before motioning for Sam to follow him. They made their way to the small church at the edge of the village, the heavy wooden door creaking as it swung open. Inside, the air was cool and still, the scent of old wood and candle wax hanging in the air.

Once inside, Father Thomas led Sam to a small office in the back of the church, closing the door behind them.

“I don’t know what you think I know, Detective,” the priest said quietly, “but you’re right to be suspicious. The Colton family has always been... different.”

“Different how?” Sam pressed.

Father Thomas sighed, his fingers drumming nervously on the edge of his desk. “There have always been rumors about the Coltons—about their involvement in dark practices. But I’ve never seen anything with my own eyes, not until recently.”

“What do you mean by ‘dark practices’?” Sam asked, leaning forward.

“There’s an old legend,” Father Thomas said slowly, choosing his words carefully. “A story that goes back to the early days of the estate, when the Coltons first came to power. It’s said that the family made a pact with... something. Some say it was the devil, others believe it was an ancient god. Whatever it was, the pact required blood—sacrifices.”