Kyuriym - Secrets of the Ancient Estate, Kyuriym

Sam found her in the large kitchen, bustling around with a tea kettle and a tray of biscuits. Her small frame moved with a sense of purpose, but her hands trembled slightly as she placed the cups on the tray.

“Good morning, Mrs. Taylor,” Sam said, stepping into the kitchen.

The housekeeper jumped, nearly spilling the tea. “Oh! Detective McAlister. You startled me.”

“Sorry about that. I was hoping to ask you a few questions.”

Mrs. Taylor glanced around nervously, as if expecting someone else to walk in at any moment. She wiped her hands on her apron and gestured to a small wooden table in the corner of the kitchen. “Of course. Please, sit.”

Sam took a seat, observing her carefully as she poured the tea. Her hands, though steadying now, still shook slightly. She avoided his gaze, her eyes flitting toward the door every few seconds.

“How long have you been working for the Colton family, Mrs. Taylor?” Sam began, his tone casual but probing.

“Twenty-three years,” she answered, her voice soft but tinged with pride. “I came here when Lord Andrew’s father was still alive. His lordship was just a boy back then.”

“And you’ve stayed on since?”

She nodded. “It’s been a good job. The Coltons are... were... a respectable family.”

“Were?”

Mrs. Taylor’s face tightened, her lips pressing into a thin line. “I mean, Lord Andrew is... was a good man. Private, but kind enough. Not like his father.”

Sam leaned forward slightly. “I’ve heard the family has had some... difficulties in the past.”

Mrs. Taylor’s eyes flicked up to meet his for the first time, and the fear in them was unmistakable. She hesitated, as though weighing her next words carefully. “The Coltons have always been a bit... different,” she said slowly. “People in the village talk. But that’s all it is—talk.”

“What kind of talk?”

She set the teapot down, her hands trembling again. “Superstitions. Nonsense. They say the family is cursed. That the estate is haunted by the spirits of those who died here. But I don’t believe in such things, Detective.”

Sam studied her for a moment, sensing there was more she wasn’t telling him. “What do you believe happened to Lord Andrew?”

Mrs. Taylor’s face paled. “I... I don’t know. He was here one moment and gone the next. I wasn’t in the house when it happened—I had gone to the village for supplies. When I returned, his study door was locked, and no one could get in. Mr. Doyle had to break it down.”

“And when you got inside?”

She swallowed hard. “There was nothing. No sign of a struggle, no blood. Just... nothing. It’s as if he vanished into thin air.”

“Has anything like this ever happened before? Any strange occurrences?”

Her eyes darted toward the door again. “Not like this. But... there have always been stories. People say they’ve seen things—shadows moving in the halls, figures in the windows at night. But it’s just old houses settling, drafts playing tricks on the mind.”

Sam nodded, filing away her response. “I’ll need to speak with Mr. Doyle and anyone else who works here.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Taylor said, rising quickly. “I’ll let them know.”

As she hurried from the kitchen, Sam sat back in his chair, sipping the tea and considering what she had said. Her nervousness was palpable, but whether it stemmed from fear of what might have happened to Lord Andrew or something else entirely, Sam couldn’t yet tell.

He spent the rest of the morning exploring the estate, his footsteps echoing through the empty halls. The manor was even more imposing from the inside. The high ceilings and grand staircases, once symbols of wealth and prestige, now felt like relics of a forgotten time, the weight of history pressing down on every surface. Dust covered most of the furniture, and many rooms appeared untouched for years, as though the Coltons had lived in only a small fraction of the sprawling mansion.

Sam made his way to Lord Andrew’s study, the room where he had last been seen. The door had been repaired since Doyle had broken it down, but the lock was still new, the brass gleaming in stark contrast to the worn wood. Inside, the study was exactly as Mrs. Taylor had described—neatly organized, with no signs of struggle or disturbance. Books lined the shelves, and papers sat in orderly stacks on the desk. A large window looked out over the grounds, but the thick mist that clung to the estate obscured any real view.

Sam moved behind the desk, his fingers tracing the edge of the leather blotter. It was an old habit, something he did when trying to get a feel for a space. He opened the drawers one by one, but they held nothing of interest—just pens, notebooks, and personal correspondence. No letters of blackmail, no clues to a hidden affair, nothing that might explain why a man would disappear without a trace.

Frustrated, Sam stood by the window, looking out at the fog. There had to be something here. People didn’t just vanish, not without leaving some kind of trail. He turned his attention back to the room, his eyes scanning the walls, the furniture, the floor. And then he saw it—a small, almost imperceptible scratch on the wooden floor near the edge of the desk. He crouched down for a closer look. The scratch wasn’t old; it was fresh, as though something heavy had been moved across the floor recently.