As the door clicked shut, the butler’s foul rampage muffled out into silence, and one could almost hear the dust falling in the stillness.
Jameson leaned against the door, breathing deeply before opening his eyes. While he knew that the room had been in disuse, the almost ‘frozenness’ shocked him. It was as if time had stood still here, while the rest of the world shot past. The dust coated the heavy velvet drapes, stiffened from years of abandonment, not like the billowy cotton of those in the parlor. What little light there was at this early hour didn’t dare enter and fade the rich, jewel toned colors that haunted the room. It was if it had been sealed against time itself. No sign of wear was evident, no worn sports on the settee or loose strands on the drapes. It was a time warp, a capsule. Shelves were filled with musty books, their spines never cracked and pages still sharp enough to slice. Yet, here he was, where he knew no one would come. For here, the young mistress had been slain that cold, cold night one year ago.