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“Henry, he’s human!” exclaimed George, disbelief mingled with relief in his voice. “I’ve surely killed him.”

“It would seem so,” replied O’Hara, his voice calm despite the chaos around them. “Let’s hurry around to the outside of the wall and see where he lies.”

Agreeing immediately, the trio rushed towards a gate leading to a paddock. Their hearts raced with anticipation as they crossed the open space, eager to confirm the humanity of their fallen foe. The urgency of their mission left little room for conversation, each step fueled by a sense of breathless anxiety.

Outside the garden wall, they scanned the ground, searching for any sign of the fallen figure. Despite their haste, the search yielded nothing but confusion.

“There’s nothing here,” Henry stated, his tone tinged with bewilderment.

“Nothing,” echoed George, his brows furrowed in perplexity.

“It couldn’t have been a trick of the mind,” O’Hara murmured, a shudder running through him.

“A trick? No, we all saw it,” the brothers protested.

“What explanation can there be for this?” Henry’s voice carried a mix of wonder and dread. “This surpasses all belief.”

“It’s too dreadful,” George agreed. “Let’s return to check on Flora.”

“My focus was solely on that figure,” Henry confessed, his voice filled with regret. “I didn’t even check on Flora beyond confirming she appeared lifeless. Poor Flora, what a tragic fate.”

“Don’t lose hope,” George urged. “Let’s hurry back. She may yet be alive.”

“And she might have answers,” O’Hara added. “We need to know what happened.”

With determination, they turned back towards home, their minds filled with worry and guilt over leaving their loved ones vulnerable. The journey home was fraught with silent prayers and a growing sense of dread about what they might find upon their return.

“It was a reckless decision to chase after that dreadful figure,” mused Mr. O’Hara, his voice laced with concern. “But don’t torment yourself, Henry. There might be no cause for your fears.”

Their hurried pace brought them swiftly back to the ancient house. As they approached, flashes of light danced from the windows, casting eerie shadows of worried faces moving about inside, a testament to the household’s state of alarm.

Henry, with some effort, managed to open the door with the help of a trembling servant named Martha, who struggled to hold her flickering light steady.

“Martha, speak quickly,” Henry demanded, urgency in his voice. “Is Flora alive?”

“Yes, but—”

“Enough, thank God she lives. Where is she now?”

“In her room, Master Henry. Oh, dear, what will become of us?”

Without hesitation, Henry ascended the staircase, his companions close behind. He didn’t pause until he stood outside his sister’s door.

“Mother,” he called out, his voice echoing with worry. “Are you here?”

“I am, dear,” his mother replied, her voice strained with emotion. “Come in, please, and see Flora.”

“Join us, Mr. O’Hara,” Henry invited. “We won’t treat you as a stranger.”

They entered the room, which was now aglow with several lights. Alongside Flora’s mother, two female servants stood in obvious distress, unable to offer any meaningful help.

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Tears streamed down Flora’s mother’s face as she saw Mr. O’Hara. She clung to his arm, her distress palpable.

“What has happened? What is this?” she implored. “You won’t deceive me, O’Hara. Tell me the truth.”

“I can’t,” O’Hara responded, his voice heavy with emotion. “I’m as puzzled and shocked as you are by what transpired tonight.”

The mother continued to weep, her anguish filling the room.

“The storm woke me,” O’Hara explained further, his tone reflecting the turmoil of the night. “And then I heard a scream.”

The brothers approached Flora’s bed with trembling anticipation. She lay there, propped up by pillows, in a half-reclining position, her complexion ghostly pale and her breath barely perceptible. Bloodstains marred her clothing around the neck, a stark contrast to her usual vibrant health.

“Is she asleep?” Henry’s voice quivered as he brushed a tear from his eye, watching over his sister’s still form.

“No,” Mr. O’Hara replied, his tone grave. “This is a faint. We must bring her back.”

They sprang into action, working diligently to revive her. After some time, Flora’s eyes fluttered open.

Her first reaction upon regaining consciousness was a piercing shriek, followed by a desperate plea for mercy from Heaven.

“There’s no one here but friends, Flora,” Mr. O’Hara reassured her, his voice steady yet compassionate. “We’re here to protect you.”

Flora, still trembling, looked around with fear in her eyes. She sobbed, overwhelmed by the memory of the terrifying encounter.

“Tell us what happened, Flora,” Henry urged gently, his concern evident.

“I don’t think I can ever sleep again,” Flora whispered, her voice trembling with residual fear.

“Don’t say that,” Henry encouraged. “You’ll feel better soon, and then you can tell us everything.”

“No, I’ll tell you now,” Flora insisted, her hands shaking as she tried to compose herself. “I woke up to the storm and saw that horrible figure at the window. It grabbed me by the hair. I can’t remember anything else.”

She touched her neck, and Mr. O’Hara noticed a wound.

“Flora, you’ve hurt your neck,” he observed, his worry deepening.

“A wound?” Flora’s mother exclaimed, bringing a light closer to examine. They all saw the small puncture marks, evidence of a harrowing ordeal.

From the wounds on Flora’s neck, blood had stained her nightclothes, a grim reminder of the night’s horrors.

“How did you get these wounds?” Henry’s voice quivered with concern.

“I don’t know,” Flora replied weakly. “I feel drained, as if I’ve lost much blood.”

“You haven’t bled much,” Henry reassured her. “It looks worse than it is.”

Mr. O’Hara, visibly distressed, leaned against the bed’s intricately carved headboard. Henry turned to him, searching for answers.

“Do you know something about this?” Henry’s voice was urgent.

“No, nothing,” Mr. O’Hara responded hastily, trying to shake off his unease. “Flora should rest now.”

“No sleep for me!” Flora cried out. “I can’t be alone!”

“You won’t be alone,” Henry promised, taking her hand. “I’ll stay with you.”

Flora’s tears flowed freely as she pleaded, “Promise me, Henry, you won’t leave.”

“I promise,” Henry vowed solemnly.

As Flora settled into sleep, Mr. O’Hara remarked, “She’ll rest for a while.”

“You seem troubled,” Henry observed. “Is there something you’re not telling us?”

“Hush,” Mr. O’Hara cautioned, nodding towards Flora. “Let her sleep.”

A tense silence enveloped the room until George broke it, pointing to a portrait.

“Look at that portrait,” he said to Mr. O’Hara.

The resemblance struck them all, leaving Mr. O’Hara stunned.

“It’s uncanny,” Henry whispered. “The eyes, the mouth...”

“That portrait must go,” Mr. O’Hara insisted. “It’ll only add to Flora’s fears if she wakes and sees it.”

“It’s Sir Runnagate Bennett,” Henry explained. “An ancestor who brought ruin to our family long ago.”

“Ninety years,” Mr. O’Hara mused. “A long time, indeed.”

“I have something to say,” Mr. O’Hara continued cryptically. “But not now. We’ll discuss it tomorrow.”

As dawn approached, Henry urged the others to rest.

“I’ll stay with Flora,” he said. “You all should get some sleep.”

“I’ll bring the pistol and bullets,” Mr. O’Hara offered. “You can reload them. Daylight will soon be here.”

The arrangement was settled. Henry meticulously reloaded the pistols, placing them on a nearby table within easy reach. Flora slept peacefully, her breaths a quiet rhythm in the dimly lit room.

Mrs. Bennett hesitated, reluctant to leave her daughter’s side. However, Henry’s insistence that she rest finally persuaded her. With tear-stained cheeks, she bid them goodnight and retreated to her own chamber, seeking solace in the promise of rest.

The mansion, shrouded in darkness once more, exuded an eerie calmness that belied the turmoil within its walls. No one truly found slumber except Flora, lost in dreams that offered fleeting respite from the night’s horrors. The others, consumed by restless thoughts, remained awake, their minds haunted by the events that had transpired.

For Henry, the stillness of the night was a facade. Though physically present, his mind was a whirlwind of strange and unsettling emotions. Despite the discomfort, he preferred this vigilance over the gnawing worry he’d feel if Flora were out of his sight. She slept undisturbed, resembling a peaceful child weary from a day of play and laughter.