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Edwin Lawrence was obsessively particular about drafts. The slightest hint of fresh air would send him into a frenzy, even on the hottest days. He draped heavy curtains over every door and window, creating a stifling atmosphere. Peeking through the curtains that concealed the entrance to his dining room, I observed Miss Moore standing in the center of the room. Something about her demeanor made me pause, holding back Miss Adair and Hume who were behind me.

“Wait,” I whispered. “I want to see what she does.”

I preferred to be alone, especially without Hume’s company. However, I couldn’t ask him to leave without alerting Miss Moore. Suddenly, I felt compelled to stay, eager to shed light on her situation and bring her back to full clarity. A quick glance revealed that her surroundings might trigger a breakthrough or a crisis, leading to the clarity I sought. The constable, who had followed us in, seemed inclined to ask us to leave. I gripped his shoulder.

“Stay quiet; you’ll serve us best by staying silent.”

He understood and remained silent, with me keeping my hold on his shoulder.

Miss Moore looked around the room, her expression showing a hint of recognition mixed with confusion. She raised her hand to her forehead in a familiar gesture.

“I’ve been here before—definitely. I know this place, but I can’t remember when or how. It’s puzzling.”

She scanned the room with searching eyes, as if hoping to find a clue that would unlock her memory. Finally, she noticed the stain on the carpet, a remnant of Lawrence’s demise. She approached it, her voice trembling slightly.

“It’s dry. Why wouldn’t it be dry? What is this?”

Bending down, she touched the stain, her voice hinting at a buried memory resurfacing. She covered her face momentarily, as if struggling to recall something dreadful.

“It’s familiar, but I can’t place it. Something terrible. What is it?”

She straightened suddenly, a look of fear crossing her face. She became alert, as if anticipating something ominous.

“This is where Mr. Edwin Lawrence died—murdered!” Her expression shifted, reflecting her realization. “He fell here.”

She made a sudden motion, as if about to collapse, prompting me to move forward to steady her. But it was a brief act, and she resumed her stance, her demeanor a mix of confusion and alarm.

“Let me retrace it. He stood here, and I was there.”

She moved around the room, as if piecing together fragments of a memory. It was like watching a scene unfold in her mind.

“I said, ‘I’ll end you,’ out of anger. And then he laughed, mocking my threat. ‘Ending me won’t help you,’ he said. That enraged me more, pushing me to decide that I’d end him.”

A chill ran through me, my grip tightening on the curtains. Without looking, I sensed the tension on the faces of Miss Adair, Hume, even the constable, all drawn into the intensity of her words. Miss Adair whispered urgently, “Stop her! Don’t let her continue!”

My voice sounded strained as I replied, “I won’t interrupt her. Let her speak her mind. I’m not afraid.”

She tugged at my coat sleeve, a silent sign of support.

The girl inside battled with her memories, hands pressed against her forehead. Amidst her turmoil, her beauty stood out, amplifying with her emotions. Her innocence clashed oddly with the gruesome tale she unfolded, like a child confessing to deeds beyond their understanding.

“Did I kill him? Not then—not then. Later, he returned, and the cycle repeated, escalating into threats of murder from both of us. His laughter fueled our rage. And then it happened. It came in. It!”

She trembled, fear etching her face. She covered her eyes, pleading to be spared.

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“No! Don’t! I won’t! Don’t make me! Keep it away! I can’t bear it touching me!”

With a gasp, she uncovered her eyes, staring at an invisible terror before her.

“What is it? Why am I scared? I shouldn’t be scared. There’s nothing wrong. I’m not easily frightened. I said I’d end him, but not like this. Did I say that? Yes. And I did! But I didn’t mean to. Did I mean to? I don’t know. Maybe I did. He says I did, and maybe he’s right.”

She stood frozen, staring ahead blankly, as if waking from a trance, surprised by her surroundings.

“What’s happening to me? Am I losing my mind? This room holds a haunting memory, and though I fear to remember, I can’t stop trying. Why did I come here? It was foolish. He told me that—Edwin Lawrence was killed here.”

“Edwin Lawrence? What did he have to do with me? Lawrence? That name feels familiar. Two of them, and one was killed. Oh, it’s all coming back! I hear the awful noise. I see the knives—the knives! And the blood as he falls, the hacking! I didn’t do it! Did I do it?”

Her plea for understanding was heart-wrenching. In that moment, I couldn’t bring myself to approach her, overwhelmed by the depth of her turmoil.

“Let me piece it together—how did it unfold? He stood there, and the laughter—then the blade, gleaming in the dim light, pierced him from behind. His expression—I saw it, a look of sheer terror. Don’t stare at me like that; I can’t help you! It’s too late! Look away; spare me this. The devil did it—the devil! Not me. It seized him, a dozen hands choking him, knives cutting, until he lost all human semblance. And then the final blow, and he fell, his face—a face no longer recognizable, and the relentless hacking! That dreadful sound.”

She raised her arms in a plea for mercy.

“Oh Lord, what have I done to deserve this? If I’ve sinned, my punishment surpasses any wrongdoing. Why burden me with this, to carry forever? Let it be a dream—a nightmarish illusion! For if it’s real, if it’s true, then what awaits me but eternal torment? Have mercy on me!”

Her sobs echoed through the room, raw and gut-wrenching. Tears eluded her, replaced by dry, agonizing sobs that seemed to tear her apart. The sobs ebbed, replaced by a shiver as she seemed to regain awareness from a fevered trance.

“I’m not well; something’s wrong. It’s like I’m split in two, losing myself in a fog. Can a person be two people in one? My mind feels divided, lost between two realms. I wasn’t always like this; something must have happened. But what? It’s terrifying to think, yet I can’t stop trying. I know it happened here; but why? What brought me here?”

“There’s something in my mind, just out of reach. If I could grasp it, I’d understand. But what? I’m haunted, unsure if it’s a vision or reality. I wish I could sit and think it through. Why does this dead man haunt me? Why do I see myself harming him? It’s not a normal knife—it’s worse, emerging from nowhere. And the noise—it’s not me making it, it’s It. Striking, striking, and the blood on my cloak. I had a cloak—I remember it, hindering me. And then—he falls. And it starts again, in moonlit rooms, him staring at me—my friend.”

She extended her hands, reminiscing.

“And I can’t recall what happened before. I should know who I am, why I’m here. But the faces blur, their intentions unclear. They look at me, applauding. Then back to the dead man on the floor; it all revolves around that. Did I kill him? I wish I knew. Did I deserve to kill him?”

Her gaze shifted to the door leading to Lawrence’s bedroom.

“What’s in there?”

She twisted the handle and stepped inside. I hurried to the door, with Miss Adair, Hume, and the constable trailing behind me. We probably looked like a chaotic procession scuttling across the room. But what I saw in that bedroom erased any notion of humor; it froze me in place, as if my body had forgotten how to move. Inspector Symonds was already there with a fellow officer, examining the room. As Miss Moore entered, their gaze turned to her, puzzled by her presence. She paid them no mind, fixated on something under a sheet on the bed.

“What’s that?” she murmured to herself, drawing nearer to the bed with hesitation. We stood silently, watching. The officials seemed momentarily stunned by her unexpected arrival. For me, it was a rare moment of being utterly lost. Even if I knew what to do, I doubt I could have acted; my nerves were tangled strings. She reached the bed and lifted the sheet slightly, then dropped it back down.

“It’s the man I saw dead,” she whispered. A mix of curiosity and dread dawned on her face. “Would I recognize him now? Would it all come back to me?”

She uncovered the dead man’s face, her horror intensifying. The grim reality seeped into her mind. Stepping back, her voice strained, “I killed him; the hacking, the blood on my hands and cloak, him lying there dead.”

She paused, transfixed by the body. Unsure whether to approach or retreat, torn between fascination and repulsion. Miss Adair nudged me urgently.

“Stop her! Don’t let her near!”

Her words snapped me out of my daze. I realized the gravity of the situation—the young girl, her mind clouded, toying with the corpse of a murder victim.

“Go to her,” I urged Miss Adair. “See if she recognizes you.”

It was time for a gentle intervention. Inspector Symonds and his colleague also moved forward, sensing the need for intervention. Miss Moore turned slowly toward the bed.

“I wonder where I struck him, where it hacked,” she mumbled.

Miss Adair stepped closer, calling out, “Bessie!”

The girl turned, wrestling with the haze in her mind. It seemed like a physical struggle; she swayed, on the brink of collapse. Then clarity surged through her. She rushed to Miss Adair.

“Florrie!” she exclaimed, tears streaming down her face—a release of genuine emotion this time, unlike the dry sobs that had tormented her moments earlier. She wept like a distraught child.