You sat at the long oak table in the dim light at exactly 11:00 p.m., the grandfather clock just struck the hour with a low, hollow sound vibrating through the empty hallways of this darkly-lit mansion. Around you sat your parents, siblings, and relatives you hadn't seen in years - faces blurred by time and half-forgotten memories. Your aunt cracked her knuckles, your dad fixed his tuxedo with impeccable ease. Then the lawyer, wearing a crisp black suit walked in. He cleared his throat and looked down at the sealed envelope as though it might bite. Nearby, a distant cousin sat, whose coat was still damp with cold water after trudging in the snow just to be here. You didn't recognize that face. It didn't ring a bell at all. You pushed the thought aside. She was probably just another money-hungry vulture like the rest. Then a small voice cuts through the silentness.
"Mom, why is everyone so quiet?" the young seven-year old boy peered behind the door. He clutched a small bunny, wearing mismatched socks- one pink, one green.
He walked to his mom's side "Is it because of that old man who died and now everyone wants his mansion? But it is old and scary.."
The adults, including you turned their heads in union, faces pale in the lamplight, but none replied, they stared deep into the boy's soul. 11:02 p.m. The child looked around the opulent table full of his aunts and uncles, shrugged and scurried to the back chair, sitting just across you.
"Hi". You waved, trying to appear normal. Sweat pricked down your collarbone. You fixed your cufflinks. The lawyer clears his throat once, twice, but still says nothing.
He slid the envelope to the middle of the table. The clock handle turned. 111.03 p.m. The child swings his legs under the table, the stuffed rabbit now resting on the polished wood like an offering. "The old man used to say this house eats people who stay too long after dark," they announce cheerfully.
"Did he tell you guys that too?" The aunt jerked, one uncle gulped, you can clearly see sweat forming on his face. The lawyer's pen drew a meaningless line across his paper.
Your mom looked inside her breast pocket, took out her phone, checked the time and put it back. The grandfather clock groaned, its hands shifting with an almost perceptible creak. You noticed everything now: the way the lamplight wavered as though the flames were afraid, the faint draft that carried the scent of old wood and something sharper, metallic. 11:05 p.m.
The lawyer finally moves. He lifts the sealed envelope with both hands, turns it slowly so the lamplight catches the red wax seal - your family century year old crest. He touched the paper, written in the old man's shaky handwriting. His thumbs press against the edges, testing, but he does not break it yet. Your aunt's eyes flick to yours - those dilating pupils in the dim light. At 11:07, the child points to the envelope. "Is that the paper that says who gets everything? The old man said it would know things nobody else knows."
The room hasn't changed but felt smaller. The snow outside thickened, there was a shadow appearing and disappearing right before your eyes. You saw it, haven't you. You blinked twice, shaking your head at the creature at the window.
The lawyer doesn't say anything. He sighed, started peeling off the wax. HisHis lips moved, forming silent words, no noise except for the child's happy laughing in the corner. Then he raised the single sheet high, holding it toward the light so all could see.
You sat directly opposite him.
The page was blank.
There was nothing. Blank. Empty. No shaky handwriting, no lists, no final instructions. Just an empty space catching the glow of the oil lamps. You almost gasped. You looked past the lawyer to the tall mirror mounted on the wall behind him.
But in the reflection, the paper was not blank. It was full of scribbling handwriting, noticeably your grandfather's handwriting - the same hand that drew pictures with you, the hands that explained the first things you needed to know about gardening. Those now were just old, vast memories, but they just came flowing back like water, making your brain freeze for a second.
"To the one who is reading this paper."
The words shimmered, as though written in mercury. You blinked. The mirror text remained. The real sheet in the lawyer's hands stayed empty. He lowered the page, folded it once, placed it face-down. He never spoke aloud. No one questioned him. The silence deepened.
The clock ticked, 11:10 p.m.
The boy swung his legs again, rhythmic, almost soothing. "The old man told me once," he said softly, "that sometimes the house picks who stays. Not the people. The house."
His voice was too calm for a child. Too knowing. You studied his face—the curve of the cheek, the set of the eyes—and for a moment the features blurred, overlapping with memories of the old man in his final years: the same tilt of the head, the same faint amusement at the edge of the mouth.
You pushed the thought down, gulped. No. Impossible. You pushed the thought down. Time moved fast.
At 11:16, Mother rose with a practiced silence, vanishing toward the kitchen passage. She returned with a silver tray, the steam from two bowls of cream soup blooming into the room like a cold, white fog. One was placed before you, the other before the child.
Beneath the savory herbs and heavy cream lurked a (1) metallic sweetness - an artificial cherry- like perfume that shouldn't have been in a kitchen.
Though she had stirred the bowls with precision, the deception was imperfect. You noticed small, oily yellow droplets shimmered on the surface refusing to bind with the broth. They sat distinctly in the dim light. Only she knew why the soup smelled of a factory instead of a garden.
The boy did not hesitate. He reached across the table and pulled your bowl toward his own, claiming both. He tucked his tattered bunny tighter under his arm, clutching it like a ghost of a friend from the past. He looked at the shimmering yellow oil and smiled.
"It smells like the candy in the blue jar," he whispered, the sound jarring in the dead quiet.
He dipped his spoon deep, swirling the yellow beads into the white abyss, and took a large, eager swallow.
"You look scared," he said matter-of-factly. "I'm not that hungry, but you shouldn't go without. The old man said hunger makes you stay longer. Make the house notice you more."
He ate both bowls quickly, small hands steady on the spoon. Your mother watched. She did not protest, did not offer to take the dishes away. She simply returned to her seat, folding her hands again.
(Nitrobenzene is a pale yellow, oily aromatic compound with a cherry -like odor, primarily produced by nitrating benzene with mixed sulfuric and nitric acids. It is a crucial industrial intermediate used mainly to manufacture aniline, dyes, and rubber, but is highly toxic, causing methemoglobinemia, liver injury, and is a suspected human carcinogen.)