The wind howled outside the bay window, rattling the glass as if trying to claw its way into Emma Taylor's quiet London flat. She sat in her armchair, a cup of tea growing cold beside her, eyes scanning the letter that had arrived without warning earlier that morning. The envelope had been thick, cream-colored, and sealed with red wax—no return address.
Emma's brow furrowed as she read the words again, slowly this time, as if expecting them to change:
"You are cordially invited to Blackwood Island. A matter of great importance awaits. Your presence is urgently required. —R.B."
She flipped the letter over once more. No date, no details. Just a boat ticket enclosed for passage the following day and a single word written at the bottom in a different hand: "Come."
Most people might have thrown it away. But Emma Taylor was not most people. A renowned detective who had solved cases from Paris to Prague, she was known for her intellect, her persistence, and above all, her curiosity. And curiosity, she knew too well, was both her strength and her weakness.
She stood and walked toward the bookshelf by the fireplace. On the top shelf sat a series of leather-bound journals—cases she had solved over the years, each one filled with secrets, heartbreak, and truth. She reached for the latest one and opened it, turning to a blank page. At the top she wrote:
Case 47 – Blackwood Island
The name stirred something at the back of her mind. Blackwood. She'd heard it before—perhaps in the scandal columns or whispered in courtrooms. It had the air of old money and older secrets, and the island itself… she vaguely recalled a reference in an old case file. An island off the coast of England, privately owned, largely forgotten.
Emma closed the journal with a snap. Whatever this invitation was, it wasn't casual. Someone had gone to great lengths to find her, and they were counting on her to say yes. The lack of information only made it more enticing. Still, she knew better than to walk into a trap unprepared.
She spent the rest of the afternoon researching. There was precious little online about Blackwood Island. A few mentions in old shipping logs, a photograph in a 1920s travel brochure—faded and weather-worn, showing a gray manor perched on cliffs above a churning sea. Beyond that, nothing. It was as if the place had been erased from history.
That night, she packed lightly: a few clothes, her notebook, a compact magnifying glass, a set of lockpicks she kept in a velvet pouch, and her old revolver—discreetly tucked into a hidden pocket in her travel bag. She didn't know what she'd find on that island, but she wasn't going unarmed.
The next morning, she stood on the docks, the fog hanging thick over the Thames. A small boat waited at the edge of the pier, its captain a silent man in a dark coat who nodded when she approached. No words were exchanged. He simply took her bag, gestured toward the boat, and untied the ropes. The journey had begun.
The boat ride was long and silent. The captain kept his eyes on the horizon, navigating through mist and shifting tides with practiced ease. Emma sat near the stern, wrapped in her coat, the sea spray cold against her cheeks. The farther they traveled, the more the world seemed to dissolve into grey—sea, sky, and silence blending into one.
It was nearly dusk when the silhouette of the island finally emerged. Blackwood Island loomed ahead like a ghost rising from the sea—jagged cliffs, dense forest, and high above it all, the sharp outline of a grand manor. A single tower jutted into the sky, dark against the fading light.
As the boat neared the shore, Emma could make out a stone dock and a narrow path winding into the trees. No one waited to greet them. The captain docked, handed her the bag, and without a word, pushed off again, disappearing into the fog like a phantom.
Emma turned toward the path, her boots crunching on wet gravel. The air smelled of salt and pine, and somewhere deeper in the forest, a raven cried. The trees pressed close, branches clawing at the sky like fingers reaching for something just out of reach.
The walk to the mansion took longer than expected. The path twisted uphill, flanked by wild undergrowth and old stone statues, moss-covered and broken. She passed a crumbling fountain and what might once have been a garden, long since overtaken by nature.
At last, the manor came into view. It was even larger up close—Gothic in design, all steep gables and narrow windows. Ivy clung to the stone like veins, and the front doors, carved with strange patterns, stood half-open, as if expecting her.
Emma stepped inside. The foyer was vast and dimly lit, the scent of old wood and candle wax hanging in the air. A grand staircase rose before her, its railing intricately carved with vines and owls. Tapestries lined the walls, their colors faded, their stories lost to time.
To her left, a fireplace burned low in what looked like a sitting room. To her right, a long corridor stretched into darkness. Footsteps echoed faintly above—someone was upstairs, watching or waiting. She tightened her grip on her bag.
"Miss Taylor," a voice called from the shadows. She turned sharply. A tall, pale man in a dark suit emerged from a side door, his expression unreadable. "Welcome to Blackwood Manor. I am Mr. Blackwood's assistant. He's been expecting you."
Emma studied him. Everything from his polished shoes to his stillness spoke of discipline and control. But it was his eyes—cold, assessing—that made her wary. "And where is Mr. Blackwood?" she asked.
The assistant gave a faint smile. "Waiting in the library. This way, please."
The assistant led her down the long corridor, their footsteps muffled by an ornate runner rug. Oil paintings lined the walls—portraits of stern-looking men and women, all bearing the same proud jawline and haunted eyes. The Blackwood lineage, Emma guessed.
They passed several closed doors—study, dining room, music chamber—until they reached the end of the hallway. The assistant paused before a heavy oak door, knocked twice, and opened it without waiting for a response. "Miss Taylor has arrived, sir."
The library was vast, with ceilings so high they disappeared into shadow. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting long fingers of light across shelves filled with ancient tomes. At the far end of the room stood a man in a high-backed chair, half-turned toward the fire.
"Miss Taylor," the man said, rising. "Thank you for coming."
He was older than she expected—late sixties, perhaps—but stood tall with the bearing of someone used to command. His eyes, pale blue and piercing, locked onto hers with unsettling intensity. This had to be Mr. Blackwood.
"I don't usually accept anonymous invitations," Emma replied, stepping closer. "But you made it very difficult to refuse." She handed him the letter. "You care to explain what this is about?"
Blackwood took the envelope, nodded, and gestured for her to sit. "I sent that because I need your help. And because discretion is... vital. This island—my family—have long been entwined in matters best kept out of the public eye."
She lowered herself into the chair opposite him, one brow arched. "That's a very poetic way of saying secrets."
He chuckled softly. "Yes. There are many. Some I've kept too long. But recently, things have... escalated."
He leaned forward, his voice dropping. "There have been sightings. Noises in the halls at night. Locked doors found open. And just last week, one of my staff disappeared."
Emma's expression sharpened. "Disappeared how?"
"Went to deliver supplies to the northern watchtower. Never came back. We searched, of course. Found nothing. No signs of struggle, no tracks, no body." He looked away, jaw tight. "It wasn't the first time."
Emma's fingers tapped her knee. The atmosphere shifted—this was no longer a curious invitation, it was a case. "And the local authorities?"
"There are none," Blackwood said. "The island is private. Isolated. Those who live here are mine to protect. And now… someone—or something—is threatening that."
Emma leaned back in her chair, the flickering firelight casting shadows across her thoughtful expression. "And you believe the disappearances are connected to the noises? The opened doors? You think someone is trying to harm your staff?"
Blackwood hesitated. "I don't know. That's the most troubling part. I can't tell if this is the work of an outsider—or someone within the manor. This place… it has a long memory, Miss Taylor. Sometimes I fear it's turning against us."
She studied him closely. There was no tremor in his voice, no signs of senility or melodrama. He believed what he was saying. And it wasn't paranoia—it was fear. Real fear, buried deep. That alone intrigued her.
"I'll need access to everything," she said. "The staff, the grounds, any records you've kept. And I want to speak with the person who last saw the missing staff member."
"That would be Mrs. White, the housekeeper," Blackwood replied. "She's been with us nearly twenty years. Knows the island better than anyone." He rose and crossed to a sideboard, pouring two glasses of amber liquid. "Would you care for a drink?"
Emma declined with a polite shake of her head. "I prefer to stay sharp. Especially in unfamiliar territory."
Blackwood smiled faintly and sipped his own. "I respect that. You'll find the staff cooperative—though some may be... reluctant. This island breeds its own kind of silence."
"Then I'll have to ask the right questions," Emma murmured. She rose to her feet. "I'd like to get settled in. And then I want to meet everyone. All of them."
Blackwood nodded. "The assistant will show you to your room. Dinner is at seven. You'll find introductions easier over a shared meal."
The assistant appeared in the doorway as if summoned by thought alone. He offered no words, just a slight bow of his head, then turned and began walking. Emma followed, her footsteps echoing softly behind him.
They climbed a wide staircase, the air growing colder the higher they went. The corridor above was lined with closed doors and antique sconces that flickered with candlelight. It felt less like a home and more like a castle caught between time and shadow.
He stopped at a door near the end of the hall and unlocked it with a long brass key. "Your room," he said. "You'll find everything you need. If you require anything else, ring the bell on the desk."
Emma stepped inside, noting the heavy curtains, the writing desk, the ornate bed. But it was the old mirror on the far wall that drew her eye. It reflected more than her image. It reflected something else—something watching.
Emma moved toward the mirror slowly, her reflection warping slightly in the curved, antique glass. It was probably just age distorting the image—but something about it made her skin prickle. She stared into it for a long moment before turning away.
She unpacked her small suitcase methodically, placing her notebook and pen on the desk, her clothes neatly in the armoire. Then she sat at the desk, flipping open the notebook to a blank page, and began to write:
Arrival. Island eerie. Staff guarded. Blackwood afraid. First objective: speak with Mrs. White. Determine credibility.
The sun had dipped below the horizon, casting the sea in molten silver. From her window, Emma watched waves crash against the black rocks far below. The sky over the island darkened quickly, swallowing light faster than the mainland ever did.
A bell echoed through the halls—low, solemn, and deliberate. Dinner. She closed the notebook, rose, and took a final look in the mirror before stepping out. Her footsteps carried her toward the grand staircase, where the scent of roasted meats and herbs filled the air.
The dining hall was grand but dimly lit. A long table sat in the center, lined with tall-backed chairs. Several figures had already gathered. She recognized Victoria Blackwood immediately—elegant, poised, and watching Emma with unreadable eyes.
James sat beside her, all charm and confidence, rising to greet Emma with a disarming smile. "You must be the detective. We were just taking bets on how long you'd last on our cursed little island."
"Let's hope no one wagered too little," Emma replied coolly.
To his right sat Dr. Lee, quietly observing, and across from him, Mrs. White—the housekeeper—stirring her tea with slow, careful movements. Lucas, the islander, stood near the fireplace, hands clasped behind his back. The rest of the staff filtered in silently.
Introductions were made. Some warm, others wary. Eyes watched her as if she were both intruder and judge. Emma took a seat beside Mrs. White, already planning what to ask her.
"Quite the company," she remarked lightly. "A full house for a quiet island."
Mr. Blackwood raised a glass at the head of the table. "To Miss Taylor," he said, his voice ringing through the hall. "May she find the truth—or at least, survive the search."
Laughter followed—but it was strained. Hollow. The kind of laughter that hoped to drown unease.
As Emma sipped her water and studied the faces around her, she knew one thing for certain: something was deeply wrong on Blackwood Isle. The secrets here weren't just buried—they were waiting. Watching. And now, so was she.