The storm had been raging since sunset.
Blackwood Manor stood alone on the edge of a sharp cliff, its tall windows flashing with lightning every few seconds. Inside, however, the dining room glowed with warm candlelight. The long mahogany table shone like dark glass. Crystal goblets sparkled. Silver spoons rested beside white porcelain bowls. It was a room built for power and pride.
Yet something felt wrong.
Rain tapped against the windows in a steady rhythm—like a slow, patient heartbeat.
At the head of the table stood an empty chair.
Julian Vane, the billionaire recluse who owned Blackwood Manor, had invited six guests for a private dinner. He had not been seen in public for ten years. No interviews. No photographs. No rumors confirmed.
And tonight, he was nowhere to be seen.
The guests were not friends. They barely hid their dislike for one another.
Dr. Marcus Hale, once a famous surgeon, now disgraced after a fatal "mistake" in the operating room.
Senator Arthur Crowe, known for winning elections through ruthless tactics.
Lydia Vale, a film star whose fame was fading as fast as her smile.
Victor Dane, a business tycoon feared for crushing smaller companies without mercy.
Mrs. Eleanor Whitmore, a wealthy widow with sharp eyes and sharper secrets.
And the youngest among them—Clara Whitmore, Eleanor's daughter and heir to a vast fortune.
They all shared one secret.
Twenty years ago, there had been an "accident."
Officially, it was ruled unfortunate but unavoidable.
Unofficially… it had benefited every person sitting at that table.
At exactly eight o'clock, the silent butler entered. His face showed no emotion. He placed bowls of chilled soup before each guest and left without speaking.
Still, Julian Vane did not appear.
Instead, a sound came from the corner of the room.
A vintage phonograph began to spin.
At first, there was static. Then, a voice.
"Good evening, my dear friends."
The voice was smooth. Calm. Familiar.
Julian Vane.
"I regret that I cannot join you in person. Think of tonight as… transformative. By the end of this meal, all debts will be settled in full."
The record crackled.
"Bon appétit."
Silence followed.
For a moment, no one moved.
Then Senator Crowe laughed too loudly. "Theatrics," he said. "Julian always loved drama."
The others forced smiles. Silver spoons clinked softly against porcelain.
But hands trembled.
Detective Elias Thorne sat quietly among them, using the name "Edward Blake." Officially, he was a financial consultant. Unofficially, he had spent years investigating the old accident. Tonight was his chance to watch them closely.
He noticed something.
Clara Whitmore had not touched her soup.
Her eyes were fixed on the empty chair.
"You're not eating?" Lydia asked gently.
Clara swallowed. "No."
"Why ever not?" her mother whispered sharply.
Clara's voice shook. "Because this isn't about dinner."
Lightning flashed, lighting the room in white for a split second.
Clara suddenly pushed her chair back and stood.
Her face had gone pale—almost gray.
She stared at the empty seat at the head of the table.
"He's not coming, is he?" she whispered.
The room went still.
"Because he's already here."
Before anyone could speak—
BOOM.
The heavy oak doors slammed shut.
The candles flickered wildly and then died.
Darkness swallowed the room.
Someone gasped. A chair scraped against the floor. The rain outside seemed distant now.
Then came a new sound.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Slow. Thick. Heavy.
Not rain.
Something else.
A scream tore through the darkness.
A match struck.
In the small, flickering flame, faces appeared—pale, terrified, twisted in fear.
"Look," someone whispered.
All eyes lifted upward.
Hanging from the center of the chandelier was a thick silver envelope sealed with red wax. It turned slowly in the air.
Dark liquid dripped from its edges onto the white lace tablecloth below, staining it.
Ink.
Or something darker.
The phonograph crackled back to life.
The record had jammed.
"Bon appétit… Bon appétit… Bon appétit…"
The phrase repeated again and again, scratching through the darkness.
No one moved.
No one breathed.
And in the dim matchlight, Detective Elias Thorne realized something chilling—
The envelope had not been there before the lights went out.
Which meant…
Someone in the room had placed it there.
The match burned down to the fingers holding it.
Darkness returned.
And the dripping continued.