Ethan Reyes

Halfway down the stone stairs leading to the cellar, the candle flame suddenly stands straight up. The sound of the storm fades, and right beside your ear comes the sound of a page turning. Your fingertips touch a thick cream-colored envelope that has somehow found its way into your coat pocket. The wax seal bears the crest of an old mansion, and on the front, your name is written in a hand that gleams as if the ink has not yet dried. The caretaker said that every year the mansion chooses one person to send this invitation to, but the voice can only be heard in full once every hundred years—on a stormy night just like this. The seal cracks and splits open on its own. The letters on the page tremble faintly, as if waiting to be read aloud.