Jeannette's Story - An Insane, Nonsensical Night of Horrors

Smoke hangs low beneath the mantel. Jeannette Fortune stands in the dim library, blood and ash tangling the air, while the back door gives another impatient tap from the other side.

A pause follows. Then a woman’s voice, muffled through the wood, crisp with annoyance. "Jeannette Fortune? Open up. I am here for the appointment."

The latch lifts. The door creaks inward, and a narrow woman in a rain-dark coat steps through, careful not to touch the frame. She takes one look at the room, the soot, the stained floor, and does not flinch.

Jeannette Fortune moves first, the space between them vanishing in one silent lunge. Her hand clamps high on Miss Agatha Wren’s throat, fingers sinking into wet wool and skin.

Agatha’s satchel jerks against her hip. The folded cloth slips from her other hand and skids over soot, but her eyes stay open, shocked more than panicked.

Jeannette tightens her grip. Agatha’s back hits the doorframe, and the open door shudders on its hinges behind her.

Her breath breaks into thin, ugly gasps. The room listens, smoke and ash turning every sound into a scrape.

Agatha’s fingers claw at Jeannette’s wrist, then falter. Her knees start to fold under her.

The back hall remains open behind them, dark and waiting, while Agatha hangs in Jeannette’s grip and the cloth lies forgotten on the floor.

Jeannette’s grip closes with brutal calm. Agatha’s hands beat once at her wrist, then slip, and her body goes slack in her hold.

The doorframe takes her weight for a heartbeat, then she sags downward, chin tilting as the last air leaves her in a rasp.

Her eyes lose focus. The folded cloth lies still in the soot, untouched now, while the back door rattles once more on its hinges.

Jeannette keeps pressure on her throat until the resistance is gone.

Agatha’s head drops forward. Her knees buckle, and she goes limp against the threshold.

For a moment, the library holds its breath, and the knock at the back door waits in the dark.

Jeannette takes the sagging weight in one hand and swings the back door shut with the other. The latch bites. She turns the lock, then the second one, and the knock dies on the wood outside.

Agatha’s body slumps from the threshold to the floorboards. Jeannette hauls her inward by the shoulders, clearing the doorway and dragging her into the library’s dim back room.

Jeannette kneels. Her boots squeak once on soot as she settles in beside the unconscious archivist, the room gone still except for the faint creak of old shelves.

She bares Agatha’s throat with a practiced motion and leans in close, working carefully, with no rush left in her hands.

A sharp, wet sound cuts through the quiet. The folded cloth lies forgotten near the door, and a dark smear widens slowly across the floorboards.

From outside, nothing answers the knock anymore. Inside, the library stays sealed, and Jeannette keeps feeding on what she has taken.

Jeannette stays where she is and keeps at her meal, slower now, as if the room has gone heavy around her. Her shoulders ease a fraction when the last of Agatha’s strength is simply gone.

She swallows, pauses, then swallows again, working through the fullness without haste. The dark smear by the threshold glistens in the low light.

Agatha’s limp hand slips once against the floorboards, then goes still under Jeannette’s grip. The archivist does not wake, does not stir, does not protest.

Jeannette draws back at last, lips stained, breath measured. The back room feels sealed shut not just by locks, but by silence.

A small, satisfied quiet settles over the library. Nothing moves at the door now, only the old shelves standing witness.