Chapter 4: The Vanishing Portrait

The morning greeted Ezra like a slap in the face—cold, unwelcoming, and oddly damp. He shuffled into the foyer, still half-asleep, the mop dragging behind him like a reluctant dance partner. His mind replayed the whispers from the night before, accompanied by the unnerving knocks on his door.

"You look awful," Grimwald's deep voice cut through his thoughts.

Ezra jumped, nearly tripping over the mop. "Thanks. Just the morale boost I needed."

Grimwald, ever impassive, handed over a crumpled sheet of paper. "Your tasks for today."

Ezra glanced at the list: **Clean the foyer. Dust the dining hall curtains. Check the fireplace mantle.**

"Why do I feel like this is a setup for a scavenger hunt of doom?" he muttered.

Grimwald ignored him, his gaze shifting to the grand fireplace. "Ensure the mantle is spotless. I do not tolerate carelessness."

Ezra saluted half-heartedly. "Yes, sir. Mop soldier reporting for duty."

Grimwald's lack of reaction was almost impressive, and Ezra was left standing alone, staring at the expansive and increasingly suspicious inn.

---

The grand fireplace in the foyer was a monstrosity of carved stone and cobwebs. Its mantle was adorned with several dusty portraits, each depicting stern-faced individuals who looked like they hadn't smiled in centuries. Ezra climbed onto a wobbly stool, his rag in hand, muttering to himself.

"Who even puts this many creepy people on one mantle? Are they competing for the 'Most Judgy Ancestor' award?"

As he cleaned, his eyes landed on a particularly striking portrait—a young woman with sharp features, dark hair cascading over her shoulders, and a faint smirk that made her look like she knew something you didn't. The plaque beneath the frame read: **Eliza Crane, 1902.**

"Creepy, but classy," Ezra murmured. He leaned closer, studying the detail in the painting. "You look like the type who'd laugh at me falling off this stool."

As if on cue, the stool wobbled, and Ezra flailed wildly, nearly toppling over. He managed to regain his balance, only to find himself face-to-face with an empty frame.

"What the—" He blinked, looking around. The portrait of Eliza Crane was gone.

Ezra scrambled down from the stool, his heart racing. He glanced at the other portraits, all of which were still in place, their subjects staring down at him as if in judgment. But Eliza's frame was completely empty, the once-smiling woman nowhere to be seen.

"Nope. No. Absolutely not," he muttered, backing away. "Paintings don't just... walk off."

As he turned to leave, the faint sound of footsteps echoed behind him. He froze, gripping the rag like it might magically transform into a weapon. Slowly, he turned, half-expecting to see Grimwald or Lady Marrow standing there.

The foyer was empty.

"Great. Just great," he said, retreating toward the dining hall. "First whispers, then knocks, now disappearing portraits. What's next? Dancing furniture?"

---

The dining hall was as dim and gloomy as ever, the long table stretching out like a runway for ghosts. Ezra grabbed the feather duster and started on the thick, crimson curtains, which seemed determined to choke him with dust.

Halfway through, Lady Marrow glided into the room, her gown flowing behind her like liquid emerald. She stopped by the grand piano, her fingers grazing the keys without pressing them.

"You look pale," she remarked, her sharp green eyes narrowing slightly. "Rough night?"

"Define rough," Ezra replied, coughing into the duster. "If it involves whispers, mysterious knocking, and now a disappearing portrait, then yeah, pretty rough."

Lady Marrow's elegant demeanor faltered for the briefest moment. "Which portrait?"

"Eliza Crane," he said, watching her expression closely. "One second she's there, the next—poof."

Her fingers froze on the piano keys, and her lips pressed into a thin line. "Eliza is missing?"

"Well, her portrait is," he clarified. "I don't know if she personally packed her bags and left."

Lady Marrow's gaze turned colder, her usual smirk replaced by something unreadable. "I suggest you let this mystery remain unsolved."

Ezra frowned. "And why's that? Does the inn have some kind of no-questions-asked policy?"

Her faint smile returned, though it carried no warmth. "Curiosity has cost many their place here."

Before he could press further, she swept out of the room, her gown whispering against the floor. Ezra stood there, feather duster in hand, feeling more uneasy than ever.

---

Determined to distract himself, Ezra headed to the library, where at least the fire provided some semblance of warmth. He grabbed his usual feather duster and started on the shelves closest to the door, doing his best to ignore the darker corners of the room.

As he moved down the rows, his eyes drifted toward the black leather journal he'd seen before. It sat on the shelf, untouched but still radiating an inexplicable sense of menace. Ezra hesitated, his fingers hovering over the spine.

"Nope," he said, shaking his head. "Not today, cursed book."

Instead, he moved to the far end of the library, where the older woman with silver hair had appeared before. But today, the space was empty, save for the faint crackle of the fire. The silence felt heavy, and Ezra found himself glancing over his shoulder more often than he liked.

"You're losing it," he muttered. "It's just a job. Just a really, really weird job."

---

That night, the whispers returned.

Ezra lay in bed, his blanket pulled up to his chin as the soft murmurs filled the room. They were louder this time, more insistent, like they were trying to tell him something he couldn't understand.

He groaned, sitting up. "Seriously? Can I get one night without the horror soundtrack?"

The whispers stopped abruptly, leaving the room oppressively silent. Ezra froze, waiting for the knock he was now dreading. Instead, the window rattled faintly, as though something was brushing against it.

Sliding out of bed, he approached the window cautiously, his heart pounding. The curtains swayed slightly, though there was no breeze. He pulled them aside, half-expecting to see nothing but darkness.

Instead, Eliza Crane's smirking face stared back at him.

Ezra screamed—a high-pitched sound that he would later deny ever making—and stumbled backward, tripping over the mop he'd left on the floor. By the time he scrambled to his feet and looked again, the window was empty.

"This job is going to kill me," he muttered, grabbing the mop and holding it like a sword. "Or I'm going to kill myself tripping over this stupid thing."

He climbed back into bed, clutching the mop like a security blanket. The whispers continued, faint but persistent, until sleep finally claimed him.