บท 2: Chapter 2: The Door at The End of The Corridor

Engulfed within the confines of an otherwise innocent-seeming envelope lay a single piece of parchment. A seemingly inconsequential detail, yet sufficiently potent to lure Professor Sherlock Forester out of the soothing clutches of his otherwise mundane life.

Indifferent to the letter, which had unceremoniously landed on the ground below him, Sherlock was ripped out of his day-dreams and found his gaze compelled upward. He fixated on the unusual spectacle of the owl as it gracefully circumnavigated the space above his head. With confused eyes Sherlock asked uncertainly,

"Do owls usually deliver letters?"

"Is this a traditional custom among British nobles, just like the ancient Chinese carrier pigeons?"

Alas, Sherlock's knowledge of foreign history and customs proved to be nascent at best. With a resigned exhalation he shook his head and bent down to pick up the letter.

The owl, having intently observed Sherlock recover the letter, decided it had fulfilled its duty with no hint of further obligation. Seeming somewhat disgruntled at the lack of any treat in return, it shot a mildly resentful glance at Sherlock. Shaking off its slight indignation, the owl took off towards a nearby thicket intending to catch a few mice.

Sherlock seemed unperturbed by the owl's irate departure as he turned his attention fully to the unexpectedly delivered letter. He noted the solid weight of the parchment and was surprised by the lack of a stamp. The address was inscribed in a vivid emerald green ink:

| Mr Sherlock Forester

| 13, Mulan Street

| Surrey

Recognizing his name scrawled on the envelope, Sherlock examined it further. As he flipped the envelope to revel in the luxurious texture some more, his curiosity was piqued by the wax seal - an 'H' placed upon an embossed shield flanked by a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake. The quartet conjured up the depiction of a coat of arms. Despite the creeping sense of familiarity, Sherlock couldn't remember where he might have previously encountered the design.

Tapping his forehead in confusion, he shook his head, deciding not to rush opening the envelope, instead carrying it along with the will to go inside. The keys to the front gate and the house door had been returned to him upon his discharge from the hospital, along with his other personal belongings.

The front gate greeted him with a ghastly squeak as it ceded access. Intrigued by the unruly sprawl of the yard, which was a total contrast to his organized and meticulous nature, he found himself following the faint trail dulled by thriving, overgrown weeds.

Just as he was about to turn his key in the lock of his front door, it creaked gently ajar completely by itself. A chill ran down his spine, but he dismissed it as a gust of wind. Having been grounded in the principles of rationality, Sherlock was not an individual who would seek refuge in the whimsical world of folklore, ghost stories, and magic. He defended his lack of alarm by attributing the unexpectedly opening door to the seemingly plausible explanation of it being unlocked and the wind prying it open, and stepped over the threshold with an air of nonchalance. Even though he had mysteriously traveled back in time, his beliefs hadn't evolved that much yet.

"A haunted house?"

Sherlock shook his head with a chuckle. How could there possibly be ghosts in this world?

Akin to adults using magic to fool children, ghosts were fables invented by adults to fool other adults.

The serenity and order of the internal confines of the house stood in stark contrast to the unruly front yard. The house was visibly well-kept, albeit cloaked in a layer of gloom irrespective of the enthusiastic glow of the daylight outside. Irked by the oppressive feeling of a medieval castle that the house seemed to embrace, he placed the envelope along with his other items on a shoe rack he noticed, shucked off his jacket intending to toss it towards the nearest furniture, and stalled when he noticed a coat rack standing expectantly nearby.

"Was this this coat rack when I entered?", Sherlock asked himself puzzledly. Finding it hard to remember whether it existed originally, he shrugged off the thought since he hadn't paid much heed to the room's furnishings, draped his jacket upon it. He grabbed the will and the letter and strode further into the living room.

As soon as his back was turned, the coat rack seemed to wobble and retreat shyly to its original corner, hidden by the looming shadows. Meanwhile Sherlock set about examining his new abode; each room a testament to an older time and a seemingly more grandiose lifestyle. The styling leaned heavily towards the European Medieval era, the gloom contributing to the aura of an ancient fortress. It was far from a modern English home and definitely had its quirks, but Sherlock found himself warming up to it. He couldn't have dreamt of owning such an impressive property in his previous life. In this light, even excluding the inheritance left by his estranged father, this house alone seemed like a good fortune.

As Sherlock explored the somber house further, now sighting the bedrooms upstairs, he was drawn instinctively towards an unusual door hidden away at the end of the upstairs corridor. The drab black wooden door was inconspicuous, almost suspiciously stealthy, blending effortlessly with the rest of the house, devoid of any distinguishing features. The unusual door was perfectly clean, lacking any distinctive markings or even a door handle, thusly it almost succeeded in its quest for camouflage if not for the noticeable metal hinges binding it to the door frame. Without paying much heed to the anomaly, he credited the odd door to the eccentricities and quirky taste of the house's original owner.

Driven partly by curiosity and partly by his desire to familiarize himself with his new surroundings, Sherlock stood in front of the door, reaching out to lightly push the handle-less wooden door.

The door opened just a crack, revealing a gentle, warm yellow light seeping from inside.

Immediately, a shrill female voice boomed from behind the door.

"Sherlock!"

Caught off guard, Sherlock recoiled at the sudden outcry, rushing back to stand against the wall, his body breaking out in a cold sweat, his heart thudding against his ribcage.

There was someone inside the room...