Chapter 3 - The Door on the Second Floor
The old laundry lift groaned in protest as I pulled the braided rope, lowering myself upward through the damp shaft into the heart of the Moretti estate's private residential wing. The air here changed instantly. Gone was the smell of bleach and damp concrete; it was replaced by the expensive scent of cedar, aged leather, and expensive floral potpourri. Thick Persian runners muffled my soft-soled service shoes as I slipped out of the shaft door and into the dimly lit hallway of the second floor.
The crystal sconces cast a warm, amber glow along the wallpapered walls, illuminating portraits of grim-faced Moretti ancestors who looked down with stern disapproval. I kept my head down, my breath catching in my throat with every slight creak of the old floorboards beneath my feet. This was the forbidden zone. Housekeeping staff were strictly forbidden from entering the east wing without a direct summons, let alone after midnight during a gala.
At the very end of the corridor, past the heavy mahogany double doors of Luca’s private suite, stood a plain, unadorned wooden door fitted with a modern digital keypad and a heavy brass deadbolt. This was the room without a name on the architectural blueprints.
As I crept closer, the ambient noise of the party downstairs faded entirely, replaced by a sound that made my blood run cold. From beneath the crack of the heavy door came the faint, unmistakable hum of a woman’s voice, singing the haunting, melancholic refrain of *Blue Harbor*.
I froze, pressing my palms flat against the cool wallpaper. The voice was thin, fragile, like glass ready to shatter under the slightest pressure, but the notes were pitch-perfect. It was the exact melody the pianist had begun playing in the dining hall before I screamed for her to stop.
May you like
"Who's there?" a voice whispered from behind the heavy wood. It was raspy, worn down by endless silence. "Is it time for the tray again?"
I swallowed hard, stepping directly up to the door. My fingers hovered just an inch from the polished brass handle. "It's not the guards," I whispered back, my heart pounding so hard I thought it would burst through my ribs. "My name is Rachel. I'm... I'm the maid who stopped the music downstairs."
