The House of Balmour

The ancient House of Balmour stood silent and imposing under a moonlit sky, its weathered stone facade and skeletal turrets dancing under the glow of flickering gaslights. Despite the recent advances in electricity, the Balmour's were an old and proud family, captains of industry yet slow to adapt to the modernity brought by the roaring twenties. The mansion was a relic of a bygone age with its rusted iron gates, leering gargoyles and tangle of gnarled trees. Tonight however, the estate was alive with the clack of heels, the rustle of silk gowns, the clink of fine crystal and the murmur of clandestine whispers. It was an era of intrigue, spectacle and excess and James and Daphne Balmour, the most glittering couple of the season, hosted a Halloween soirée that promised to deliver just that.

As guests arrived in their carefully curated costumes of feathers, pearls and sequins, two figures stood apart from the throngs of excited party-goers; the Aristocrat and his scandalous bride. Wealthy, powerful, and cloaked in rumors of tragic deaths and illicit affairs, the gossip only furthered the public's interest in the couple. James Balmour, son and heir to great fortune and influence, stood tall and silent, his darkly handsome features stern and cold. The only warmth to be found in his demeanor was when he looked upon the woman at his side; Daphne. Warmth was perhaps, too gentle a description. James's hand often tightened about his wife's waist if a gentleman lingered too long in her presence. His dark eyes gleamed cruelly in challenge, his mouth twisting into an approximation of a smile. The message was clear to any who dared approach. Daphne was his and his alone.

A vision of beauty and grace, the new Lady Balmour treated their guests with a dazzling smile and welcoming words, her charm a balm to James's incivility. Alluring in a daring gown of glittering golden sequins and plunging neckline, Daphne presented herself as the epitome of a modern woman, standing in stark contrast to her austere husband. Her only concession was the famous Balmour emerald, securely fastened around her slender neck. Said to have belonged to Kings and conquerors, the priceless emerald had somehow found its way to a girl from Wimbledon. As if in disbelief herself, Daphne's fingers often crept to stroke the facets of the enormous jewel, a look of mesmerized wonder on her face.

The air was thick with the scent of fine whisky, exotic perfumes and anticipation. The opulent splendor of the mansion had undergone a mysterious transformation. The crystal chandeliers were turned low, gilt mirrors draped in gauzy scarlet cloths. Thick rugs blanketed the marble floors and velvet draperies were pulled tight against the evening chill. Dark, macabre paintings with ghastly wraiths and ghouls replaced the lurid, surrealist portraits that were so in vogue. Many a young lady reclined in the newly shadowed corners of the parlor with their smelling salts until they recovered their sensibilities.

Balmour's famed ballroom however, was closed this evening. James and Daphne had lured their guests with the promise of a different sort of spectacle than the glitz and glamor normally boasted by their peers. Tonight, on All Hallow's Eve they would attempt to part the veil between the living and the dead. A whimsical lark to be sure, a new game to amuse the bored elite of London's High Society. Yet the scheduled entertainment seemed to promise something darker. Perhaps it was the rich whisky or the pungent cigar smoke in the air. Maybe it was the cool tendrils of mist that had crept about the house or the ominous rumble of an approaching storm. Perhaps the enthusiastic decorator had overdone herself. Whatever the reason, the assembled guests grew restless, a frenetic energy building, cloying and unbearable.

At the stroke of midnight, the shrouded Solarium doors burst open. The candles guttered in their sconces as a chill wind swept the room. A gasp rushed through the party as the guest of honor finally appeared, cloaked and framed in the doorway, swathed in layers of midnight velvet and crimson silk. A hush descended upon the room as she stepped forward and beckoned to the crowd with a ghostly pale hand, only her arresting green eyes visible above a half veil. "Good evening brave travelers," she crooked a single finger in invitation, "who will venture into the unknown with me?" Still as a portrait she stood, awaiting a reply.