The antique light bulb cast an ethereal glow across Catherine’s mahogany writing desk, its filament pulsing with an otherworldly rhythm that seemed to whisper secrets from another time. She had discovered it at an estate sale, drawn to its brass fittings and hand-blown glass that bore the subtle imperfections of Victorian craftsmanship.
“There’s something peculiar about this light,” Catherine murmured, tracing her finger along its warm surface. “Almost as if it’s alive.”
Thunder crashed outside her window, and the Yorkshire moors beyond were illuminated in brief, violent flashes. The wind howled through ancient oak trees, their branches scraping against the weathered stone of her cottage like desperate fingers seeking entrance.
“I must be going mad,” she whispered to herself, “but I swear I see something within the glass.”
The filament’s glow intensified, and Catherine found herself transfixed by swirling patterns that emerged within the bulb. Her surroundings began to blur and shift, reality itself seeming to bend around the light’s hypnotic dance.
When her vision cleared, she stood in a gas-lit parlor, her modern clothes replaced by a corseted dress of midnight blue silk. A man’s voice, rich and deep, called out behind her.
“Miss Winters, I feared you wouldn’t come tonight.”
She turned to face him – Edward Rochester himself, or someone remarkably similar, with those same burning eyes she’d read about countless times in her beloved Brontë novels.
“I… I always keep my promises, Mr. Blackwood,” she heard herself reply, though the words weren’t her own.
“Then you’ve considered my proposal?” His intense gaze held hers, and Catherine felt herself drowning in the depths of another woman’s memories.
“I have,” she answered, her heart racing with both fear and exhilaration. “But I must know – what became of your first wife?”
The room grew cold, and Blackwood’s expression darkened. “Some questions, my dear, are better left unasked.”
Lightning flashed again, and in its brief illumination, Catherine caught sight of a figure in the mirror – a woman in white, her face twisted in anguish, reaching out in warning.
The light bulb suddenly exploded in a shower of sparks, jolting Catherine back to her own time. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she noticed a leather-bound diary had materialized on her desk, its pages yellow with age.
With trembling fingers, she opened it to read:
“My dearest Catherine, I write this knowing you will find it, for we are one and the same. Through this light, I sought to warn you of what’s to come. Blackwood’s darkness reaches across time itself. Do not let him find you as he found me.
- Eleanor Winters, 1851”
A knock at her door made Catherine jump. Through the frosted glass, she saw a tall figure, oddly familiar.
“Miss Catherine? I believe you have something that belongs to me.”
The voice sent chills down her spine – it was Blackwood’s, unchanged by the passage of time. She glanced at the shattered remains of the light bulb, understanding at last its true purpose. Some doors, once opened, cannot be easily closed.
Yet as she reached for the door handle, she smiled. Unlike Eleanor, she knew what was coming. And this time, the story would end differently.