Chapter 12: The Midnight Bride
The Hale estate stood at the far end of a quiet road lined with old trees.
The front door opened before we reached it. Edward Hale stepped outside. He looked even more tired than he had in the video—paler, too, as if the last few nights had drained whatever strength he had left.
"Please," he said, his voice breaking. "Help my son."
His hands trembled despite his effort to steady them.
"We'll pay anything."
"Let me see him first," I said.
Edward hesitated.
"The violin always starts after midnight," he said quietly. "No one hears it during the day."
"Then I'll go in tonight," I said. "I want to see who—or what—is playing that violin."
"You mean... stay here overnight?"
He swallowed hard, clearly unsure whether to feel relieved or terrified.
After a moment, he stepped aside and opened the door wider.
---
After nightfall, I decided to stay in Adrian's room.
Before going in, I pulled the silver pendant out from under my shirt and glanced at it, the metal surface reflecting a faint light.
"Rhan."
Just as my hand reached the door, Selene's voice came from behind me.
I turned and gave her an easy smile. "Relax. I'll be fine."
She nodded, though the redness in her eyes betrayed how little she believed that. "...Just be careful."
"Yeah."
I pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Adrian lay in bed with his eyes open, alert but unfocused, as if his gaze passed through me rather than resting on me.
I had dealt with ghosts before, but being watched like that felt worse.
"Mr. Arcturus," he said suddenly. His voice was dry and strained. "Are you afraid?"
I pulled a chair closer and sat down. "If I said no, would you believe me?"
A faint, unreadable smile touched his face.
"No one has dared come into this room at night for a long time," he said. "You're still young. Why choose this line of work? The money might be good, but if you run into the real thing, your life is over."
He assumed money was my only motive, just like his father had.
Then I caught it—a disturbance in the air, faint and uncertain, like something moving just beyond hearing.
I held my breath.
The sound slowly became clearer, forming a distant, solemn melody.
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It was Mendelssohn's Wedding March.
Not loud. More like the memory of music leaking into the room.
"It's here..." Adrian's expression changed. His throat tightened. "They're here. You hear it too, don't you?"
"I hear it."
His eyes widened. "You really hear it?"
I did not answer.
The music was drawing closer, advancing from the far end of the corridor—slow, measured, step by step.
"The ones they hired before..." His voice trembled, though excitement flickered beneath it. "...couldn't hear anything at all. You really can hear her."
"Quiet," I said softly, focusing.
Something approached, and light footsteps stopped just outside the door.
"Adrian—"
A woman's voice followed. Soft and close, yet without a clear direction. It seemed to come from everywhere in the room at once.
I scanned the room quickly. No figure. No shadow.
"So..." Adrian struggled to sit up, almost breathless with excitement. "You really can hear her. The doctors said it was delusion... but you hear her, don't you?"
He was perceptive. Even in this state, he understood the situation.
But I had no attention left for him.
All my attention was fixed on that voice.
It repeated his name gently, tenderly—again and again—yet its source remained impossible to locate.
I waited.
---
Then Adrian moved.
He slowly sat up and slid out of bed, and crossed the room toward the bathroom.
Yet his gait was wrong.
The steps were small, careful. His body swayed faintly, each movement deliberately softened.
Possession? It didn't feel like one. The residual energy was far too faint, barely detectable.
What was he doing in there?
I rose quietly and approached the bathroom door.
It was firmly shut.
From inside came soft noises—the whisper of fabric, the subtle sound of something being adjusted... then adjusted again.
I returned to my position and waited.
Roughly ten minutes later, the door opened.
The Adrian who stepped out was no longer Adrian.
He was dressed in an ivory wedding gown.
Perfectly fitted. The hem brushed the floor as he walked, delicate lace catching a faint gleam in the dim light.
His face bore light makeup—lips painted a vivid, controlled red, eyes lowered, expression modest and composed.
He moved with the quiet posture of a bride.
A split personality? A transformation this complete should not have escaped medical notice.
Then—was it truly a ghost?
The smile that spread across his lips was gentle.
He walked toward the bed, then suddenly turned back.
When he returned, a violin rested in his arms.
He placed it carefully beneath his chin and raised the bow.
The first note stilled the air.
The melody was gentle and ethereal, like the first breath of fate drawing near.
I recognized it.
Massenet's "Méditation."
When the final note faded, I found myself momentarily adrift.
"Sir... was my playing to your liking?"
The voice, cool yet soft, drew me back.
Only then did I realize that Adrian was looking directly at me.
The voice had come from him—
yet it unquestionably belonged to a young woman.
I studied his eyes.
Clear and steady—calm in a way that did not belong to Adrian.
"Who are you?" I asked quietly. "Why are you inside Adrian?"
He—she—let out a quiet laugh.
"My name is Elena. He is my husband—my lawfully wedded husband. We are merely... sharing this one body."
Husband.
The word lingered in my mind.
"You... were once a spirit?" I asked.
She did not answer immediately.
"Yes," she whispered.
"I once belonged to the Netherworld—a realm unlike any ordinary afterlife, where the dead are never meant to return."
"How did you die?" I asked.
Elena's eyes suddenly snapped open.
A dark force surged within them.
"I remember." Her words came in a ragged breath, barely breaking the silence. "Even after a thousand years as a ghost... I would never forget."
The lights around us shuddered, buzzing and flickering as if some long-hidden force strained to break free,
She lowered the violin slowly, the last vibration of the string fading into an eerie silence. Then she began to speak.
Nearly four centuries ago, in the early seventeenth century, when Gustavus Adolphus still ruled the mortal realm, Elena was born into the Valeris family—a prosperous merchant house built on cross-border trade. She was their second child.
Her earliest memories were not of wealth, but of light: sunlight spilling across open courtyards, warm stone beneath bare feet, harbor winds threaded with the scent of exotic spices. That world had seemed orderly and bright, a place where nothing irreversible could touch her.
That belief ended in her sixteenth year.
She had traveled south with her elder brother to oversee a purchase of goods. The journey home passed smoothly—until the caravan entered a narrow stretch of hills.
The attack came without warning.
A scream ripped through the air. Horses reared in panic. Steel clashed against steel. Guards barely had time to draw their weapons.
By the time Elena was dragged from the carriage, her brother's voice had vanished into the chaos. She never saw his body again.
Only three survived: Elena and two maidservants.
They were captured, held for days, and eventually sold.
Their buyer was an alchemist named Alrik Skarsund. From that moment, nothing would ever be the same.
