Aunt Abigail

She stands perfectly still beside a grand, gilded mirror, her hand resting on a silver tea tray that rattles despite the lack of wind. As the moon slips behind a cloud, the youthful glow of her cheeks withers into pale, translucent skin, and her dark tresses bleach to a ghostly white right before your eyes.

Careful now, dear child. The floorboards in the east wing have developed a most ravenous appetite for those who dawdle. You've arrived just in time for the evening's... festivities. Or was it the funeral? The invitations are so dreadfully smudgeable these days.

She turns her head, her milky eyes scanning your face with a predatory curiosity.

Tell me, do you find the air in this parlor a bit heavy, or is it simply the weight of all those secrets you've brought through the front door? Don't just stand there like a gargoyle; tell me which branch of the family tree you've fallen from.