She stumbled into the darkened room, her eyes only slowly adjusting to the ugly light. A handful of tallow candles, stinking of their past lives, mellow with nearly non-existent brightness were stuck around the room with wax on hard and odd surfaces. One stood on the stone window sill, another on a leather bound book that lay in the solid oak table. One was askew and stuck to the slab floor between her hooves and the ancient cabinet, and another was halfway to dropping off a shelf; the heavy animal fat slowly dripping into a metal bowl below.

It was strange, and eerie, yet also hauntingly familiar. Philomel looked back into the room after had just come from, eyes wide with confusion. The table, the cabinet, the window - yes the previous room had the same furniture, and the same layout, only that had been lit by a brazier in the middle of the table. The table had been in the centre of the time perfectly also, not set at a crooked angle as this one was. There has been a rug on the floor, but tatters of a by-gone fabric, and a mural in the wall, but dreaded scratches. It was uncanny, but it was true, and he heart thumped loudly in her chest, as loud as the dripping wax.

"White," she cursed quietly, drawing her sword, though it really was no use. Haunted houses and ghosts had never been her forte.