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The conclusion came quickly: robbery gone wrong. Strangled in a moment of betrayal. The police ruled it a murder, pinned the blame squarely on Mark, and closed the case within days. Mark was arrested, awaiting trial.

But even as the town moved on, whispers lingered in the shadows of Evermoon.

After the incident, Mr. Lay found no peace within the grand halls of the villa. Every night, sleep eluded him. When it came, it brought haunting dreams—visions of one of his family members lying lifeless in the same bloodstained bed where Thomas had died. Sometimes it was Amelia; sometimes it was his wife. Other times, it was himself. The dreams felt too vivid, too real, as if the house itself was whispering their fate.

He stopped hosting guests. The gardens went untended, the walls gathered dust, and the once lively estate grew cold and hollow. One by one, the staff left or were quietly let go, until only a handful remained—just one-tenth of the original household, those Mr. Lay trusted most, though even they moved through the halls like shadows, speaking in hushed tones. The grand villa that had once been the pride of Evermoon now felt more like a mausoleum, filled with silence and secrets.

Finally, after two long years of restless nights and growing dread, in the autumn of 1982, Mr. Lay made a decision. He left Evermoon behind, and moved to a quiet, unassuming town just outside London with his wife and Amelia. He settled into a modest villa, far from the grand halls and heavy memories, hoping at last to find rest.