I Revived My Maid, Now She Hungers for My Blood
Chapter 307: The Black Crow Mansion

On the other side of the city, in a remote, desolate district, stood a mansion locked behind rusted black iron gates.

It was the sunset hour of a midsummer evening.

The oppressive, sticky heat in the air should have been slowly ebbing away.

Yet, strangely, the temperature was dropping far faster than it should have been—unnaturally fast.

The sun hadn’t even fully set; the sky still blazed with vast streaks of tangerine and crimson.

But already, standing before the ancient manor known as the Black Crow Mansion, one could feel a chill seeping deep into the marrow of their bones.

It wasn’t the natural cool of encroaching night. It was something else. A cold that bled out from the mansion’s depths, from the soil beneath their feet, from the dead ivy strangling the walls.

“Weather’s... really strange,” a man in his thirties muttered under his breath.

He wore a beige trench coat. This was Elliot Wade, a journalist for the Urban Science Daily, and the organizer of this “Black Crow Mansion Exploration.”

Two weeks ago, he’d placed an inconspicuous recruitment ad in an equally inconspicuous corner of the newspaper.

A long shot—looking for volunteers bold enough, curious enough about urban legends, to investigate this rumored house of horrors.

He never expected anyone to actually answer. Let alone more than one.

Now, including himself, five people stood before the iron gates of that ominous mansion. Their expressions varied.

Beside Elliot stood a man built like a brick wall, clad in a faded, washed-out military jacket. He held his silence, his face unreadable, but his eyes swept the mansion and its surroundings with razor sharpness.

His name was Milo Kowalski. A veteran who’d seen real combat.

Elliot hadn’t held much hope of recruiting Milo—until the mysterious benefactor promised to cover half a year of Milo’s rent and a substantial fee.

After a long, silent moment, Milo had simply nodded and followed.

With them was a young couple, early twenties, dressed in the height of fashion.

The man’s hair was dyed an absurd silver-gray, multiple earrings studding his ears, a cynical smirk plastered across his face.

The woman clutched a worn, dog-eared tarot deck, her knuckles white from the pressure. Her “spiritual tool,” she called it.

These two had come seeking thrills and validation of the paranormal. The generous payment offered by that special teammate was simply a bonus to them.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

And then there was the woman standing at the back of the group.

Elsa.

She was dressed in a deep crimson ensemble—skirt and jacket—wildly inappropriate for this sweltering summer day.

The hem fell just below the knee. Delicate black lace adorned the collar and cuffs.

Her hair was pinned up with meticulous precision, leaving a length of pale neck exposed.

Right now, she was entirely absorbed in scribbling inside a thick, dark-brown leather notebook with a Parker pen that looked far from cheap.

When Elliot had introduced her to the others as the expedition’s financial sponsor and “asset appraiser,” no one questioned a thing.

Elliot the journalist needed money to finish the final piece of his investigative report.

Milo the veteran needed money for next quarter’s rent and bills.

The trendy couple, despite their talk of seeking thrills, had a substantial bonus waiting for them—a very real reason to take the risk.

Even if Elsa looked more like a stenographer with bizarre taste from some old-fashioned law firm, everyone tacitly deferred to her.

They kept quiet. They didn’t disturb her. After all, she was the only one here actually paying.

“Everyone ready?” Elliot cleared his throat, trying to play the part of a provisional leader. “This mansion is the rumored ‘Black Crow Mansion.’”

“According to scattered records from the last decade or so, all thirteen members of the family that lived here died in succession, each in a more gruesome and inexplicable way than the last.”

“Our job is to go inside, take a look, and record the real situation.”

No one objected, least of all the woman footing the bill. Elsa merely lifted her eyes a fraction before returning to her notes.

The iron gate wasn’t locked. Just pushed shut.

Elliot drew a deep breath and shoved the heavy, rust-pitted black iron gate open with force.

Screeeeeeech—

The sharp, piercing shriek of grinding metal dragged through the silent air, long and excruciating, setting teeth on edge.

A wave of stale, ancient air—mildewed wood and choking dust—slammed into their faces.

Beyond the door was a high-ceilinged foyer.

A colossal crystal chandelier dangled from above, draped in thick dust and cobwebs, turning what should have been brilliant light into something dim and murky.

Stained-glass windows cast fractured, kaleidoscopic splashes of color across the floor.

At first glance, it looked like an ordinary villa, abandoned for a handful of years.

Furniture dusty, but largely intact.

The only truly eerie detail was the long oak dining table at the center—long enough to seat perhaps twenty people—ringed entirely by standing mirrors, each taller than a man.

Every single mirror was draped in heavy, light-devouring black cloth.

The frames were carved from antique ebony, covered in intricate scrollwork, all buried under dust.

“Trying too hard,” the silver-haired young man snorted, his face a mask of disdain.

Maybe it was to show off his bravery to his girlfriend.

Or maybe it was just to shatter the oppressive weight of the atmosphere.

He strode forward in long, deliberate steps, right up to the nearest mirror, and reached out.

He ripped the black cloth down.

Rrrrip—!

The sound of old fabric tearing echoed through the cavernous hall. Everyone held their breath, eyes locked on the mirror.

But in the mirror… there were only their own reflections.

Pale from the poor lighting.

Tensed.

And carrying a trace of… faint disappointment.

Nothing else. Nothing out of the ordinary.

“…Tch.” The young man shrugged and tossed the black cloth to the floor.

The tension in the group seemed to loosen slightly with his action.

“Let’s go check over there.” Elliot pointed toward the long dining table. They moved closer.

A thick layer of dust coated the white tablecloth. Upon it sat silver-plated utensils, laid out with precise order—forks, knives, plates, stemmed glasses. All complete. All smothered in gray dust, robbed of any gleam.

“Wow, these look ancient,” the young woman murmured, curiosity in her voice.

She settled into one of the high-backed chairs and reached out, as though to brush the thick dust from the silver fork in front of her.

But the moment her fingertip touched the fork—