There was the clicking sound again, a whisper drifting around the courtyard of MacIntyre Hall. Eliza stepped down off the stone step onto the marble floor, the heel of her boot made a tap that seemed to deafen her. "What the hell am I doing out here?" she asked herself, peering around the dimly lit hallway, behind her the light from the upstairs hallway illuminated the staircase, an inviting, reassuring golden beam of safety and warmth. The soudn again, like a thousand crickets all speaking at once, but it was smoother, softer. Old man MacIntyre had told her stories of The Ripper, the killer who had stalked the hall many years ago, long before MacIntyre had renovated the huge stately home. Eliza sighed and turned back to the staircase. "The hell with this." she muttered to herself as she began to rise the steps, then, just as she was content again, something made her turn around, a breeze behind her, a sound, just like a ...