The Blind Gossip
Episode 83 of The
Scene: The Parlour
The Blackwell estate had been abandoned for nearly a century, but the parlour felt strangely… occupied. Dust hung in the air like powdered lace. Heavy curtains sagged against the windows. A grandfather clock stood frozen at midnight, its pendulum stilled mid‑swing.
And at the writing desk sat a skeleton in full mourning attire.
A black veil draped elegantly over her skull. A raven perched beside her, watching like an editor with no patience for missed deadlines. The skeleton’s bony fingers clutched a quill that scratched furiously across the page of a scandal sheet titled:
THE MORBID TIMES: HEAVY SCANDALS
A teacup labelled Arsenic Earl Grey steamed faintly beside her. The inkwell — a tiny skull — exhaled green smoke.
Ghostly whispers drifted through the room:
“Heard about the doctor’s wife…”
“The poisoned tea…”
“Secret under the floorboards…”
The skeleton didn’t look up.
She was busy.
The Skeleton Who Knew Too Much
Lady Morwenna Blackwell had been the most feared gossip columnist of her era. Her pen had toppled reputations, ruined marriages, and once caused an entire family to flee the country under cover of night.
Death had not slowed her down.
Her quill scratched with renewed enthusiasm as she wrote:
THE DOCTOR’S WIFE NEVER LEFT THE HOUSE — AND WE CAN PROVE IT
Corvus, the raven, tapped the desk twice — a sign of approval.
Morwenna dipped her quill back into the smoking inkwell.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she said to the bird. “Accuracy matters.”
The Living Reader
The journalist who had stumbled into the parlour — a modern writer researching Victorian scandals — stood frozen in the doorway.
“Are you… writing?” he whispered.
Morwenna didn’t look up.
“Darling, gossip never dies. It merely becomes better sourced.”
The journalist swallowed hard. The raven tilted its head, unimpressed.
The Gossip
The whispers thickened, swirling around the desk like perfume gone rancid.
“The poisoned tea…”
“She switched the cups…”
“He buried the evidence…”
“Under the floorboards…”
Morwenna scribbled each rumour with relish.
“Honestly,” she said, “the dead are far more talkative than the living ever were. No sense of discretion whatsoever.”
The journalist took a cautious step backward.
Morwenna’s skull snapped toward them.
“Oh don’t be dramatic. I only expose the guilty.”
Corvus tapped the desk again.
“Well,” she amended, “and the entertaining.”
The Scandal
The journalist noticed a stack of fresh pages beside the skeleton — each one detailing scandals that were not Victorian at all.
Modern names.
Modern crimes.
Modern secrets.
“You’re writing about people who are still alive,” the journalist whispered.
Morwenna’s jawbone clicked into a grin.
“Of course. The dead keep up with everything. They’re dreadful eavesdroppers.”
The raven cawed in agreement.
The Ending
The journalist fled the estate, tripping over a loose floorboard on the way out.
Behind him, Morwenna called:
“Do come back! I haven’t even told you about the vicar’s second family!”
The door slammed shut.
The next morning, a fresh copy of The Morbid Times appeared on the journalist’s doorstep.
The headline read:
MODERN JOURNALIST DISCOVERS SECRET UNDER THE FLOORBOARDS — THEN RUNS AWAY
Below it, in smaller print:
MORE AT ELEVEN
A single black feather was tucked inside like a bookmark.
Some gossip refuses to stay buried.
And Lady Morwenna Blackwell is just getting started.
Quoth the raven ‘Nevermore’.