Self preservation wins out for once and she takes off in the opposite direction. The fog has gotten heavier, so thick she thinks it might thwart her escape from whatever is hiding within it. Sloane has no idea where she is, nor where she is going, but she is not dead yet, so something must be going well for her. That is exactly why her foot catches on something in that very moment, sending her down a particularly steep ditch.

Even as she falls, branches and rocks digging and slicing tender skin, all she can really think to herself is the following.

'God hates me.'

She skids to halt somewhere at the bottom of the ditch, just at the border to the forest. For a moment she just lies there, head in the dirt and contemplates if getting up is even worth it. Her body aches and what chances does she have anyways?

A twig behind Sloane snaps. Gravel and forest dirt crunch underneath light, uneven steps. Does that thing have multiple legs or is it hurt? She inhales sharply, pushes herself up on shaky limbs.

"Momma did not raise a quitter." The words whiz past clenched teeth.

This is taking more out of her than any normal job ever could. She seriously regrets having skipped P.E for most of her educational career. She doesn't dare turn around. It wouldn't do any good anyways. She might fall again, or actually see how close that 'thing' is to actually getting her. The trees have turned into a blur, branches catch at her face  or the skin of her arms. Whatever hunts her is snarling in the distance, never too far.

And just when her lungs begin to ache in mild desperation, just when she things she will keel over any moment and just perish, Sloane bursts through the treeline onto an all to familiar hill. In the distance is the gentle ebb and flow of waves crashing into rock. Closer, just in front of her, sits the manor illuminated by dying moonlight like a wicked saint. She runs, tumbles, crawls her way to the front door, heart leaping in her throat with barely concealed hope. She will not die tonight.

Her fists beat against the worn door in a frantic rhythm, long enough for the skin to break open in tiny, bloodied cracks. Sloane does not quite notice, not when the 'thing' is so close that she can feel one of its sharps claws trail over her shoulder. The door opens just before that claw can dig in and pull her back into the mist.

Sloane crashes forward, comes face to foot with the maid. The woman; Irene she remembers in a sudden pang of clarity, is glaring at her. it is a wonder that her red lips do not pull up into a perfect sneer. The door falls shut behind her with a too quiet click.

"Ms. Aldrich... What brings you to the manor at such an ungodly time. Not another set of invasive questions for my mistress I hope.", she says, voice dripping with disdain.

Under any circumstances Sloane might would have found that hot. However, she is quite frightened right now. So instead, she exhales in shaky almost sobs, draws herself up into an almost sitting position and just tries to make the words that spill from her lips make sense.

"First of, the name's Sloane Aldrich. Second, I lost my things and then I searched for a place, but there was none. So then I kinda lost track of time and something chased me and a fell down a ditch, like an idiot, and then I ran. Now I'm here and I really just need a place to stay for tonight. I will die if I go back out there."

Which each words that escapes her in a trembling ramble, the burning behind her eyes seems to intensify. It would be very nice if she didn't start crying right this instant. She hates it when she does.

A weight settles atop her shoulder. In her daze she realizes that it is the maid's hand. The woman gives her shoulder a gentle squeeze. Her emerald gaze, too, has softened somewhat.

"I will inform Lady Reed of the situation. Please wait here for the time being."

And with that Irene is gone, leaving Sloane in the enormous entrance hall. Only now she realizes how cold she truly is, body shaking uncontrollably. Though, part of it may or may not be due to the near death experience.

While she waits, Sloane lets her eyes trail over the lush decorations, just so she has something to do. Flanked by the twin staircase, stands a grand oaken grandfather clock. It's old, the pain worn at its edges. At one of the sides, quite close to the bottom, sits something that has been edged quite crudely into the wood. She kneels down, intrigued, and manages to decipher half a heart and the shape of the letter L in cursive when a noise to her side startles her. It is getting annoying how often it keeps happening to her.

Sloane only barely manages to keep her balance as she shoots up to stand once more. Her gaze meets Irene's delighted one, then Lydia's, who appears to be excruciating emotional pain. Though the lady of the house quickly schools her features back into a mask of neutrality.

"Irene has informed me of your unfortunate run in with the local wildlife." Even though the words are laced with exhaustion, there is still an underlying echo of regalness. Can a voice sound regal?

"Er...yeah. That's me. Sloane Aldrich getting spooked by the local wildlife.", she chuckles nervously, ears growing hot. While she may be embarrassed, she is certain that no animal would have so many eyes, or even be that big.

Irene grins, it is near feral.

"Visitors usually get frightened, no need to feel ashamed. They are never quite prepared for the things Mawbrooke has to offer."

Lydia sends her a cold look at that, but the maid merely snickers, wholly unbothered.

Sloane watches the exchange, fascinated. Something almost clicks, when the words fully register. Irene's actions are suspicious, or perhaps it is her own growing dislike of the woman. Though something is definitely going on here, something-

"I am willing to let you stay the night, so long as you remain in your assigned room until Irene fetches you in the morning, and please do refrain from snooping around. I know you investigative types do so enjoy ignoring the boundaries of private property."

"What? Got anything to hide?", she asks, like a fucking idiot. Now both Irene and Lydia level her with an icy glare. Whoops...

"I am extending an act of kindness, all I ask in return is that you respect my privacy. If that however, is too much for you to handle, Miss Aldrich, then I kindly for you to leave my home."

Nothing about that sounds soft, or kind and Sloane knows that she has completely overstepped in her own stupidity.

"Sorry, bad joke. I am in fact capable of respecting privacy, promise."

At that, Lydia merely raises an eyebrow in mild disbelief. "Mhm.... Irene will see to it."

"Of course, mistress. I will see to it right away, mistress."

Sloane already finds herself being ushered up the stairs before the maid has fully finished her sentence. Really, it takes so much time before the actual situation sinks in and when it does she is swept up in relief that has been dipped in a sense of dread. Irene's hand squeezes her shoulder, nails sharply digging into the skin, even though she is wearing her shirt. That feeling of dread intensifies, joined by another complicated mix of emotions she will definitely not address right now, perhaps never.

She finds herself ushered through a long hallway, past all its important looking doors. The reporter inside her wants to open every single one and just uncover everything. However, she already finds herself pushed into a luxurious guest room before she can even begin to beat that part of herself back with a stick.

"Good night, Miss Aldrich."

And with that the door clicks shut, maybe even locks. Sloane doesn't really know, still dazed for the entirety of this situation.

"Well, at least the bed looks nice."

It really does look comfortable, with its satin sheets and thick mattress. Really, she is already exhausted and half asleep before she can even fully slip underneath the covers. Nevermind the fact that the entire mansion is giving her seriously bad vibes. Sloane will ignore them for now, not willing to take her chances with whatever may or may not be lingering outside. If she is not dead by the end of the night then she will count that as an absolute win. Sleep claims her before she can truly note the sound of fists banging on her door. That does not stop the sound from slipping into her dreams instead.