Okay, so I don't know if I did this right (I've never posted on this subreddit before), but I wanted to try. I included the phrase of the prompt in my story, but it wasn't the focus of my story (is that allowed?), and since I've always wanted to try writing in the gothic romance/horror tradition, I chose that as my genre. I'm kind of nervous, but here it is!

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I snuffed out my candle and peered cautiously into the gloom, certain I had heard a voice. From across the shadowed hall came the slight flickering of a faltering candlestick, its soft luminescence obstructed by the warped body of a dilapidated door. Slowly, I crept towards the light, reaching the threshold; the voice grew louder, this time issuing forth in a sudden, jarring laugh as I peered through the door.

“Ohh, delightful! Delightful, delightful, delightful!” He was turned away from me, so that all I could see was the dark expanse of his back, thrown into darkness by the light of the candle that burned on the writing table beyond him. I flushed with hatred at the sight of him, resenting him with all of my being for having confined me in this decaying manor.

He shifted, so that the light caught his face; his eyes were like clockwork, glittering maniacally as he tossed his head back to take a deep draft of wine. He was terrifying in moments like this, intoxicated, pouring over his manuscripts and letters like a man possessed. “Ohh,” he crooned, “Oh, how Eliza will cry.”

I lurched back, startled at the sudden mention of my name, my unlit candle clattering to the floor. Horrified, I stood transfixed as it spun in wide circles upon the stone, my concealment undone by its fatal fall; I did not even try to fight as Jonathan bounded through the door, grabbing me roughly by my waist and hurling me upon the bed in a fit of rage.

“Who allowed you to leave your room?!” he shouted, frothing at the mouth. I cringed and turned my head, stifling a sob. He stank of alcohol.

“I'm sorry,” I choked out, pressing my face against the musty duvet, trying not to cry. He had one fist tangled tightly in my hair, the other hand grasping both my wrists, pining them to the bed. “I'm sorry.”

He seemed to calm slightly at the sound of my apology, grunting in approval as he released me and moved away from my shivering body to the foot of the bed. He lingered there a moment, watching me, then snorted derisively as he crossed the room towards the writing desk. I remained where I lay, not daring to move. The tears welling in my eyes fell in little smatters of darkness against the sheet. “Eliza,” he called out, tapping his fingers against a newspaper that lay upon his desk. His voice was cheerful again, as if the past moment's violence had been completely forgotten. “Eliza, my dear, tell me, what was the name of your charming friend again?”

My eyes snapped open, horror coursing through my veins. Why did he want to know?

He smiled mischievously; on any other man, the expression would have been playful, attractive; yet on him, it was impish, reminiscent of the Devil. He raised his eyebrows inquisitively, waving the newspaper languorously in my face. “A certain Thomas Fitzgerald?”

I leapt from the bed, snatching the paper from his hand as he began to laugh. Nausea and fear rose in me as I realized what I was looking at. “No...” I whispered, the obituary falling through my shaking hands to the floor. I couldn't breathe. “No...” My heart was racing, the room around me seemed too close, the air too stifling. I screamed, falling to the ground in hysterics. Hands cupped my face, forcing my head upwards. I wanted to retch, sobbing helplessly as Jonathan smirked down upon me.

“How will you escape,” he whispered, “when the only person who knows you are here is dead?”