"Why do I feel like someone's going to murder us?" Autumn Milford's sixteen-year-old daughter Jordyn asked, peering out the car window at the thick, wooded landscape.

Autumn grit her teeth as she carefully maneuvered the old green Subaru around a precarious bend in the road. They were so deep in the woods that the GPS on her cell phone was starting to lose connection. "Get the map," she told her daughter, refusing to take her eyes off the road. Hopefully, this mansion had a bottle of wine they could spare, because her nerves were frayed.

"Are you sure we're headed in the right direction?" Jordyn bent down and rummaged around in Autumn's old, worn purse that was wedged between the teenager's feet.

"Yes. I triple-checked everything with Mr Feldman last night." Her mysterious employer's butler had been Autumn's only contact since winning the catering contract two weeks ago.

It was Jordyn who found the ad on a local Facebook forum. It tasked bakers with sending an assortment of cookies and pastries to a PO Box in Williamstown, Massachusetts for a chance to cater an exclusive event in June. That was it—no name, no other identifying information. There was only one request: Must incorporate blood.

There were always risks associated with ads like this one, but the challenge and its potential reward proved too tempting.

As an independent home baker, Autumn was used to challenges. But they usually involved painstakingly recreating Disney characters or sculpting little Hayden or Alivia out of Rice Krispies and fondant. But this request took the cake and tossed it out the window.

Was it even possible to bake with blood? she wondered. A quick internet search proved that you could. Apparently blood, specifically pig's blood, was an excellent substitute for eggs.

Who knew?

After some intense research and watching YouTube tutorials, Autumn felt confident enough to begin testing the recipes herself. She ordered dried pig's blood online, steeled her nerves—and stomach—and got to work.

The first couple of batches were ... not good. Autumn took one look at the depressed cupcakes with their questionable centers, tossed the whole lot, and began again.

After the fourth round of experiments, there was a marked difference in the results. The cakes appeared somewhat airy and when she cut into the centers, there weren't any stray globs. Even Jordyn, the picky teenager that she was, couldn't tell that there was blood in the red velvet cake pops. (Not that Autumn told her.)

Soon, a medium box stamped with Autumn's logo was on its way to the mystery advertiser. Weeks passed with no word and Autumn just shrugged, chalking it up to experience. That was, until she received an email from Neville Feldman, butler to Corbin Westbrook, owner of Ashford Estate in Williamstown, congratulating her and extending an offer of employment. To Autumn's surprise, everything was legit—down to the contract and advanced check she had her best friend Marnie examine.

Now she and Jordyn were on their way to Ashford; the back of the Subaru was stuffed with suitcases and Jordyn's gaming and streaming equipment. The only way Autumn could convince her daughter to come was to promise that she could spend four nights a week "creating content".

"What does the map say?" Autumn asked, easing the Subaru to a crawl as they approached a rickety old bridge. There weren't even any guard rails—just a bunch of repurposed railroad ties nailed together and banded with steel bars. Knuckles white on the steering wheel, Autumn braced for the sound of breaking boards, wondering if the car would provide enough protection upon impact.

"We went over the bridge, so ..." The tip of Jordyn's tongue poked out between her lips as she read the directions. "We should be coming up to a lake. It says 'Drive around the right side of the lake. The house on the other side.' "

Thank God, we're over it, Autumn breathed as she heard the car's tires roll over dirt.

The road curved left, with oak trees lining either side; their branches intertwined overhead, like some faerie arch.

"Oh!" Jordyn exclaimed, pressing against her seatbelt. "There it is!"

The long processional abruptly ended, giving the two Milford women their first look at Ashford Estate. Seated directly across from the tree arch, a massive three-story wood-and-brick mansion perched majestically on the water's edge. A giant chimney jutted out from the left side, thin curls of grey smoke trickling upwards; a smaller one jutted up from the middle of the house. The roof was black shingle, slanted in such a way to let the heavy Berkshire snow slide down. On the right was an honest-to-God turret. And the windows—there were windows everywhere. Even at this distance, Autumn could see figures moving around inside.

"Mom! Turn right!"

"Shit!" Autumn jerked the steering wheel to the right, narrowly avoiding a small signpost in the fork in the dirt road.

"Jesus, Mom," Jordyn sighed, pressing a hand to her forehead.

"Sorry, sorry," Autumn muttered, taking a slow, deep breath. That was so unlike her. It's just nerves, she rationalized. Nerves and stress. There was a lot of money riding on this job. If she played her cards right and impressed Mr Westbrook, she'd finally have enough money to purchase that downtown storefront she'd been dreaming of for the last year.

As the car curved around the lake, dirt suddenly transitioned to a smooth, golden brown paving stone. Blocking their way was a thick black iron gate with two interlocking scrolls in the center; flanking the gate were two hulking stone owls perched on brick pedestals. Manicured trees clustered at their bases. Arching over the gate were the words "Ashford Estate", each letter picked out in gold leaf.

"Holy crap," Jordyn muttered, unhooking her seatbelt and nearly pressing her face against the windshield.

Autumn pulled the car up to what she assumed was an intercom. Rolling down the window, she pressed the small, white "CALL" button.

"Ashford Estate, please state your business," a woman's voice crackled out from a speaker hidden somewhere.

Autumn glanced at Jordyn; her daughter grinned and gave her the thumbs up. Leaning out of the window, Autumn said, "Autumn Milford, with my daughter, Jordyn. I'm the pastry chef Mr Westbrook hired."

There was a brief pause, just long enough for Autumn to wonder if this was all one massive joke. But the gates began receding into the owl-topped pedestals, leaving the rest of the driveway open.

"Please follow the arrows to the courtyard, Ms Milford. Mr Feldman will be waiting for you."

Phew, Autumn sighed. "Thank you!" Putting the Subaru in drive, she eased it through the black iron gates. Here we go.