Someone's there.

  I can hear it—soft movements, the faint rustle of cloth, the gentle creak of weight shifting just beyond the door. Someone is trying to open it. Please… let them open it. Let this be the moment. Let this be the end of the silence.

  It’s been so long. So terribly long.

  No light has touched this room. No warmth. No sound beyond the old woman’s coughs echoing through the halls outside. I don’t even remember why I’m here—only that I am. Shackled. Bound. Trapped in darkness that swallows everything, even time.

  But now… something’s different.

  There’s a presence on the other side of the door.

  I crawl forward as far as the chains allow, heart screaming in a body too broken to move. And then—I see it. Just for a second.

  Eyes.

  A pair of eyes, peering through the keyhole.

  It saw me. I know it did.

  I try to wave. Try to scream. Try anything. But nothing comes. My voice was swallowed by this darkness long ago. My arms won’t lift. All I can do is watch… and hope.

  Please. Please don’t leave.

  Open it. Open it. Save me.

  Wait.

  Wait—don’t go.

  Don’t go!

  Back in the room where Elias had found the witch’s body, silence pressed down like a weight.

  He stood still, stunned—not just by what he saw, but by what it meant. A body. Her body. The witch who had trapped them in this pce, who taunted them with twisted games and left them fearing shadows.

  Dead.

  Slumped in a thick, congealed pool of blood beneath the bed.

  It made no sense. If she was dead… who was controlling the mansion now? Who was watching them?

  With heavy steps, Elias approached her lifeless form. He knelt, ignoring the blood soaking into his trousers, and pressed two fingers to her neck, just beneath the jaw.

  No pulse.

  Cold skin.

  She was truly gone.

  His mind raced, reaching for answers that wouldn’t come. Dread curled in his gut. If this wasn’t her doing anymore, then who—or what—was behind the whispers in the walls?

  Behind him, Bridget stood silently. The candlelight cast flickering shadows over her bare skin, her blouse still clutched in one hand. Their earlier moment—half-forgotten warmth in the dark—now felt like something fragile and distant, broken by the corpse lying between them and reality.

  Elias blinked and looked down. His shirt was still in his hand. He didn’t even remember picking it up.

  Without a word, he handed her the blouse. She accepted it quietly, slipping it on as he began fastening his own shirt, one slow button at a time. Neither spoke.

  Then, footsteps echoed down the hall.

  He barely had time to stand before the door creaked open.

  Marin. Seraphine. Lina. Reed.

  They’d come looking for him.

  Of course they had—he’d been gone for too long. Nearly an hour, maybe more. In a mansion like this, silence was never a good sign.

  They froze in the doorway, eyes wide.

  Elias and Bridget. Disheveled. Distraction written across their skin.

  And behind them—blood, and death.

  Seraphine’s lips parted, but the only word that came out was a stunned, breathless, "Wha..."

  Her expression darkened. Elias didn’t flinch beneath her gaze. He sighed softly, finishing the st button on his shirt. He’d known this was coming. They’d interpret the scene however they wanted. Let them.

  Seraphine didn’t speak further. Her disapproval didn’t need words. It hung in the air like a stormcloud. It wasn’t that she cared who he y with—it was when. A day after her brother died, and Elias had wandered off for a secret rendezvous. To her, it was shameful. Cowardly. And cruel.

  She looked away, jaw tight. So focused on her contempt, she didn’t yet notice the horror lying just feet away.

  Marin’s reaction was different. Her face was pale, her eyes downcast. She looked not at Elias or Bridget, but at the space between them—like someone who had quietly lost a battle she never admitted she was fighting.

  Only Lina, young but perceptive, scanned the room with curious eyes. She was old enough to understand the tension. Old enough to grasp what had almost happened between her brother and the maid.

  But her attention drifted to something the others hadn’t noticed.

  There, behind the bed. Something that didn’t belong.

  She took a quiet step forward.

  And then, in a small, shaky voice, she said, “There’s… someone under the bed.”

  Every head turned.

  Reed squinted. Marin gasped.

  And finally, Seraphine looked.

  The witch.

  Lying in her own blood.

  Cold. Lifeless. Still.

  A silence deeper than fear settled over the room.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Seraphine’s voice cut sharply through the silence.

  She stood in the doorway, her eyes bzing with fury and confusion. Behind her, Marin, Lina, and Reed lingered, caught somewhere between disbelief and unease.

  Elias exhaled slowly. Without a word, he pulled a cigarette from his pocket, trying to keep his composure. But Seraphine snatched it from his hand before he could even light it.

  “Answer me,” she demanded.

  Elias had never seen her like this. Seraphine was usually calm, cold even—measured in all things. But now, her voice trembled with restrained anger, and her gre could have shattered gss.

  He sighed again, rubbing his temple before finally speaking.

  “I was searching the mansion with Bridget,” he said. “Room by room. We were trying to find something—anything—to help us understand what’s going on here. Most of the rooms were dusty, abandoned. But this one…”

  He looked back toward the neat, untouched bed behind him.

  “This room felt different. Like someone had just left it. It was warm. Clean. It didn’t belong in a pce like this.”

  His voice grew quieter as he continued. “We were tired. I y down. Told her to sit, but she y beside me. I didn’t stop her.”

  He didn’t need to spell out what happened next. The look on Seraphine’s face said she already understood. She didn’t interrupt, but her arms were crossed tightly, her jaw clenched.

  “Then…” Elias hesitated. “While we were lying there, I saw something. Eyes. Watching us from under the bed.”

  He shuddered at the memory. “At first I thought I imagined it, but when I moved the bed, we found the body. The witch. Dead.”

  A thick silence followed his words. Elias gnced at Seraphine again—not expecting approval, but hoping for something less than contempt.

  “I’m not proud of what happened,” he added quietly. “But the witch… she’s really gone. I don’t know what it means, but it changes everything.”

  Seraphine’s expression softened just slightly. “It changes nothing,” she said coldly, though her voice had lost some of its sharpness. “Not unless we understand how. And not while we’re still trapped here.”

  She turned away, hiding whatever emotion still lingered in her eyes. Elias said nothing more. There was nothing else to say.

  Seraphine stepped forward, pcing a hand over her mouth and nose as she knelt beside the corpse of the witch. The body y still in the dark puddle of blood, her eyes gzed and lifeless. There was nothing magical or mysterious about her now—just a dead woman in a rotting mansion.

  Elias watched silently. She didn’t trust him anymore. That much was clear. Her movements were sharp, deliberate—as if reciming authority. Taking lead, where he had failed.

  Seraphine reached out and gently touched the witch’s neck, checked for any final sign of life, any deception. But there was nothing. Just cold flesh and the stench of death.

  She sighed.

  Her gaze flicked to Lina, who stood at the doorway, her hands clenched into small fists. The girl’s face was pale—too pale. The sheer amount of blood had rattled her. Seraphine’s own emotions churned in her chest—frustration, grief, uncertainty—but she knew she couldn’t afford to crumble.

  Elias had failed to be a brother.

  So she had to step up as a sister.

  She rose, brushing her hands off with a grimace, and waved the others out of the room. “Let’s go,” she said simply.

  No one questioned her. One by one, they filed out of the room, heading back toward the kitchen in silence.

  Elias followed behind them but slowed as they passed the staircase. That strange door again—sealed, strange, calling to him. The same one he had tried earlier. Something about it still gnawed at him.

  He paused and reached for the handle, trying again to force it open.

  Nothing.

  Frustrated, he shoved his shoulder against it—hard—but it didn’t even groan. Solid. Unmoving.

  Then he felt it. A sudden tug at his neck.

  His locket had caught in the crack between the door and its frame.

  “Damn it…” he muttered, twisting awkwardly to free it.

  He struggled for a moment—until another pair of hands reached up beside his. Gentle fingers brushing his.

  It was Marin.

  Her face was downcast, eyes avoiding his. She didn’t speak as she fiddled with the silver chain, trying to ease it loose.

  She didn’t manage to remove the locket from the crack, but instead uncsped it from his neck. The chain slid away, and she cradled the locket in her palm.

  It was the one she had given him on his st birthday. Inside was a tiny hand-drawn portrait of him—a gift of rare sentiment, especially from someone like her.

  She knelt and tried once more to pull the locket free from the doorframe, but it wouldn’t budge. Not without breaking.

  “Leave it,” Elias said quietly. “It’s not coming out.”

  She looked up at him, her eyes soft and tired.

  “Yes,” she murmured. “It’s gone… right?”

  The words were simple. But they lingered—strangely heavy. Like they meant something else. Something he didn’t yet understand.

  Before he could ask, they both realized the others were gone—already descending the stairs without them.

  Marin stood quickly, and together they hurried after the others, catching up just a few steps down.

  Back in the kitchen, the group settled into a heavy, silent rhythm. The air was thick—not just with the scent of food cooking over fire, but with the weight of everything they had just seen.

  Bridget quietly returned to her task at the stove. Marin joined her without a word, picking up a spoon and beginning to stir the pot. The food was nearly ready. Neither of them looked at the other.

  On the far side of the room, Lina sat near Seraphine, her legs tucked under her, eyes distant. Reed leaned against the wall, arms folded, watching Elias with quiet interest. Then, after a moment, he dug into his pocket and pulled out a small nub of charcoal he had taken earlier from Lina.

  He handed it over. “This is what you wanted, right?”

  Elias blinked, then nodded. “Yeah… thanks.”

  He pulled out the folded piece of paper he’d taken with him—creased and slightly smudged—and began sketching with slow, focused strokes. The charcoal didn’t glide easily, and his hand was tired, but it was better than nothing. He had to try to make sense of this pce, to document anything that might help them.

  Reed crouched beside him, quietly watching as Elias drew—lines, rooms, symbols. A map. A memory. A pn.

  Meanwhile, at the stove, the tension between the two women began to rise like steam from the pot.

  “Are you happy?” Marin asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

  Bridget didn’t respond at first—unsure if the words were meant for her.

  Marin crified, her tone sharper this time. “Are you happy stealing him from me?”

  Bridget froze, her hand lingering over a dle. But she said nothing.

  Marin’s voice was tight with emotion—anger, grief, regret all wrapped into one. She wasn’t shouting. If anything, her tone was too small, too restrained. The kind of voice that trembles at the edge of colpse.

  “I was in love with him,” she murmured. “For two years. And you… you just came into his life, what, a year ago? Why do you think you deserve him?”

  The words nded like broken gss. Bridget kept stirring.

  Across the room, Seraphine said nothing—but she heard everything. Her ears were sharp, honed by habit and instinct, and even at a distance, Marin’s whisper hadn’t gone unnoticed.

  Marin kept going, unable to stop herself. “You don’t deserve him.”

  The words were bitter, but not cruel—not yet. More desperate than anything else. The heartache of someone who had buried her feelings for too long and now saw everything slipping away.

  And then, she crossed the line.

  “I wish you’d die.”

  It was said softly. Almost too softly to be real. But the intent was there.

  Bridget didn’t flinch. She didn’t look at her. She simply stirred the pot, eyes fixed forward, as if the words had passed straight through her.

  But they hadn’t.

  They stayed. Heavy, lingering, unspoken.

  The only response was the quiet simmer of the food, and the silent witness of Seraphine, who now understood more than she wanted to.

  Meanwhile, Elias had finished sketching on the worn piece of paper—his charcoal-stained fingers smudging the edges as he worked. Lines crisscrossed across the page, a crude map of the mansion’s yout, notes scribbled in corners, arrows pointing to possibilities. Not just a map—a pn.

  Reed leaned over his shoulder, eyes widening with genuine surprise. “Are you sure this is gonna work?”

  Elias didn’t look up. He stared at the drawing for a moment longer before giving a slow nod. “I’m not sure of anything in this pce. But the chances aren’t zero.”

  He let out a breath and folded the paper carefully, sliding it back into his pocket like it was a fragile hope.

  Dinner that night passed in silence.

  No warmth. No conversation. Just the soft clinking of cutlery and the occasional cough. No one had the heart to speak—how could they, when Tobey’s absence lingered like a ghost at the table?

  His spot was left untouched.

  Seraphine stared down at her food, barely tasting it. Halfway through, her vision began to blur. She quickly wiped at her eyes, pretending to scratch her cheek, unwilling to let the others see. But the memory came anyway—Tobey ughing through a mouthful of soup, saying it reminded him of something their mother used to make. It was a small moment. A good one. And now it hurt.

  When the meal ended, no one said anything. They simply id down where they were, curling up on bnkets spread across the kitchen floor. The room smelled faintly of cooked broth, herbs, and exhaustion.

  The new routine was clear: three would stay awake to guard while the others rested. Tonight, the task fell to Elias, Bridget, and Reed.

  Seraphine had objected, of course. “A child shouldn’t be on watch,” she whispered sharply. “Especially not after everything.”

  “I’ll only take a short shift,” Reed replied calmly. “Just a few hours, that’s all.”

  Marin wasn’t happy either, but after some tired back-and-forth, they both relented.

  Soon, the soft breathing of sleep filled the kitchen. The candles burned low. Shadows stretched long.

  Elias, Bridget, and Reed gathered near the unlit hearth. Outside, wind tapped against the boarded windows. The air felt colder than usual.

  Reed gnced around before speaking. “Should we start?”

  Elias looked at him, then at Bridget, and gave a slow, deliberate nod. “Yes.”

  And as the rest slept soundly, unaware of what the night would bring, the three of them moved quietly through the dark—pcing the final pieces of a pn meant to catch a killer.

  By morning, the truth would surface.

  And one of them would no longer be able to hide.