Chapter 14: Another Body

The mansion seemed to groan with the weight of its secrets, every creak of the floorboards a sharp reminder of the danger lurking in its shadows. Elliot and Emma stood frozen in the dim corridor, the sound of shattering glass still echoing in their ears.

“Where did it come from?” Emma asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Elliot’s grip tightened on the flashlight, the faint beam trembling as it illuminated the hallway ahead. “The west wing,” he said. “We need to move.”

The words came out steady, but his chest felt tight, a growing weight of dread pressing down on him. He didn’t wait for Emma’s response—his feet were already moving, the light cutting through the oppressive darkness as they hurried toward the sound.

The hallway stretched long and empty, its cracked walls lined with faded portraits of grim-faced Ashworth ancestors. Their painted eyes seemed to follow Elliot and Emma as they moved, the silence pressing down on them like a second skin.

“It’s too quiet,” Emma murmured.

Elliot nodded, his senses on high alert. The shattered glass hadn’t been an accident—it was deliberate, a sign. And in this house, signs always meant something worse was coming.

When they reached the west wing, the air was colder, damp and heavy like the crypt below. A faint draft carried the scent of rain and something metallic, sharp enough to make Elliot’s stomach turn.

At the end of the corridor, a door stood ajar, its frame splintered as though it had been forced open. Elliot slowed his pace, motioning for Emma to stay behind him.

“I’ll go first,” he said, his voice low.

Emma hesitated but nodded, her face pale and tight with fear.

Inside, the room was a wreck.

A large window had been shattered, the jagged shards scattered across the floor. Moonlight spilled through the opening, casting an eerie glow over the overturned furniture and broken vases.

But it was the figure slumped against the wall that made Elliot stop cold.

“Sam,” Emma whispered, her voice breaking.

Sam’s body was twisted unnaturally, his head lolling to one side, his arms limp at his sides. His eyes stared blankly ahead, his face pale in the moonlight.

Elliot’s stomach churned, and he forced himself to approach. He crouched beside the body, his flashlight shaking as he examined the scene.

There was no blood, no visible wound. But the way Sam’s body was positioned—his back propped against the wall, his limbs awkwardly sprawled—it didn’t feel natural.

“He didn’t fall,” Elliot murmured.

Emma knelt beside him, tears brimming in her eyes. “What do you mean?”

Elliot glanced at her, his jaw tight. “Someone put him here. Staged him.”

As he leaned closer, something in Sam’s hand caught his eye.

Elliot pried open the stiff fingers, revealing a small, crumpled note. He unfolded it carefully, his breath catching as he read the words:

“The house demands what you owe. The clock is ticking.”

“Another note,” Emma said, her voice hollow. “What does it mean?”

Elliot didn’t answer immediately. His eyes scanned the room, searching for anything out of place—anything that might point to what had happened here. The shattered window drew his attention, the jagged edges gleaming in the moonlight.

Elliot stepped closer, leaning out cautiously. Below the window, the overgrown garden stretched into the darkness, its twisted branches casting long shadows.

“Do you think someone threw him through the window?” Emma asked.

Elliot frowned. “No. There’s no sign of a fall, and there’s no blood near the glass. This window was broken for a reason, but it wasn’t to kill him.”

They carried Sam’s body to the crypt, the silence between them heavy and suffocating. Each step felt slower, harder, as though the house itself was dragging them down.

When they reached the cold stone chamber, Emma hesitated at the doorway, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. Elliot laid Sam down gently beside the others—Jonah, Lydia, Madeleine.

The room felt smaller now, the air heavier with each life lost.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Emma said, her voice cracking. “This place… it’s killing us.”

Elliot turned to her, his expression grim. “It’s not the house. It’s whoever is behind this. They’re trying to break us, to force us into—”

“Into what?” Emma demanded, her voice rising. “What do they want from us, Elliot? Haven’t they taken enough?”

Elliot didn’t respond. He didn’t have an answer.

As they made their way back to the main floor, the faint ticking sound began again, soft at first but growing louder with each step.

Elliot stopped, his heart pounding. “Do you hear that?”

Emma nodded, her face pale. “What is it?”

Elliot followed the sound, his flashlight beam dancing across the cracked walls. The ticking grew louder, sharper, like the beat of a mechanical heart. It led them to a door they hadn’t noticed before—small and unassuming, tucked into the shadows at the end of a narrow hallway.

Elliot hesitated for only a moment before pushing it open.

Inside, the room was bathed in faint, flickering light. A large grandfather clock stood in the center, its face cracked but its hands moving steadily. Surrounding the clock were photographs, dozens of them, pinned to the walls like a shrine.

Elliot’s breath caught as he stepped closer, his eyes scanning the images. They were of him—of Emma, of the others. Some were recent, taken in the mansion, while others were older, years or even decades old.

“Elliot,” Emma whispered, her voice shaking. “Look.”

She pointed to a photograph pinned to the clock’s face—a picture of Elliot as a child, standing beside his brother.

Beneath the photo, written in sharp, jagged handwriting, were the words:

“You were always meant to return.”

Elliot stared at the photograph, his heart pounding in his chest. The clock’s ticking grew louder, filling the room, drowning out his thoughts.

Emma grabbed his arm, her voice frantic. “Elliot, what does this mean?”

“I don’t know,” he said, his voice trembling.

But deep down, he was starting to.