The morning brought no comfort.
The storm had lessened to a steady drizzle, but Wintercroft Hall remained shrouded in gloom. The lingering scent of damp wood and decay seeped into Elliot’s senses as he descended the grand staircase. The bloodstain from the previous night had been scrubbed away, but the memory of the body sprawled there was harder to erase. The group gathered in the dining room, their movements tense, their faces drawn. Breakfast had been laid out—perfectly arranged plates of fruit, toast, and eggs—but no one touched the food. “Did anyone sleep?” Emma asked, her voice breaking the uneasy silence. “I wouldn’t call it sleep,” muttered the man with glasses. He glanced toward the hallway, where the butler had disappeared moments before. “And I didn’t hear anything from Henry, either.” Elliot stirred his coffee, his thoughts elsewhere. The figure he’d seen in the hallway last night—it wasn’t just paranoia. He was sure of it. Vivienne’s note still sat in his pocket, crumpled but heavy with meaning. The weight of what you didn’t see will destroy you. And then, there was the new one: This is only the beginning. “What do we do now?” Emma asked. “We leave,” said the tall woman with sharp features—Madeleine, as she had introduced herself earlier. “If the storm’s clearing, we can make it back to the mainland.” “And how, exactly, do you propose we do that?” Elliot asked. “There’s no way off the island without a boat, and the only person who might be able to arrange that is the butler. Are you planning to swim?” Madeleine shot him a glare. “You have a better idea?” “I think we need answers before we make our next move,” he said. “Starting with why any of us are here.” The group exchanged uneasy glances. “None of you know?” Elliot pressed. No one spoke at first, until the man with glasses cleared his throat. “The letter I got said it was about a business opportunity. Something to do with the Ashworth estate.” “Mine mentioned…closure,” Emma said hesitantly. “I thought it was about my family.” The others shared their own versions—each one vague, cryptic, promising something personal. “What about you?” Madeleine asked, narrowing her eyes at Elliot. “It said I’d find the truth,” Elliot replied. He glanced around the table. “But I think it was about more than that. Someone wanted us all here. Together.” “Why?” Emma asked. Before Elliot could respond, a loud crash echoed through the house. The group rushed toward the sound, their footsteps pounding against the wooden floors. It led them to a door at the far end of the hallway—one Elliot hadn’t noticed before. It was partially open, revealing a set of stone steps leading downward. “A cellar?” Emma whispered. “No,” Madeleine said, her voice flat. “A crypt. This place was built over a family tomb.” Elliot felt the air grow colder as they descended the steps. The stone walls were slick with moisture, and the dim light from a single hanging bulb cast eerie shadows. At the bottom of the staircase was a heavy iron door, slightly ajar. Beyond it lay the crypt. The air was thick with the smell of damp earth and something else—something metallic. Inside, rows of stone coffins lined the walls, their surfaces etched with the names of Ashworth ancestors. But it wasn’t the coffins that drew Elliot’s attention. It was the figure slumped in the corner. Henry. The butler’s body was propped against the wall, his head tilted at an unnatural angle. His eyes were wide open, staring blankly at the ceiling. A bloody gash stretched across his chest, soaking his pristine shirt. Emma let out a strangled gasp, and Elliot stepped forward, his pulse pounding in his ears. “What the hell is going on here?” Madeleine demanded, her voice trembling for the first time. Elliot didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on the floor near Henry’s body, where something glinted in the dim light. A key. He picked it up, turning it over in his hand. It was small and ornate, with an engraving that matched the Ashworth family crest. “What’s that for?” Emma asked. “I don’t know,” Elliot said. But he had a feeling they were about to find out. The group searched the crypt, their nerves fraying with every step. Elliot couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being watched, though every corner they checked revealed nothing. In the farthest corner of the crypt, they found a small, locked door. Elliot slid the key into the lock, his heart pounding. The door creaked open to reveal a cramped room lined with shelves. On one of the shelves was a dusty stack of journals, their leather covers cracked with age. He picked one up and flipped through its pages. The handwriting was meticulous, almost obsessive, detailing daily events and cryptic observations. “This is Vivienne’s handwriting,” Elliot said, his voice low. “What does it say?” Madeleine asked, leaning over his shoulder. Elliot scanned the pages. Most of the entries were mundane—descriptions of the weather, lists of visitors—but one phrase jumped out at him: “The guests must be judged. Their sins must be laid bare.” Elliot looked up from the journal, his blood running cold. “This isn’t just about the Ashworth family. It’s about us.” As the others stared at him, the single hanging bulb flickered and went out, plunging them into darkness.The darkness was suffocating.Elliot froze, the weight of the journal still in his hands. Around him, the others whispered nervously, their voices bouncing off the stone walls of the crypt. He could hear the shuffle of feet and feel the damp air pressing in from all sides.“Is someone there?” Emma’s voice was barely above a whisper.“No one move,” Elliot said sharply. He forced himself to breathe, trying to steady the panic clawing at his chest. The flickering bulb had gone out so suddenly, as if someone had deliberately cut it.And in the pitch black, Elliot felt it—a presence.A faint click echoed through the room, followed by a burst of light as the bulb sputtered back to life. The room reappeared around them, but it felt colder now, more oppressive.Elliot’s eyes darted toward the door, half expecting someone—or something—to be standing there. But the crypt was empty, save for the seven of them.“What the hell was that?” Madeleine snapped, her sharp voice breaking the silence.“No
The note in Elliot’s hand felt heavier than it should, the weight of its meaning pressing down on him like a vice.“One of you will be next before nightfall.”The silence in the dining room stretched unbearably thin, the words echoing in everyone’s mind. For the first time, Elliot truly saw fear in Madeleine’s sharp features, in Emma’s trembling hands, in the nervous glances Sam cast toward the shadows.“This has to stop,” Madeleine finally said, her voice firm but wavering at the edges. “We can’t just sit around waiting for whoever—or whatever—is doing this to pick us off.”“What do you suggest?” Sam asked, crossing his arms tightly. “We don’t even know who to trust.”“That’s not true,” Madeleine said, her gaze hardening as it landed on Elliot. “You’re the one holding all the notes, finding all the clues. For all we know, this is your game.”“Are you serious?” Elliot shot back. “You think I wanted to be stuck on a stormy island with strangers and a killer?”“I don’t know what you wan
The grandfather clock’s chimes echoed through the mansion, their deep resonance rattling something primal inside Elliot. Each strike felt like a countdown, a reminder that time was running out—and they were no closer to understanding who was behind the deadly game they had all been forced to play.The remaining group stood in the parlor, their faces pale, their nerves frayed. Lydia’s lifeless body had been moved to the crypt, though the image of her twisted form lingered in everyone’s minds. Elliot could see it in the way Emma kept wringing her hands, in the sharpness of Madeleine’s tone, in the way Sam kept glancing over his shoulder.“We can’t keep waiting for someone else to die,” Madeleine said, breaking the tense silence. Her arms were crossed, her expression fierce, but there was a tremor in her voice that betrayed her fear. “We need answers now.”“And how do you propose we do that?” Sam asked, his voice edging toward hysteria. “We don’t know who’s doing this. It could be any on
The hallway stretched long and dim, the flickering light casting jagged shadows along the walls. Elliot’s grip on the candlestick tightened as the figure stepped closer, their movements deliberate and unhurried.“You’ve done well to get this far,” the stranger said, their voice calm, almost conversational.Elliot’s throat tightened. There was something off about the way they spoke, as though they were rehearsing a part in a play.“Who are you?” Elliot asked, his voice low, steady.The stranger tilted their head, smiling faintly. “I suppose you could call me… the overseer.”“The overseer of what?” Elliot demanded.Their smile widened, but their eyes remained cold. “This,” they said simply, gesturing around them. “The judgment. The reckoning. Call it what you will.”Elliot’s pulse quickened. “So you’re the one behind this. The notes. The deaths. It’s you.”The stranger’s expression didn’t falter. “You’re quick to accuse, but I haven’t touched a single one of you. You’re doing this to yo
Elliot stared at Emma, her words hanging heavy in the damp, claustrophobic air of the hidden room.“Who?” he managed, his voice low and steady, though his heart pounded in his chest.“It’s Madeleine,” Emma whispered, her voice cracking. “We found her in the sitting room. She… she’s gone.”Elliot’s jaw tightened. Madeleine had been one of the most guarded among them, sharp-tongued and suspicious of everyone. He hadn’t liked her much, but the thought of her lifeless—just another casualty of this nightmare—sent a cold shiver down his spine.Emma’s trembling voice cut through his thoughts. “I can’t do this anymore, Elliot. We’re all going to die here, aren’t we?”He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “We’re not dying here. Not if we can figure out what’s going on.”Emma’s wide eyes met his, tears threatening to spill over. “And what if it doesn’t matter? What if they’re going to kill us anyway?”Elliot didn’t have an answer.The sitting room was colder than Elliot remembered, its once gr
Elliot stared at the photograph on the wall, his younger self frozen in time outside Wintercroft Hall. His heart thundered in his chest as he traced the lines of the web, each red string connecting him to the Ashworths, to the others, to this place.“He knows.”The words beneath the photograph seemed to pulse with their own dark energy, and Elliot felt the weight of them pressing against his chest.“Elliot,” Emma whispered, her voice trembling. “What does it mean? What do you know?”He shook his head, his voice strained. “I don’t… I don’t know. I’ve never been here before. At least… I don’t think I have.”“You’re in the photo,” she said softly. “That’s you, isn’t it? Standing outside this house.”Elliot’s fingers twitched. The boy in the photo was undoubtedly him—his features, his posture, the worn jacket he remembered wearing as a kid. But no matter how hard he tried to recall, the memory wouldn’t come.“I don’t remember this,” he said finally, his voice tight.Emma’s eyes flicked to
The stranger’s words cut through the air like a blade.“I’m saying you killed him.”Elliot froze, the candlestick in his hand trembling. His mind raced, rejecting the accusation even as memories clawed their way to the surface—fragments of his brother’s laughter, the flash of sunlight on that fateful day, the sound of something breaking.“You’re lying,” Elliot said, his voice low but unsteady.The stranger took a step closer, their presence calm and unnerving. “Am I?”“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”“I know more than you think,” the stranger said, their voice soft but firm. “I know what you’ve buried, what you’ve tried to forget. But the truth doesn’t disappear just because you refuse to face it.”Emma looked between them, her eyes wide and fearful. “What’s going on?” she whispered. “Elliot, what are they talking about?”“I didn’t kill him,” Elliot snapped, his voice sharp. “It was an accident.”The stranger’s gaze didn’t waver. “Are you sure about that?”The room felt col
The scream pierced the silence, cutting through Elliot’s thoughts like a blade. He froze, Emma clutching his arm as the sound echoed down the hallways of Wintercroft Hall. It was raw and desperate, full of terror, and it didn’t stop.“We have to go,” Emma said, her voice trembling.Elliot nodded, shaking off the fog in his mind. He grabbed the flashlight and turned toward the door, but when he looked back, the stranger was gone—vanished into the shadows.“Where did they go?” Emma asked.Elliot didn’t answer. There wasn’t time.The scream came again, fainter now, as if whoever was screaming was moving deeper into the mansion. Without another word, Elliot and Emma bolted out of the room and into the dark, twisting halls.The mansion seemed to close in around them as they ran. Shadows stretched long across the walls, and the air grew colder the farther they went. The flickering flashlight beam barely pierced the gloom, and the sound of their footsteps echoed like gunshots against the sto
Ethan couldn’t breathe.The room was spinning, the walls stretching and closing in at the same time. The shadows near the closet deepened, curling at the edges like ink bleeding into paper. The hand reaching through the gap trembled slightly, fingers flexing, waiting.Tyler.The name burned in Ethan’s chest, scraping against ribs that felt too tight, lungs that wouldn’t expand properly.This wasn’t real.It couldn’t be real.But he couldn’t look away.The hand moved again.“Why did you leave me?”The voice his brother’s voice was so soft, so broken, that Ethan felt something splinter inside him.He staggered forward before he could stop himself, his breath coming in quick, shallow bursts.“I didn’t,” he rasped. “I”But the words caught in his throat.Because he had.A memory surfaced, sharp and raw.Ethan was eleven. Tyler was seven. The storm had knocked out the power, plunging their small house into darkness. Their father had already disappeared for the night, leaving them alone.“S
Ethan moved slowly, each step cautious, controlled. The hallway stretched ahead of him, long and narrow, the walls pressing inward like the house was breathing around him. The air was thick too thick and it made every inhale feel heavier, like something unseen was pressing against his ribs.The whisper had stopped.But he had heard it.He wasn’t alone.He didn’t know how he knew that, but he did.The shadows flickered as he passed beneath the dim candlelight. The house was watching him now. Waiting.Then, without warningA door creaked open at the end of the hall.Ethan froze.The door hadn’t just opened.It had welcomed him.A sharp chill ran through his body. The air beyond the threshold was darker, thicker, like a void waiting to be stepped into. He couldn’t see what was inside just the faintest glimmer of something past the doorway, something half-hidden in the shadows.His heartbeat pounded in his ears.He knew somehow that if he walked through that door, something inside would b
Ethan sat by the fire, his hands still gripping the damp letter like it could anchor him to something solid. His breathing had slowed, but his eyes darted around the room, flicking to every shadow, every flickering candle. He wasn’t just cold he was aware.The house had taken hold.It always started like this. A creeping, crawling unease. A presence pressing just beyond the edges of awareness. The mind searching for a way to rationalize what it already knew, but wouldn’t yet accept.Elliot had seen it before.He leaned against the fireplace, arms crossed. Isla hovered near the door, her expression unreadable. She hadn’t said much since Ethan arrived. She was still shaken from her own encounter, still processing the weight of her memories clawing their way back to the surface.Ethan was next.The house would dig into him, same as it had with her. Same as it had with Elliot.The only question wasHow long would it take before Ethan stopped fighting?And how much would the house take bef
The storm raged outside, wind howling through the skeletal trees that lined the long, winding road to Wintercroft Hall. The figure in the doorway shivered violently, their breath coming in ragged gasps as rain dripped from their soaked clothes onto the marble floor.Elliot didn’t move. Neither did Isla.The house had chosen again.The newcomer clutched a damp, crumpled envelope in their trembling fingers. Their knuckles were pale, their hands shaking as they held the letter out like proof of something they still didn’t fully understand.“I—I got this,” they stammered, their voice raw with panic. “I don’t know why. I don’t even know why I came.” Their wild eyes darted between Elliot and Isla. “I think I made a mistake.”Elliot exhaled slowly, his fingers curling at his sides.They always say that at first.The house was never wrong.“You should come inside,” Elliot said.The figure hesitated, looking over their shoulder as if debating whether to turn and run.Elliot had seen that hesi
The room still felt wrong. Even though the illusion had shattered, the weight of it lingered. The air was too thick, pressing against Isla’s skin like invisible hands trying to pull her back under. The scent of lavender was gone, replaced by something old and damp, but she could still taste it at the back of her throat.She had fallen to the floor when the illusion broke, her body shaking with the force of it. Now she was still, her breathing ragged but slowing, her hands splayed against the cold wooden floor.Elliot waited. He didn’t speak, didn’t move, didn’t push. He had learned that this was the hardest part the moment after, when the truth settled in and the mind tried to make sense of what it had just been forced to face.Finally, Isla exhaled. It wasn’t a sigh of relief. It was something else. Something hollow.“I remember,” she said. Her voice was raw, barely above a whisper.Elliot nodded, staying crouched beside her. “Tell me.”She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, her fi
Elliot pressed his palm against the door. It was cold, colder than it should have been, like the wood itself was leeching the warmth from his skin. The whispers in the walls had changed. They weren’t just shifting anymore they were shaping, curling around Isla like smoke, coaxing her deeper.He had seen this before.The house wasn’t just showing her memories. It was rewriting them.Inside, Isla was silent. Too silent.Elliot’s stomach tightened. He knocked once, his voice low but firm. “Isla.”No answer.He knocked again. “Isla, talk to me.”Nothing.Elliot’s fingers twitched at his side. The house wasn’t done with her yet, but if she wasn’t responding, that meant it was pulling her in faster than it should. And that was dangerous.He took a slow breath, pressing his forehead briefly against the wood. “Damn it.”Then he did something he wasn’t sure he should.He turned the handle and pushed the door open.Inside, the warmth hit him first.The room had changed completely. It was no lon
A dull pounding filled Isla’s skull, pulling her back into consciousness. Her breath came in slow, uneven gasps as she tried to piece together where she was, what had just happened. The floor beneath her was cold, the wood pressing against her cheek.She opened her eyes.The room had changed.It was no longer dust-covered and forgotten. The furniture was clean, the books neatly stacked on the shelves. The air smelled of lavender and something faintly sweet like warm milk and honey. Soft golden light filtered in through the lace curtains, casting delicate patterns across the walls.It was… familiar.Too familiar.Isla sat up slowly, her hands bracing against the floor. Her body felt heavy, her head foggy, like she had been drugged. But no this wasn’t a dream. The wood was solid beneath her fingertips. The air was thick with warmth. This was real.A soft hum drifted through the air.Isla stiffened.The melody was gentle, lilting, something she couldn’t place but still recognized. Her ch
The hall stretched ahead of them, narrowing as the candlelight flickered in the restless air. Isla walked slightly behind Elliot, her arms folded tight across her chest, her fingers digging into the fabric of her jacket. The whisper Welcome home still echoed in her mind. It had been soft, almost gentle, but there was something suffocating about it, something that curled into her thoughts and wouldn’t let go.Elliot didn’t seem rattled. If anything, he looked resigned, like he had walked this same path too many times before. He moved with purpose, each step measured, as if he knew exactly where he was going.“Where are we headed?” Isla asked, trying to keep her voice steady.“The house will decide,” Elliot said.She let out a short, humorless laugh. “Right. Of course. Because that makes sense.”Elliot ignored her sarcasm and continued walking. The walls pressed in as they moved deeper into the east wing, the corridor narrowing just slightly, as if shifting around them. Isla swore the p
Isla shifted in her chair, glancing around the room as if searching for something solid, something that made sense. The warmth of the fire didn’t seem to reach her, and despite her best effort to appear unimpressed, Elliot could see the tension in her posture, the way her fingers curled slightly into her palms. She wasn’t just uncomfortable she was unsettled.She wasn’t the only one.The house had changed the moment she walked in. Elliot could feel it an awareness pressing in from all sides. The air carried a weight now, charged with something just beneath the surface, like the moment before a storm broke. It was always like this when a new arrival came. Wintercroft Hall was patient, but not passive. It had waited for Isla, and now it was watching.Elliot leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Tell me why you’re here.”Isla scoffed, crossing her arms. “You’re the one who’s supposed to have the answers. You tell me.”Elliot studied her carefully. “You got the letter. And som