Chapter 5: The Journal

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 idea,” Elliot muttered. He glanced back at the journal in his hands, the words “The guests must be judged” staring back at him.

“I don’t like this,” Emma said, hugging herself. “That man died last night, and now Henry… We’re being picked off.”

“She’s right,” the man with glasses—Sam, Elliot remembered—chimed in. “Whoever’s behind this is targeting us. This isn’t random.”

“Targeting us for what?” Madeleine demanded. “What does any of this have to do with us?”

Elliot held up the journal. “Vivienne seems to think we’re here to be judged. This isn’t about the Ashworth family—this is about all of us.”

“And what exactly are we being judged for?” Madeleine asked, her eyes narrowing.

“That’s what we need to figure out,” Elliot said.

The group returned to the dining room, the tension between them palpable. The journal now sat in the center of the table, its cracked leather cover gleaming under the dim chandelier light.

Elliot flipped through its pages again, scanning for anything that might explain why they had been summoned. Most of the entries were vague and repetitive, until he found a list scrawled near the back:

1. The liar

2. The thief

3. The coward

4. The betrayer

5. The murderer

6. The witness

7. The burden

His stomach tightened. There were seven of them.

“What does it say?” Emma asked, leaning forward.

Elliot hesitated. “It’s… a list.” He read the words aloud, his voice heavy.

When he finished, the room fell silent.

“That’s us,” Madeleine said, her tone clipped. “She’s talking about us.”

“Or someone wants us to think she is,” Sam added.

“What do the labels mean?” Emma asked. “Which one of us is which?”

No one answered, but Elliot’s mind was already spinning. Was he the coward? The witness? Or something worse?

“Maybe we’re reading too much into this,” Sam said nervously.

“Are we?” Madeleine shot back. “Two people are dead, and there’s no way off this island. You think that’s a coincidence?”

Before anyone could respond, the butler’s name rose unbidden in Elliot’s mind. Don’t trust the butler.

The tension broke when the dining room door creaked open. Everyone turned sharply, their bodies rigid, but it was only Lydia—the quiet, withdrawn woman who had hardly spoken since their arrival.

“I found something,” she said softly.

Elliot noticed her hands trembling as she held up a small, weathered box.

“Where did you get that?” Madeleine asked.

“In the library,” Lydia replied. “It was hidden in one of the bookshelves.”

Elliot took the box from her and examined it. It was heavy, its surface carved with intricate patterns of roses and thorns. A small latch kept it sealed.

He opened it carefully, revealing a stack of photographs inside.

The first one made his breath catch. It was a picture of a much younger Elliot, standing in front of a house he didn’t recognize. Beside him was a man in a tailored suit, his face half-obscured by shadows. On his hand was a ring—a ring with the Ashworth family crest.

“What is it?” Emma asked, leaning over his shoulder.

Elliot didn’t answer. He flipped through the photos, his pulse quickening. Each picture showed one of the guests, caught in a moment they clearly weren’t aware was being documented. Sam standing in front of a courtroom. Madeleine shaking hands with a man in a back alley. Emma at a hospital bedside, her face streaked with tears.

“What the hell is this?” Madeleine demanded, snatching one of the photos. “Who’s been watching us?”

Elliot shook his head, his mind racing. “These are from years ago. Someone’s been following us for a long time.”

The conversation spiraled into chaos. Accusations flew, voices rose, and the fragile sense of unity they had clung to shattered completely.

“You’ve known something this whole time, haven’t you?” Madeleine snarled at Elliot.

“Don’t start with me,” Elliot shot back. “You’re acting like you don’t have something to hide.”

Before things could escalate further, the grandfather clock in the corner struck loudly, the chimes echoing through the room.

Twelve o’clock.

Elliot frowned. Something about the sound was off—too sharp, too metallic. He moved toward the clock, his instincts kicking in.

When he opened the clock’s glass face, he found another note tucked behind the pendulum.

It was written in the same precise handwriting as before.

One of you will be next before nightfall.

The room went completely still.

For the first time, Elliot noticed the chandelier above them swaying gently, though there was no breeze.

Someone—or something—was already watching.