Back in the master bedroom, the air was tense and heavy with worry. The group sat in uneasy silence, the storm still roaring outside.
“Do you think something happened to them?” Vanessa finally asked, her voice tight with concern.
Dean, leaning against the window, stared into the endless rain. “It’s been too long,” he muttered. “We should go after them.”
Before anyone could act, the door creaked open, and Marcus and Sophia stepped inside, soaked and shivering.
“Where the hell have you been?” Helen snapped, her sharp gaze flicking between them.
“The lights went out while we were in the hallway,” Marcus explained, his tone steady but defensive. “It’s a big house. We got turned around.”
Sophia nodded quickly, avoiding everyone’s eyes. “We’re fine. Just... let’s not split up again.”
Helen narrowed her eyes but didn’t push further. Instead, she glanced at the clock on the nightstand. “What time is it?”
“Three-thirty,” Dean answered, his voice low.
Helen sighed, rubbing her temples. “A few more hours until morning. Let’s barricade the door again and pray this storm passes.”
Dean moved to the door, pushing a heavy dresser back into place while Marcus silently helped. The group rearranged themselves, settling in for what they hoped would be their last few hours in the cursed mansion.
Dean and Vanessa volunteered to keep watch while the others tried to sleep. Vanessa had already napped earlier and perched herself near the fire, a book in hand. Dean leaned against the wall, his sharp eyes scanning the room.
Helen lay on the bed beside Sophia and Ivy, who were curled up close, their faces pale and tense. Marcus stretched out on the lounge sofa, his eyes closed but his breathing uneven, as though he were still on edge.
The hours crawled by. Vanessa, still flipping through her book, began to feel her eyelids grow heavy. She shook herself, trying to stay awake, but the warmth of the fire lulled her into a light doze.
When Vanessa woke, it was to the sound of a scream that ripped through the room.
Her heart pounded as she bolted upright, the book falling from her lap. Around her, the group was stirring in panic.
“It’s Ivy!” Sophia cried, her voice trembling.
Everyone rushed to the bed where Ivy lay motionless, her skin pale and lips blue. Helen pressed her fingers to Ivy’s neck, searching desperately for a pulse. Her face hardened.
“She’s dead,” Helen said flatly, her voice shaking.
“What?” Marcus’s voice was low and disbelieving as he moved closer.
Sophia clutched Helen’s arm. “How? How did this happen?”
Vanessa shook her head, her voice cracking. “I swear, she was fine when I closed my eyes. I only slept for a minute.”
Helen turned her sharp gaze on Dean, her eyes narrowing. “You were supposed to be watching. You should have seen something.”
Dean’s jaw tightened as he raised his hands defensively. “I didn’t see anything. She just… she looked fine.”
Helen leaned closer to Ivy’s body, her hand brushing against the edge of the blanket. That’s when she noticed it—a small, faint mark on Ivy’s neck.
“There,” she said, pointing. “It’s a needle mark.”
Marcus frowned, stepping closer. “A needle? Someone injected her with something?”
Vanessa’s hands flew to her mouth.
“That means one of us did it,” she whispered, horror creeping into her voice.
Before the conversation could spiral further, Sophia, who had been pacing near the window, suddenly let out a cry.
“There’s a boat!” she yelled, her voice cutting through the tension like a knife. “Someone came to fetch us! We’re going to get out of here!”
The group froze, staring at her in disbelief.
“Are you serious?” Vanessa asked, rushing to the window.
Sophia pointed out into the storm. Through the mist and pounding rain, a boat was visible, cutting through the choppy waves toward the dock.
Helen’s gaze darkened. “But Ivy... who did this to her?”
Sophia turned back to Helen, her expression frantic. “Who cares? I just want to get out of this hell.”
Marcus stood near the window, his face grim as he stared out at the boat. “Finally,” he muttered under his breath.
Without another word, the group rushed to the front of the mansion, stepping out into the rain. The storm battered them, the wind and rain soaking through their clothes as they made their way toward the dock.
Sophia clung to Helen’s arm, her entire body trembling. “Who is it?”
“I don’t know,” Helen replied, her voice tight and cautious.
The boat pulled closer, its outline becoming clearer through the mist. A tall, broad-shouldered man stood at the helm, his trench coat flapping in the wind.
As the boat docked, he stepped off, carrying a worn leather bag in one hand. He paused to light a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating his weathered face.
It was Detective Hugo Mallory.
He took a slow drag on the cigarette, his sharp eyes scanning the soaked, huddled group in front of him. Then he glanced up at the mansion, taking in its towering silhouette against the stormy sky.
“What the hell happened here?” he asked, his voice rough and full of disbelief.
The group stared at him, their expressions a mixture of relief and unease, but no one answered.