The howling wind seeped through the cracks in the windows, making every creak and groan of the old house feel like whispers in the dark. The storm outside was unrelenting, battering the mansion as though it wanted to claw its way in.
Helen stood by the fire, her arms crossed tightly, her sharp gaze sweeping over the group. “We just need to get through the night,” she said firmly, her voice steady but cold. “Stick together, stay in one place, and don’t wander off. The more we see each other, the safer we are.”
Marcus, pacing the room like a restless animal, shook his head. “We can’t just sit here and wait for something to happen. There’s something in this house—something that can explain all of this. We need to find it.”
“Or,” Sophia snapped, her voice trembling as she glared at Marcus, “we could not get ourselves killed by playing detective and just stay put. Safety in numbers, right?”
Helen didn’t look away from the fire. “She’s right. Sitting here won’t stop the killer, but going out there makes us targets. We stay together, and we stay alive. That’s the priority.”
Dean leaned back against the wall, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “And what if the killer doesn’t wait for us to split up? What if they come for us right here?”
Helen turned to him, her expression hard. “Then we’ll face it together. But running around in the dark won’t solve anything. If we make it through the night, we can figure out what to do in the morning.”
Ivy, curled up on the couch with a blanket draped around her shoulders, whispered, “Do you think Eleanor left something behind? Something to explain all of this?”
Marcus stopped pacing, his brow furrowed. “If she did, it’s somewhere in this house.”
Sophia shifted uncomfortably, glancing toward the corner of the master bedroom where a tall wardrobe stood partially obscured by a heavy curtain. “What about that?” she asked, pointing toward it. “Have we checked there?”
Dean frowned, setting down his glass. “You think the killer’s hiding in a wardrobe?”
“No,” Sophia said, her voice wavering. “But maybe there’s something inside. Something that explains why we’re here.”
Marcus exchanged a glance with Helen, then strode toward the wardrobe, flashlight in hand. He pulled back the curtain and opened the doors, revealing shelves lined with dust-covered books and old linens.
But something was off—the back panel didn’t sit flush.
“What’s this?” Marcus muttered, running his hand along the edges. He pushed against the panel, and it gave way with a groan, revealing a narrow passage.
“Oh, great,” Sophia said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “A creepy hidden room. Just what we needed.”
“Stay here,” Marcus said, his voice firm as he stepped into the opening.
Helen cut him off. “No. We stay together. If you’re going in there, we all go.”
Reluctantly, the group gathered their flashlights and followed Marcus into the narrow passage. The air was thick and stale, the faint scent of mildew clinging to the walls. The corridor twisted and turned, leading them deeper into the mansion. Finally, they emerged into a small, dimly lit room.
The group froze as their flashlights illuminated the walls. Photographs were pinned haphazardly to the faded wallpaper, dozens of them. Each one featured one of them with Eleanor.
“That’s me,” Ivy whispered, pointing to a photo of herself sitting in a café with Eleanor.
“And me,” Marcus said, his jaw tightening as he pulled a photo of himself and Eleanor at what looked like a formal event.
Some of the photos were candid—Eleanor laughing, Eleanor with her hand on someone’s arm. Others felt darker, more incriminating—Marcus signing a document while Eleanor looked on, Dean standing near what appeared to be the Cartwright estate, holding a silver tray.
“It’s all of us,” Helen said, scanning the photos with narrowed eyes. “Why would she keep these?”
“That’s not all,” Marcus said, his voice grim. He picked up a map lying on a table in the center of the room. It was a blueprint of the mansion, with certain rooms marked in red.
“Those are… the places where things have happened,” Sophia said, pointing to the library, the conservatory, and the grand hall.
Next to the map was a list of names, neatly written in Eleanor’s handwriting. Some were crossed out, including the butler’s.
“One by one,” Helen whispered, reading the list. “This is a hit list.”
Sophia stumbled back, her hand flying to her mouth. “You’re saying she planned this? Eleanor wanted us dead?”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Marcus said, his voice hard. “If Eleanor’s dead, then who’s carrying out her plan? And why now?”
Dean pointed to the crossed-out names. “The butler’s name is gone. Does that mean… we’re next?”
Sophia clutched Ivy’s arm tightly. “What if it’s one of us?”
Helen folded the map and tucked it under her arm. “We don’t panic,” she said firmly. “This is meant to scare us, to make us turn on each other. Whoever’s behind this wants us divided.”
“But what if it is Eleanor?” Ivy whispered, her voice barely audible. “What if she’s not dead?”
“Then she’s making damn sure we don’t forget her,” Marcus muttered darkly.
The group retreated back into the bedroom, their flashlights casting eerie shadows along the walls. The storm raged on outside, and every creak and groan of the house seemed louder, more threatening.
As they settled back into the room, Sophia glanced nervously at the door. “Do you think the killer’s watching us right now?”
Dean leaned back, his smirk faint and humorless. “Guess we’ll figure out if we’re still alive in the morning.”