Chapter 8 - Echoes in the Attic
"Stay back!" Arthur barked, lunging forward with an agility that belied his age, grabbing a heavy brass poker from the fireplace hearth.
Elena didn't listen. Heart hammering against her ribs, she bolted past him toward the sweeping staircase, her boots taking the steps two at a time. Beatrice was right behind her, moving with a surprising, predatory grace that suggested she knew every creak and groan of the old timber.
The hallway on the second floor was pitch black, illuminated only by intermittent flashes of lightning slicing through the tall, arched stained-glass windows. The air smelled of old paper, ozone, and fresh woodsmoke.
At the very end of the corridor, the heavy mahogany door to the archive room—a room Elena had been told was structurally unsound and strictly locked—stood wide open, splintered around the brass deadbolt as if it had been kicked in with brute force.
Arthur reached the threshold first, raising the poker high, his chest heaving. "Show yourself! I know you're in here!"
The room was a disaster. Metal filing cabinets had been ripped open, their contents spilled across the Persian rug like scattered entrails. Ledger books dating back to the 1950s were torn apart, pages fluttering lazily in the draft coming from the shattered window overlooking the marshlands.
Standing in the center of the chaos, silhouette framed against the stormy night sky, was a figure in a dark hoodie. In their gloved hand, they clutched a bulky leather-bound journal—the very ledger Arthur had locked away just that morning.
"Drop it!" Elena shouted, lunging into the room.
The intruder didn't run. Instead, they turned slowly, the hood falling back to reveal a face drenched in sweat, illuminated by a cruel, knowing grin. It was Marcus, the local contractor Elena had hired just last week to repair the roof.
"You're looking in all the wrong places, Ms. Vance," Marcus said, his voice dripping with an eerie calm. "Your father didn't burn this place down to hide a financial scandal. He did it to make sure nobody found out who bought the land beneath your feet."
Marcus hurled the heavy journal directly at Arthur’s head, and while Arthur ducked, the distraction was all the intruder needed. With a swift leap, Marcus vaulted through the shattered glass window onto the slate roof outside, disappearing into the torrential rain and darkness before anyone could blink.
Elena rushed to the window, peering out into the howling storm, but there was nothing—just the empty expanse of the dark roof and the weeping willow branches thrashing in the wind.
Arthur lowered the brass poker, his hands trembling violently as he stared down at the ruined ledgers covering the floor. Beatrice walked past them, calmly picking up a single scorched photograph that had fallen near the open safe.
She turned it over, her face pale, and handed it silently to Elena.
May you like
Elena looked down. It was a photograph of her father standing outside a maternity ward, holding a newborn infant—except there were two babies wrapped in blue blankets, not one.
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