Part 1 – The Night of Blood
(Three Weeks Later)
Part One – The Return
The iron gates of the Hanns estate groaned as they shut behind the carriage. Jonathan Hanns leaned heavily against its polished wood, his breath thick with the smell of wine. The party had ended hours ago, yet the sound of laughter and music still seemed to rattle in his skull, refusing to leave him alone. He stumbled as the carriage jolted to a halt before the great steps of the mansion.
The doors opened before he could reach for them. Heller, the butler, stood framed in the light of the entrance hall, tall and thin as the candelabras behind him. His white gloves gleamed, but his eyes, sunk deep behind sharp spectacles, measured Jonathan silently.
Jonathan grinned, forcing cheer into his tone.
"Faithful Heller. Still awake for me at this hour? You should sleep, old friend."
The butler said nothing at first. He stepped forward, steadying Jonathan as he swayed on the threshold.
"You reek of wine, Master Jonathan." His voice was dry, clipped, yet touched with the faintest weariness. "Shall I have water sent up?"
Jonathan waved him off. "No, no. I've had…enough water for a lifetime." He gave a half-laugh that turned into a cough. His boots dragged against the marble floor as he stumbled inside.
The entrance hall loomed around him — chandeliers unlit, portraits staring down from shadowed walls, the once-proud banners of House Hanns sagging as if even the cloth mourned. The mansion, once alive with servants, echoed only with the hollow sound of his footsteps. Dust gathered where no hand bothered to polish. The smell of smoke and candle wax clung to the air, heavy, suffocating.
Jonathan paused in the center of the hall. Above him stretched the grand staircase, curving upward like a pair of open arms. His eyes wandered — unwillingly, always unwillingly — to the far corridor of the second floor. The corridor that ended at Room 32.
His smile faltered. The wine in his blood curdled into unease. For a moment, he thought he heard it again — a whisper. The faint echo of his mother's voice drifting down through the wood and stone. He swallowed hard, fingers clenching.
"Are you well, Master Jonathan?" Heller asked softly.
Jonathan shook his head quickly, forcing another smile, though his lips trembled. "Perfectly well. I'll just…retire to my room. Long night."
The butler's eyes lingered on him as though searching for the truth, but he bowed slightly and stepped aside. Jonathan turned toward the stairs, but his steps slowed as he drew nearer. The house was too quiet. Too aware. Every shadow seemed to lean toward him, urging him to climb.
And above, beyond the locked oak of Room 32, something stirred.