Part Five – The Collapse
Jonathan didn't remember pulling away from the door.
He only knew that his body was moving, stumbling, crashing against the banister as though every muscle wanted him out, away, down.
The revolver clattered once against the railing before he caught it, white-knuckled, terrified of dropping it.
The staircase groaned beneath his boots as he half-ran, half-fell, down the steps. His breath tore out in ragged gasps, sobs strangled in his throat.
Coward.
Coward.
The word hammered in his skull with every pounding step.
At the bottom, he nearly collided with the standing clock — its pendulum swaying with maddening calm, as if mocking his terror. He pressed against the wall, revolver trembling at his side, trying to breathe but only choking.
And then the tears came. Hot. Uncontrolled. His chest ached as he let out a strangled cry, burying his face in his free hand. For three weeks, he had kept it dammed, bottled, contained. Tonight, it broke.
Behind him, soft footsteps.
Heller.
The butler's tall frame appeared from the corridor, shadow first, then his face: pale, worn, carved with decades of duty. His eyes, dark and unreadable, flicked once to the revolver in Jonathan's hand, then to the staircase above.
He said nothing.
Jonathan wiped his face with his sleeve, trying to swallow back the storm, but it was useless. He looked at Heller like a drowning man looks at shore.
"They… they're not them anymore," Jonathan stammered, voice broken. "Mother, Michael— they sound like them but they're not. Their eyes… God, Heller, their eyes."
Heller's expression did not change. He bowed his head, grave and deliberate.
"Yes, Master Jonathan."
Jonathan's lip trembled. "I can't do it. I thought… I thought I could. The gun… it's supposed to end it. To end them. But I can't. I can't!"
His voice cracked on the last word, echoing in the hollow chamber of the hall.
Heller stepped forward, slow, measured, the way one approaches a skittish horse. He laid a gloved hand on Jonathan's shoulder, steadying him.
"Then I shall feed them, sir," he said quietly. "As I have these past weeks."
Jonathan's head dropped, a bitter tear sliding down his cheek. The revolver shook once in his grip before he lowered it, ashamed.
"Please," he whispered. "Just… don't let them starve."
Heller inclined his head once more, his voice carrying the weight of an oath:
"As you wish, Master Jonathan."
For a moment, silence stretched. Only the pendulum ticked, steady and merciless.
Jonathan's green-apple eyes, bloodshot and weary, stared at the floorboards. He looked young then — too young. A boy standing where a man should, shackled by love, by fear, by guilt.
Upstairs, faintly, the scratching started again.
Jonathan flinched.
He pressed the revolver against his chest as though to keep his heart from tearing itself apart or stop the madness once and for all but he knew he couldn't.