I left the Alexander residence with a polite smile still fixed on my face, even though my cheeks ached from holding it in place.
The afternoon sun was warm, too warm for the uneasiness sitting quietly in my chest. Mrs. Alexander had waved me off from the doorway, gracious as always, her voice light, her manners impeccable. Nothing about her home suggested darkness. Nothing about her family screamed danger. Everything there was tasteful, controlled, perfect.
As I walked down the paved driveway, my eyes drifted briefly to the framed photograph mounted along the hallway wall near the exit, a couple standing close together, smiling softly at the camera. The image barely registered in my mind. Just another family portrait. Another memory frozen in time.
I didn't stop.
I didn't stare.
I didn't think twice.
By the time I reached my door step, the image had already slipped out of my consciousness.
Home felt heavier when I returned.
Not oppressive, just quiet in a way that pressed against the ears. The mansion had always been spacious, elegant, the kind of place people envied when they heard where we lived. Damien had loved it the first day we saw it. He had laughed, spinning me around the living room, saying, "Can you believe this is ours?"
Now, the walls held echoes instead of laughter.
I dropped my bag by the couch and stood still for a moment, exhaling slowly. My body felt tired in a way sleep hadn't been able to fix lately. My mind never truly rested anymore, it circled, revisited conversations, replayed expressions, searched for meaning where none had been obvious before.
I decided to shower.
The hot water grounded me. Steam filled the bathroom, wrapping around my skin, washing away the faint chill that clung to me since leaving the estate's social spaces. For a few minutes, I allowed myself to exist without thinking, just breathing, just standing, just being.
Dinner was simple. Something warm. Something filling.
By the time I cleared the table, the house had settled into its nighttime stillness. I should have gone to bed. Any reasonable person would have.
But I wasn't reasonable anymore.
Something isn't right, I thought as I turned toward the study. And I can't keep pretending it is.
The study room had become my refuge since Damien was taken. The planning board still stood against the wall, names written carefully, lines connecting faces and places, dates circled and underlined. I stepped closer, uncapped my pen, and began adding notes, small observations, feelings I hadn't trusted myself to say out loud.
The pen slipped from my fingers.
It clattered softly against the floor.
"Damn it," I muttered, bending down instinctively.
That was when I saw it.
Under the desk. Beneath the drawer.
A small metallic tap.
I froze.
My first thought was confusion, not fear.
A tap… here?
I leaned closer, squinting. It wasn't connected to any visible pipe. No sink. No plumbing. Just a solitary tap, oddly placed, hidden from plain sight.
"Why would this be here?" I whispered to myself.
My heartbeat picked up, not in panic, but curiosity.
Slowly, hesitantly, I reached out and turned it.
Instead of water, a low mechanical click echoed behind me.
Then,
A sound.
Soft.
Heavy.
Shifting.
I turned around.
The bookshelf.
It was moving.
Not sliding, opening.
The entire shelf swung outward, revealing a darkened doorway where a wall should have been.
I stood there, stunned.
"This… can't be real," I breathed.
This house had been ours for weeks. I knew every corridor. Every door. Or at least, I thought I did.
My feet carried me forward before my mind caught up.
The hidden room was… breathtaking.
Not sinister.
Not threatening.
Just unexpected.
Paintings lined the walls. Sketches. Sculptures. Drafts of designs pinned carefully, lovingly. It felt like stepping into the private mind of an artist, someone meticulous, passionate, deeply devoted to their craft.
I walked slowly, touching nothing, absorbing everything.
"Who were you?" I murmured.
That was when I saw it.
The photograph.
Two people.
A couple.
Standing close, fingers intertwined, smiling softly.
I frowned.
A strange sensation brushed through my chest.
I've seen this before…
But where?
I stared harder, willing my memory to cooperate. Nothing came. The familiarity lingered, frustrating and incomplete, like a dream fading the moment you wake.
I shook my head.
"Probably the previous owners," I said quietly, placing the photo back.
It made sense. This was their hidden room. Their secrets. Their life.
I closed the bookshelf carefully, returned to the study, and sat at my desk.
Sleep never came that night.
Instead, I worked.
I finished the Alexander family portrait as dawn crept through the windows. My eyes burned, my hands ached, but I didn't stop until the final stroke was complete.
The next morning, I returned to the Alexander house.
This time, not as a visitor, but as a professional.
Mrs. Alexander's face lit up when she saw the wrapped canvas.
"You've finished already?" she exclaimed. "That was fast."
"I had trouble sleeping," I replied honestly.
She laughed lightly. "Artists are like that."
She led me into the living room, where the family gathered. The children stood stiffly, their smiles polite but distant, their eyes too watchful for their age.
Mrs. Alexander gasped when the portrait was unveiled.
"Oh, this is beautiful," she said, pressing a hand to her chest. "Absolutely beautiful."
"Thank you," I said softly.
We exchanged pleasantries. Compliments. Gratitude.
I turned to leave.
And then,
I saw it.
The photograph.
Mounted on the wall near the hallway.
The same one.
My breath caught.
This is where I saw it.
My heart began to pound, not loudly, but insistently.
I turned back slowly.
"Mrs. Alexander?" I asked carefully.
"Yes, dear?"
I gestured toward the picture. "Do you… know who they are?"
She glanced at it, barely pausing. "Oh, yes. A distant cousin. More like a family friend, really."
My stomach tightened.
"I thought I'd seen it somewhere before," I said lightly. "Just couldn't place it."
"They don't live around here," she continued smoothly. "Far away."
I nodded.
"Of course," I said.
But inside, something cracked.
You're lying.
I didn't say it aloud.
I smiled.
I thanked her again.
I left.
Behind me, I felt her gaze linger longer than necessary.
At home, my thoughts raced.
The picture.
The room.
The lie.
Before I could spiral further, the doorbell rang.
A delivery.
I opened the envelope.
My hands shook as I read.
LEAVE.
YOU DON'T BELONG HERE.
DIG DEEPER AND YOU'LL DISAPPEAR.
I ran.
Straight to the station.
Linda said nothing.
Then quietly, she said, "For your own safety… you should leave."
I stared at her.
"What?"
"I can't protect you," she admitted.
I walked out.
Angry. Betrayed. Alone.
The drive home was quiet, too quiet.
The estate roads were usually smooth and reassuring, but the farther I drove toward the bush-lined stretch at the back of Dynamic Estate, the heavier my chest felt. The hedges grew thicker here, the street lamps fewer, their light struggling to pierce through the tall bushes that leaned inward like silent witnesses.
Then suddenly,
The car jerked.
Once.
Twice.
And then stopped.
"No… no, no," I muttered, pressing the brake, then the ignition again.
Nothing.
The engine refused to respond.
I leaned back against the seat, my fingers tightening around the steering wheel as I glanced outside. The sky was already dimming, the last traces of sunlight bleeding into a dull gray. The bushes rustled softly in the evening breeze, and for the first time that day, fear crawled up my spine.
I was stuck.
I stepped out of the car, my heels sinking slightly into the uneven ground. I tried to assess the damage, crouching near the tire, but I wasn't a mechanic. I didn't even know what I was looking for.
I sighed, rubbing my arms.
Then I heard footsteps.
"Madam?"
I turned sharply.
A uniformed estate security man was walking toward me from the direction of the checkpoint, his flashlight hanging loosely in his hand.
"Are you okay?" he asked, his tone polite but cautious.
"My car broke down," I said quickly, relief washing over me. "I don't know what happened."
He nodded and walked around the car once, squatting near the tire.
"Hm," he murmured. "Looks like the tire loosened. I can fix this for you."
"Oh, thank you," I breathed. "Thank you so much."
He worked quietly, efficiently, tightening bolts, adjusting the jack. I stood a few steps away, watching the bushes instead of him, my nerves refusing to settle.
After a few minutes, he stood up and wiped his hands on a cloth.
"You're good now, madam."
A smile tugged at my lips. "I really appreciate this."
I extended my hand. "I'm Jade. Jade White."
He hesitated for half a second before shaking it.
"Nice to meet you, madam."
"I live inside the estate," I added casually. "Just down that road."
"Oh?" he said, glancing up. "Where exactly?"
I didn't think much of it. "The house beside the Alexanders. Between the Alexanders and Mrs. Susan's place."
The moment the words left my mouth,
His expression changed.
The warmth drained from his face.
He froze, his eyes lifting slowly to mine as if he needed to be sure he heard me correctly.
I frowned. "Is… something wrong?"
He didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he looked away, toward the bushes, then back at the car, then at me again. His jaw tightened.
"When did you move in, madam?" he asked quietly.
"Not long ago," I replied. "A few weeks, maybe."
His brows knit together.
"That's… very soon."
My heart skipped. "Soon for what?"
He inhaled slowly, as if weighing whether he should speak at all.
"For what happened there."
A cold wave rushed through me. "What happened?"
He shook his head. "Maybe you don't know."
"I don't," I said firmly. "Should I?"
He studied my face, then sighed.
"That house… the one you stay in," he began, lowering his voice. "The previous occupants, husband and wife, they died there."
The world tilted.
"Died?" I echoed.
"Yes," he said. "About two months ago."
My lips parted, but no sound came out.
"That soon?" I whispered. "We only moved in weeks ago."
"That's why I was surprised," he admitted. "Estate management usually takes time after something like that. I didn't expect the house to be sold so quickly."
My chest tightened painfully.
"How… how did they die?" I asked.
His voice dropped further. "They were stabbed. Both of them. Inside the house."
My knees weakened.
Stabbed.
Inside the house.
I swallowed hard. "You're… you're sure?"
He nodded. "I knew them. I used to patrol that area often. Checked the surveillance around their house."
My hands trembled as I reached into my phone.
"There's… something I need to show you," I said, my voice barely steady.
I pulled up the photo, the one I had taken in the hidden room earlier that day. The picture of the smiling couple. The one that had refused to leave my mind.
I turned the screen toward him.
His eyes widened.
"Yes," he said immediately. "That's them."
The words hit like a blow.
Dead.
Both of them.
I staggered back a step, my breath hitching sharply.
"So… the people in my house…" I whispered, my mind spiraling. "They're the ones who,"
"They were murdered," he finished grimly. "And the suspect was never found."
The road seemed to close in around me. The bushes. The darkness. The silence.
I stared at the photo again, my fingers numb.
Am I… going back to that house tonight?
The thought alone made my chest seize.
I couldn't speak.
I couldn't move.
I could only stand there, frozen on the bush-lined road, as the truth settled into my bones,
The house I called home
was already soaked in blood.
And whatever killed them
was still out there.