Page 17 of Colton
I slip into the dark hallway, moving silently on the floorboards, my heartbeats louder than my footsteps. The walls seem to close in as I make my way past the grand staircase, deeper into the belly of the house. I head to the library, praying my hunch is right. When I was cleaning in here, I saw something, something that caught my eye.
Now, back inside the library, I see it again. The faint crack in the wall where the bookcase slides just enough to reveal a hidden entrance. My fingers tremble as I press inward. Air, cold andstale, hits me when it opens. It's like the house sighs, exhaling something it’s been holding too long.
Holy shit.
In the pitch dark, after my eyes adjust, I see the narrow stone staircase cutting below. A whisper of fear tells me to turn back—but I won’t.
I can’t.
For Sophia. For all the women he’s hurt.
I slip through the gap, letting the bookcase close behind me. It’s cramped here. Claustrophobic. My fingers brush the cool stone walls as I descend, like they’re closing in on me, trapping me here forever.
Each step down feels heavier, colder than the one before. Eventually, the stairs open out into a tight corridor. Just ahead, there’s something strange—faint light spilling from underneath a door. But that's not what makes my breath seize in my throat.
No—it’s the smell.
Old, like something dead, tucked away and forgotten. And something else—something rotten. My stomach churns, the acid at the back of my throat reminding me I haven’t eaten since breakfast, not that food would help me now.
I push the door open a crack, just enough to slide through without a noise. This room, it’s not what I expected. It’s worse.
The flickering light overhead casts shadows against the walls cluttered with dusty shelves and…things. Shelves packed with memories that don’t belong to me: a pair of shoes, too small, too delicate; an old leather satchel, covered in dust, the initials “L.M.” etched into the faded material; dresses limp and hanging from hooks like forgotten phantoms of lives lost to this house.Jesus. Each item feels like it’s caught in hell, waiting for someone to remember the name attached to it. To scream their existence into the cold air, to say they mattered.
My fingers tremble over a small ribbon, pink and fraying at the ends.
Too young, God, too damn young.
How long has all this been hiding behind these walls? No one knew. Fuck, that’s the point, isn’t it? No oneeverknows.
I take another step forward, my breath shortening, trying to remain steady, until something sharp at the edges of my hearing stops me.
A sound.
Sobbing.
It’s faint, muffled almost, but unmistakable. A woman’s cry, choked back as if whoever it is has been crying for so damn long, her voice doesn’t even know how to make a proper sound anymore. My heart clenches. There’s someone still here. Is it the girl I saw?
I follow the sound through the narrow passage until my eyes zero in on another door—all rusted metal and thick bolts. There’s just enough of a gap to see through, just enough space to feel the tension building in my bones, creeping along my skin like a warning.
I can’t fucking look,I can’t.
I push the heels of my hands into my eyes until it hurts, and I force myself to crouch, pressing my eye against the keyhole. The sight steals the air from my lungs.
Monitors. Everywhere.
What the actual fuck?
Flickering screens display every goddamn corner of this house—rooms I never realized were wired. And there, on one of the screens, the girl is huddled, locked up in some small, filthy room, knees tucked into her chest, sobbing quietly.
My God, it’s her.
I want to scream, to run, to tear through the passageway until I find her, but my body locks up, frozen on the spot.
That suffocating, predatory gaze I’d felt constantly feels even heavier now. I had been right to feel it, skin crawling every damn time the cameras stared too hard, lingered too long.
Fuck.
I choke back the bile rising in my throat, footsteps sounding too loud, as I turn away from the vile scene. I need to move.
