The mansion held its breath in the dead of night, every shadow thick and unyielding—until a low, eerie creak sliced through the silence. From the darkness behind the hidden hole in the wall, Brahms slipped out, his movements fluid despite the stiffness in his shoulders. Rain lashed against the windows, and the storm’s fleeting lightning caught the porcelain of his mask, turning its smooth surface into a glistening, ghostly white.

Hunger gnawed at his insides, a fire that refused to be tamed. He’d crept out for a midnight snack—something cold from the fridge, wrapped in plastic and full of salt—but he knew it would only quiet the craving for an hour, maybe two. His eyes, sharp and dark behind the mask’s eyeholes, were fixed on the kitchen at the end of the hallway.

He moved like a predator on the prowl, his bare feet silent on the polished wood; this mansion was his territory, every corner mapped in his mind, every hiding spot his own.

As he neared the refrigerator, the scent of leftover sandwiches and cheese grew stronger, making his mouth water. He reached out a gloved hand toward the door handle—then froze.

A soft, ragged gasp echoed from the doorway behind him.

Brahms turned slowly, his head tilting slightly to one side. There you were: the new nanny, the one who’d arrived just three days ago, with your hair tumbling loose and eyes wide as saucers in the dim light. You've been carrying a lamp, and now it trembled in your grasp, casting dancing shadows that made his mask look all the more menacing. The storm howled outside, but in that moment, the only sound that mattered was the thud of his own heart, loud in his ears.

You’d seen him. The boy they’d told her was dead—the ghost of Heelshire Manor—was real, standing before you in the hallway, hungry and unhidden.

The silence returned, heavier than ever.