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Chapter Text

August, 2018

Barret Heelshire was a practical man. He had taken care of all the “loose ends” left behind by his older brother and his wife after their departure. The police had been the least of his worries—when you have enough money, everything in this world is negotiable, even the fate of others. He often reread his brother’s last letter. It helped ease the weight of everything he’d had to do over the past two years, burdens that crept back to haunt him in his dreams.
Barret was a tall man with an imposing presence and piercing green eyes. He didn’t look the 68 years he’d turned last spring, though the weight of those years pressed heavier than he cared to admit, especially in the perpetually rainy and damp England. He despised it, just as he loathed that damned mansion and everything it evoked. He had sworn never to return, but it seemed “never” only meant 28 years…

A huff broke him from his thoughts. In the seat beside him, his nephew tugged at the collar of his sweater, visibly uncomfortable. The boy still hadn’t adjusted to formal attire and was constantly trying to go barefoot. To Barret, who had worn three-piece suits even in his youth without stepping foot outside, this grated on his nerves. The young man ran a nervous hand through his dark curls before wrestling with the sweater again. Barret allowed a half-smile before turning his gaze back to the landscape. It was rare to catch a glimpse of the boy he remembered in the man he had become, but for a moment, he was there. In less than half an hour, they would stand before the gates of the Heelshire mansion, and as a gentle breeze brushed against the car window, the old uncle wished with all his might, just this once, that he wasn’t mistaken.

Chapter Text

“Welcome home, Brahms,” his uncle said, shrugging off his coat as he stepped into the grand foyer of the mansion. He headed toward the kitchen—a good cup of tea would settle the nausea beginning to churn in his stomach. But Brahms didn’t move. His fingers faintly traced the arch of the doorframe as the weight of a wasted life crashed down on his shoulders like lead. He had just turned 35. Most men his age were married, building families of their own, while all he had were vague memories of a childhood first kiss and a scar across his abdomen. Perhaps that was all someone like him could ever hope to have.
Barret swallowed hard, trying to push past the unease as he approached with the best face he could muster.

“We can change anything you don’t like. They’ve only restored it so far—I’ve ordered them not to touch more than necessary. But we can leave whenever you decide. This doesn’t have to feel like…” He was cut off by an awkward attempt at a hug.

“Thank you,” Brahms said shyly, stepping further into the mansion, leaving his uncle too stunned to respond. It was the first time in nearly three decades that his nephew had embraced him. Feeling lighter, Barret decided to skip the tea and head straight for a glass of brandy and a good book on the porch. There would be plenty of time to face the house later. For now, it was Brahms’ turn.

Returning to the mansion felt like a fever dream. Annoyed by the clatter of his stiff shoes, Brahms quickly kicked them off. His steps led him straight to the living room. Everything was almost the same, except for the large mirror. In its place stood a perfectly restored wall. If you looked closely, you could just barely notice the subtle difference in color between the old and new wallpaper, covering what had once been his favorite spot to spy.
He scanned the room, searching for any trace of that night.

Everything had happened so fast. Cole’s screams when he saw the blood-scrawled message, Greta’s pleas, the sickening crash of his substitute against the table, rage painting his world red, the mirror shattering into a thousand pieces when he kicked it, the cold porcelain slicing his fingers as he drove it into that bastard’s neck… and her. Greta. So close to him that his entire body ached. Before he could say anything, she was already trying to escape. A deep, primal fear surged through his stomach like wildfire, and in two strides, he had caught her. His arms held her tighter than he meant to as he tried to pull her away from the consequences of his fury. It was the first time he could truly feel her, too desperate and starved for her touch to let go. And then Malcolm had to ruin everything, as always.

Nothing. As his uncle had said, there was nothing left but memories. With one last dull glance at the spot where Cole’s blood had pooled, Brahms turned and headed for the stairs. He climbed slowly, knowing what awaited him at the first landing. The sight of his parents’ dead eyes staring from that ridiculously oversized portrait—commissioned by his mother to celebrate his eighth birthday—sent shivers down his neck. Frozen in an eternal reminder of everything he’d lost. He’d tell his uncle to get rid of it. He didn’t want to face those two pairs of stern eyes every time he climbed the stairs. A tingle ran through his body—“every time he climbed the stairs”—because now he was free to roam the entire mansion, not just its walls. Uncle Barret had promised. Though trusting him was still hard, Brahms knew he never broke his promises. Never.

At the second landing, he walked down the hallway to the first room on the left. With the tips of his fingers, he gently pushed the door, expecting its familiar creak. It didn’t come. Aside from that, everything was as it had been the night she led him to the bed. He remembered how embarrassed he’d felt crawling into the expensive sheets, filthy with grime and sweat. Mother would have been so furious. Greta had looked at him with a mix of disgust and horror. He didn’t blame her. Though keeping clean without being heard had been a challenge, he’d tried to stay presentable, just in case their long-awaited meeting came early. Until his parents’ last letter stabbed his heart like a dagger. The weight of being the last living Heelshire crushed him mercilessly. He stopped eating, stopped sleeping—all he could do was watch her. Greta. His parents’ final gift, his salvation. He spent entire days trailing her through the mansion, mimicking her steps with the precision only years of practice could grant, craving another glimpse of her, another tender gesture meant for the doll while he fantasized it was for him. Greta, sweet Greta. He remembered how all the anger she’d caused him had melted away when he saw her in the hallway, calling his name. She must have loved him as much as he loved her to come back. She’d kept her promise, and now she would care for him, heal his heart, stay with him. Forever.

How utterly naive he’d been.

He let his steps guide him back to where it all began. With a deep breath, he triggered the attic trapdoor. The ladder descended smoothly and silently—another restored piece, no doubt. The cold bit at his bare feet with every step, but a familiar, comforting scent filled his lungs. Home.

That awful night, when he woke, an agonizing pain told him he wasn’t dead yet—but he would be soon. With his last strength, he’d tried to crawl back here, wanting death to find him in his bed, surrounded by the only things that had ever truly belonged to him. When he realized he wouldn’t make it, he collapsed onto his back and, with trembling hands, began peeling off the broken remnants of his mask. He wondered if anyone would ever find his body. Probably, when ghost stories no longer kept looters at bay. Would they know it was him? Would they grant him the solace of resting beneath the stars in the garden grave that bore his name?

Everything in his true room was as he’d left it. On the dusty bed, like a cruel joke, lay the Greta doll he’d made. Its vibrant coral dress had faded to a pale pink, its hair now thin and sparse. He touched the star-shaped mobile hanging above the bed with nostalgia before picking up the papers scattered on the floor. His drawings, letters written to Greta waiting for the right moment to be given, stories he’d invented to ease his loneliness. Brahms gathered them one by one until he reached his parents’ crumpled letter in the corner, its writing nearly illegible from tear-shaped stains. Tears. It didn’t matter—he knew its contents by heart, having read it so many times it was etched behind his eyelids like a scar. He tore it slowly, clenching the pieces in his fist as the sting of unshed tears burned his eyes.

“Charming room, though the entrance is rather inconvenient, if you ask me,” a deep voice behind him startled him, sending the papers flying again.
For a man nearing seventy, Uncle Barret moved like a predator, Brahms thought grimly. Perhaps that skill was more inherited than learned.
“I didn’t mean to intrude,” Barret continued, gathering the nearby papers and stacking them without looking. “It’s nearly dinnertime, and I wanted to know if you’ll join me or need more time… on your own.”

Both their eyes fell on the tattered Greta pillow-doll and the crumpled tissues, remnants of the last time Brahms had vented his frustration. He had never been more grateful for the mask hiding his flushed face than in that moment. Hastily, he swept the tissues off the bed and kicked them underneath, his neck burning with embarrassment.
He braced for his uncle’s disapproving stare, certain he’d lose his newfound freedom to roam the mansion. Not even a day had passed, and he’d already proven himself unworthy. But Barret was too busy trying to light the star-shaped lamps, filling the room with a soft, yellowish glow when he succeeded.

“Cozy. But I’d feel better knowing you slept in the rooms downstairs—it’s freezing up here. I’ll be waiting for you at dinner, though I warn you, it’s nothing fancy. Still haven’t found a cook or anyone to deliver groceries. Country folk and their superstitions.” He said it casually before disappearing through the trapdoor, leaving Brahms alone with his thoughts.

Respect was such a foreign concept in Brahms’ life that it felt strange. His parents, the village children paid to play with him, the nannies, Greta—they had all treated him with a caution bordering on fear, but never respect. As if he were a monster, even before he looked like one. Only two people had ever treated him like a human being. One was waiting for him in the dining room. The other had ended with her skull shattered. Brahms shook his head violently, trying to banish the image of those lifeless green eyes. Then he grabbed the letter opener from the desk, sliced open the Greta pillow-doll at the top, and stuffed the few remaining hairs inside along with his drawings, the torn pieces of his parents’ letter, the trinkets stolen from his last nanny during his “night hunts,” and finally, he crawled under the bed to retrieve the tissues. Once everything was bundled inside, Brahms curled up beside it and, for the first time in months, allowed himself to cry.

The sunset was slowly dying, painting the dining room in soft oranges and pale pinks. Barret had opened the windows, and a fresh breeze filled the room, making the old mansion seem to hold its breath, horrified by the change. Painting the windows shut—what a foolish idea, though probably the least harmful of all the things his brother and sister-in-law had done, compared to the rest. A spark of anger slowly enveloped him, as it always did when he thought too long about his brother and that damned letter that had upended his life at an age when the only surprise should have been death.
Brahms entered just in time to hear his uncle’s heavy sigh by the window. He grew anxious, thinking his delay had angered him. Clutching the bundle tightly in his hands, he hesitated about whether to enter, but Barret was quicker. His green eyes shifted from stern to warm in the time it took to meet Brahms’. From the inner pocket of his suit, he pulled out an elegant silver cigarette case.

“A bad habit, I know. I don’t have much of an appetite until I’ve had a smoke. What’s that you’re carrying?” he asked, pointing at the bundle with a slender cigarette before bringing it to his lips.
Brahms held it up for him to see better.

“Things I don’t want anymore,” he said, his voice cracking with a high-pitched note. He cleared his throat, trying to find his true tone. “I was thinking of burying them after dinner, if that’s alright with you.”
Barret raised an eyebrow before taking a couple more drags on his cigarette.

“Splendid, but I might have a better option, if you’ll allow me…” With long strides, he reached the fireplace and began lighting it with practiced ease, pausing only to smoke.
Small flames danced in Brahms’ eyes, growing into a warm fire that heated the entire room, contrasting with the cool night breeze slipping through the open windows. Open windows and lit fireplaces—he hadn’t seen that in this house since he was a child. Mesmerized by the flames, he approached slowly until he stood before the fireplace, gripping the bundle so tightly that the fabric began to tear under his trembling fingers.

“The other two, light air and purging fire, are with you wherever you go,” Barret said theatrically, giving a final drag to his cigarette before tossing the butt into the flames.

“Wherever I dwell,” Brahms corrected automatically, his voice barely above a whisper. It was one of his favorite sonnets. “The first my thought, the other my desire. William Shakespeare.” Barret gave a lopsided smile.

“My apologies, nephew. I’m a bit rusty on poetry. I just thought this was a more dignified way to let… that go, than the worms in the garden.” His hand rested briefly on Brahms’ shoulder, gentle and fleeting. “But remember, if you’re not ready, the fire can always wait.”

That was a lie. The fire never waited. It had already taken his face, his childhood, his humanity. And now it demanded his broken love as well. His jaw clenched so tightly it ached, his eyes fixed on the flames that crackled mockingly, daring him to release the weight of his memories while threatening to consume him whole.
A sharp pang from the scar she had left him shot through his side, his body protesting at the mere thought of letting her go. Greta. He closed his eyes, and for a moment, he saw her—her eyes brimming with fear and pity, the revulsion in her body when he touched her, the determination in her face as she drove the screwdriver into his abdomen.
With a choked sob, he hurled the bundle into the flames. The fire roared, devouring the faded fabric and the fragments of his obsession. A acrid smell of burning filled the dining room, mingling with the fresh night air. Barret watched in silence, his gaze heavy with understanding of the cost of what his nephew had just done.

Goodbye, Greta. Goodbye forever.

He was still too angry and hurt to ask his uncle for details about her fate. “I took care of it. You don’t have to worry about her at all,” Barret had said the one time Brahms dared mention her name aloud. Maybe one day he would ask, when her betrayal no longer felt like acid in his guts.

After what felt like an eternity, the flames settled into glowing embers and ash. Only then did both men step away from the fireplace, exhausted. They ate their cold dinner in silence, longing for the longest day of the year to finally end.

Chapter Text

Cold. It was always so damn cold.

The first year was the worst Brahms had ever endured in the heart of the mansion. The nights were so frigid he was certain he’d die, but then another dawn would find him with blue-tinged lips and numb fingers, still alive. His reward? Another chance to claw his way back into his mother’s love.

Father had told him that Mother’s heart needed time to forgive him, just like God’s. He’d promised to do everything in his power to make it happen soon. That first year after the accident, Father would climb to the attic with dinner and stay until bedtime. They’d pray together—God bless Mommy, God bless Daddy, God bless Brahms—and as he left, he’d always say the same thing: “It’s only for a while, son. Just a little longer.”

Brahms never knew exactly how long it took his parents to transform his most cherished toy into his replacement. As the only child of an aging couple, he’d always longed for a sibling. On his seventh birthday, he arrived—his favorite doll, a perfect replica of himself that he loved dragging everywhere. That doll had been the only witness to the day Emily…

 A violent shudder yanked Brahms awake.

Sunlight crept through the heavy curtains of the guest room he’d claimed as his own. The mere thought of sleeping in his childhood bedroom made his stomach churn. He propped himself up just enough to glance at the clock on the wall across from his bed: 6:45 a.m. With a groan, he collapsed back into the pillows, anger simmering in his chest. Two weeks since he’d returned to the mansion, two years free of that cursed routine, and still he couldn’t sleep past 7 a.m. or wake without feeling like his head was stuffed with cobwebs. He scrubbed his face in frustration. As much as he despised the routine, it kept his mind from wandering to usurping dolls and the aches of his childhood.

His uncle Barret had given him free rein to do whatever he wanted, and Brahms had come face-to-face with the bitter truth: at 35, he didn’t know himself at all. He was an empty, ridiculous shell.

He’d kill time until breakfast in the library—his favorite place now that there were no forbidden books or forced readings. Pushing tangled curls from his face, he slipped on his mask and shuffled downstairs to the kitchen for a cup of tea. Uncle Barret wouldn’t be up until after 9, reeking of cologne and looking like a polished mannequin. A smirk tugged at Brahms’ lips as he pictured his uncle’s face—same as every morning—when he’d see him stroll in, barefoot and in wrinkled pajamas. Maybe after some reading, he’d clean himself up just to catch that rare look of surprise.

“Good morning, Brahms. Always the early bird—a fine quality. Especially today, when we’re short on time,” his uncle said, handing him a steaming mug of tea.

Brahms blinked, confused, before taking it. Barret was still in his pajamas, draped in a fancy flannel robe and sporting a matching flat cap.Weird.

“Normally, I wouldn’t entertain last-minute arrangements, especially if they cut into my personal time,” Barret continued, “but we’re not exactly in a position to turn down anyone willing to make our lives easier.”

Brahms’ stomach dropped. His uncle—or his uncle’s money—had finally outbid the village rumors. Someone was brave enough to work here. A spark of excitement flickered, quickly drowned by the slow burn of rage at the thought of an intruder in his house. He took a deep breath, questions piling up in his mind too fast to voice.

“Not a nanny, naturally,” Barret went on. “My priority is keeping this place in order and eating something besides our usual eggs and potatoes. If they didn’t come with stellar references, I wouldn’t even consider it. And personally, I don’t think it’s wise to call you my nephew, given the village’s ghost stories. That’s up to you, of course—whether you’re comfortable introducing yourself.”

“Introduce myself?” Brahms asked, stunned.

“Of course! This is your house, and they’ll be your staff. They’ll learn to serve you properly.”

Brahms shook his head fiercely, his fists clenching with rising fury. Barret’s eyes darkened. “Don’t ask me to carry on my brother’s shameful legacy, Brahms. I won’t. If you don’t want to be seen, you know what to do, and I won’t stop you. But I’m not going to lie and say I’m some mad old hermit living alone in this sprawling mansion when your existence is neither a secret nor a disgrace.”

Brahms struggled to process his uncle’s words, fighting to keep his anger in check, too overwhelmed to hear anything clearly until—

“Either way, they’ll only come twice a week, which is good if you choose to stay upstairs. It’s just for a while."

“What the fuck did you just say?” Brahms snapped, his control finally cracking. Barret met his outburst with a steady, unflinching gaze.

“Just for a while, Brahms.”

The mug cooling in his hands shattered against the cupboard behind his uncle, missing him by inches and splintering the glass door. The table shook as Brahms slammed his fists down and stood, his breathing a near-growl. Barret didn’t flinch, his icy eyes locked on the towering man glaring at him with a hatred too raw to be aimed at him alone. He waited for Brahms’ next move.

Brahms knew he had to leave before he lost it completely. With a final glare heavy with resentment, he stormed out, smashing everything in his path on the way to his room. He slammed the door hard enough to rattle the windows, then shoved the false panel in the wardrobe aside. Inside the mansion’s hidden labyrinth, he climbed to the attic, too furious to notice the trail of blood dripping from a deep gash on his forearm. He didn’t understand why this place—where so many of his miseries had played out—felt like the only refuge he had. He pounded his fists against his head, trying to drown out his father’s empty promises:

“Trust me, son. It’s only for a while. So short you won’t even remember it…”

Chapter Text

White crescent marks lingered on Barret’s palms as he finally unclenched his fists. His nephew wasn’t the only one with a temper, and holding back from reacting to Brahms’ disrespect had taken every ounce of his willpower. He reached instinctively for the silver cigarette case in his inner pocket, only to remember with a pang of disappointment that he was still in his pajamas. The cigarette he craved to soothe his nerves would have to wait until he returned to his room. First, he’d make himself presentable before the (potential) new hires arrived. But before that, he headed to the liquor cabinet, poured a glass of the first bottle he grabbed, and downed it in one gulp. The burn spread through his empty stomach like a reprimand. This was not how a man his age should start the day. He’d been too confident, too quick to overestimate Brahms’ progress. But God, it had been so remarkable…

*******

The letter, sealed with the Heelshire family’s blood-red crest, arrived on a Tuesday. It was the first thing Barret noticed when Mason, his driver and steadfast companion since arriving in Scotland, brought in the morning’s correspondence. A pit formed in his stomach, killing his appetite mid-breakfast. He examined the envelope cautiously, as if it were a venomous creature. On the back, like a curse, was his name in a handwriting he’d recognize anywhere, despite not seeing it for decades:

Mr. Barret G. Heelshire
27 Earlspark Ave, Bieldside, Aberdeen.

It had to be urgent for Ackerley, his brother, to dare track him down and write. Curiosity mingled slowly with bitterness. Twenty-six years, and the best the decrepit old man could muster to reconnect was a measly letter. The ravages of old age, Barret thought, as if the four years between them were enough to shield him from the same fate.
He lit the stove, fully intending to burn the letter unopened. Whatever his brother had to say held no interest—not even if it announced the death of his despicable wife, though he couldn’t deny that would brighten his day considerably. Resolute, he held the envelope to the flames, but as the corner began to char, an irrational panic seized him. He swatted the fire out with his hands. Alone in his home, he could admit, if only for a moment, that the resentment that had driven him from his family and blood had faded years ago. The ravages of old age, he thought again, this time with profound sadness, as he tucked the unopened letter into the nearest drawer. He’d wait—either for the anger to return and finish what he started, or for the courage to face its contents. Whichever came first.

*******

Brahms peered cautiously through the attic’s small window as the sound of a car approached. It had to be the people his uncle was expecting. A middle-aged man with glasses and receding hair stepped out from the driver’s side, circled the car, and opened the passenger door to help his companion.
When she emerged, Brahms’ heart lodged in his throat. No. Impossible.

Greta.

Her brown hair whipped in the morning breeze as she admired the sprawling gardens. Forgetting caution, Brahms pressed his face to the window, his mask clinking against the glass.

No, not again.

The woman turned toward the mansion, revealing her face framed by thick glasses. Though he couldn’t make out her features clearly, the tension in his body eased. It wasn’t her—she was much older. His damn mind was playing tricks again. As if to confirm it, glints of gray shimmered in her hair as she walked arm-in-arm with her companion, moving away to better admire the greenhouse.
Brahms exhaled, a mix of relief and… disappointment? He still dreamed of his last nanny, no matter how hard he tried to push her from his mind.
The couple continued exploring, pointing out sights to each other, laughing lightly. Their confidence, as if the gardens were theirs, grated on him. A lot.
When they started back toward the house, Brahms had already decided he didn’t like them.

The doorbell announced the Davies’ arrival. With a final drag, Barret stubbed out his cigarette and smoothed his suit before descending to the foyer. Mason had taken a well-earned vacation after settling them in and wouldn’t be back for a couple of days. The Davies were a married couple from the neighboring village; a mutual friend, coincidentally an old acquaintance of Barret’s, had recommended them. The salary was enough to spark their interest, and with luck, they’d never heard the rumors about the mansion and its unhinged family.
The hairs on Barret’s neck prickled as he descended the first staircase, feeling watched. Best not to let his nephew know he was rattled. He plastered on his most charismatic smile before opening the door.

“Mr. and Mrs. Davies, it’s a genuine pleasure to finally meet you. Please, come in. Welcome to our home.”
The couple stepped into the foyer, awestruck by the mansion’s beauty and opulence. Brahms, watching from above, got a better look. They were in their early fifties, and the woman he’d mistaken for Greta had green eyes too. It felt like glimpsing a future that could never be his, stirring something too deep to name. He trailed them slowly, waiting.

“Cedric didn’t exaggerate one bit about how stunning your home is, Mr. Heelshire,” the man with the receding hairline said, flashing a dopey grin. “Do you live here with your whole family, or just your wife?” His wife gave him a subtle elbow to the ribs.

“I never married,” Barret replied. “The only woman I ever wanted to share that life with left this world before I could even tell her. My younger brother and I are the last of the line. He’s a charming lad but painfully shy. He’s around somewhere—this house is so vast for two little mice that we sometimes don’t cross paths for days.”
A warmth bloomed in Brahms’ chest. He was the younger brother, acknowledged as a resident of the house, not just a part of it.

Barret, leading the tour, didn’t notice the sly smirks the couple exchanged, whispering as if they knew something he didn’t, masking it with dour faces whenever he glanced back. As they climbed the stairs, Brahms slammed his fist against the wall beside them before scuttling noisily toward the music room. Mr. Davies let out a yelp, clutching his wife to keep from falling. Barret pressed on toward the library, unfazed.

“It’s a very old house, you see. The wood swells, the pipes groan…”

Mrs. Davies pried herself from her husband’s grip with a scowl. They’d definitely have words about this on the drive home. The rest of the tour passed quietly—perhaps too quietly.
Barret offered them tea in the main parlor to finalize details. From his vantage point, Brahms watched as Mr. Davies, while Barret rose to open a window, discreetly slipped an antique silver teaspoon to his wife. She tucked it into her purse along with her own, snapping it shut. That was the final straw.

When the tea was done, Barret stood, solemn.

“Well, if there are no more questions, I believe we’re set. It’s a yes from me, and I’m immensely grateful for your time. When can you start?”

The couple exchanged smug glances. Mrs. Davies opened her mouth to reply, but her words were drowned out by the Messa da Requiem blaring through the parlor’s acoustic tubes. She clutched her chest, startled, while Mr. Davies covered his ears, bewildered. Barret suppressed a shiver that raced down his spine before excusing himself and bolting toward the music room. He’d smash that damned phonograph to pieces.

Nothing. No sign of his nephew or the phonograph. The acoustic tubes ran through the entire mansion—he could be anywhere. Barret climbed to the next floor, following the sound’s intensity.

In the parlor, Brahms watched the Davies, still seated, squirming uncomfortably. His dead eyes tracked them as he tapped his fingers to the music’s rhythm, closing in. Their nervousness grew palpable. Mr. Davies stood first, grabbing his wife’s hand and hurrying out like rats, just as Brahms had hoped. The path downstairs was littered with the wreckage he’d caused earlier, found piled in one of the rooms. The terror on their faces as they navigated the inexplicable destruction brought a twisted smile behind his mask. He stalked them like a predator, scratching and banging the walls closer and closer, forcing them to run. Mrs. Davies let out a squawk as she tripped on the stairs. Her husband, panic-stricken, abandoned her and lunged for the door, yanking at it with all his strength. Locked.

The music stopped, leaving the terrified couple in silence for a moment. A childish giggle echoed through the foyer, ghostly.

“Naughty, naughty, you’ve been very naughty,” the voice said, shifting from childlike to deep and menacing in a second.

The Davies screamed again. Paralyzed with fear, Mrs. Davies curled into a ball on the stairs. Her husband, sobbing and praying frantically, clawed at the door.

Barret, having finally located the phonograph, cleared his throat as he descended the final staircase, restoring silence. He passed the whimpering Mrs. Davies and headed straight for the door, visibly uneasy with the scene. Mr. Davies stepped back like an obedient pup as Barret approached. Their pleading eyes met his.
Finding no words to salvage or explain the situation, Barret simply turned the lock. The door swung open. Mrs. Davies stumbled to her husband, nearly crossing the threshold when Barret’s heavy hand stopped him, making him whimper as if burned.

“Ladies first, Mr. Davies,” he said politely.

He held the man back until his trembling wife bolted outside. Too exhilarated to restrain himself, Brahms roared

GET OUT OF HERE

The couple scrambled, screaming, to their car and peeled away. Barret watched from the porch, noting the car’s side mirror smashing against the gate and falling abandoned.
Too impressed by his nephew’s cunning to hold back much longer, Barret stifled a laugh at the memory of Mr. Davies’ face. He shut the door and hurried to his room. It wasn’t a reaction to show Brahms, who was surely watching from somewhere. There’d be plenty of time to laugh over a good cigarette in the one place in the mansion he’d made entirely private.

Brahms watched his uncle leave, guilt creeping in. He’d gone too far, and he knew it. The euphoria had faded, replaced by a familiar pang of remorse. Maybe Uncle Barret, fed up with his behavior, would finally decide to punish him—that’s why he was retreating to the one place Brahms couldn’t snoop. He didn’t regret what he’d done; they deserved it. But he didn’t want his uncle to think him an ungrateful, selfish brat who didn’t value all he’d done. He’d clean up the mess while figuring out how to apologize. Maybe he’d even try to fix the broken furniture. Then he’d go upstairs, wash up, put on one of the fine outfits Barret had bought him, and wear shoes and cologne. He’d be good—he knew he could be good, and no one deserved to see that more than his uncle.

Barret’s room was shrouded in darkness when he awoke from his “short nap.” He glanced at his watch—past dinnertime. The house was silent.
Two cups of tea as his only sustenance spurred him to shrug off his wrinkled suit and slip into pajamas before heading to the kitchen, too hungry to care what might await.
The hallway was empty, no trace of the shattered glass or broken pieces he’d seen earlier. The splintered banister was back in place. As he neared the dining room, a sharp whiff of cologne stung his nose. The furniture had been dusted, the floors mopped. Two places were set at the table, one occupied by Brahms, head bowed like a wind-up doll whose key had run out.
He wore the bottle-green suit Barret never thought he’d see on him, his dark curls clumsily combed back, revealing his unmasked face—reddened and nicked from a shaky shave. The firelight cast a ghastly glow on the scar stretching from his right cheekbone to his forehead. Seeing his uncle, Brahms shot up, awkwardly pulling out the chair beside him with a clumsy bow, his eyes searching for a reaction.
Barret felt transported to better days, before his self-imposed exile, when his young nephew, eyes bright with pride, showed off what his father had taught him about being a gentleman. What he wouldn’t give to restore the life that had been stolen from him.

Neither was good with words, each waiting for the other to speak. The doorbell’s sudden chime reverberated through the mansion, startling them both. Brahms didn’t think the Davies had the guts to return.

Instinctively, he backed toward the hidden panel in the wall.

Chapter Text

*******

Before obsession became his only way of connecting to the world, there had been a first love—too innocent to recognize it as such at the time, but Brahms knew the instant he saw her.

Emily.

Desperate over his meager social skills and the crushing shyness that had always plagued him, the Heelshires began paying village couples to bring their children to play at the mansion, hoping their son would make friends. It had been a disaster until the Cribbs arrived—a young couple new to the village. Emily was an outgoing soul trapped in a frail, sickly body; her vibrant green eyes had looked with curiosity at the short boy in a suit hiding behind his mother, ashamed. She was never fazed by Brahms’ oddness. She approached him as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and little by little, their friendship blossomed, just as the trust between the adults grew, allowing the girl to visit the mansion often. Once, the overprotective Mrs. Heelshire even (grudgingly) permitted her son to go with them to the village festival.

Brahms would remember that day as the happiest of his entire life. As the Cribbs’ car pulled away from his parents’ watchful eyes and their suffocating routine, he felt free. Sitting in the middle, one hand clutching his beloved doll, the other resting tenderly on Emily’s, he felt he could devour the whole world—and he would, when he grew up. He’d take her with him to every place they’d read about in the library, give her everything in exchange for belonging to her beautiful family, beg her to run away from the Heelshire mansion and never return.

But there was so, so much time left. What if Emily moved far away, or one day simply decided she didn’t want to see him anymore?
Of all the things he despised about himself, that was the worst. No matter how happy he was, he was always imagining the hundreds of ways it could all fall apart. He had always felt so sad.
Emily, used to her friend’s moments of absence, decided to wait until they reached the festival and were far from their parents to ask.
It was a warm summer day, and the village buzzed with festive spirit. The children ran and laughed under the joyful gaze of the Cribbs. Emily chased him, her laughter tinkling like crystal bells. Brahms ducked beneath a thick floral arch decorating the village square, trying to catch his breath.
A hand on his back made him jump, and the long-haired blonde girl burst into giggles, her eyes glowing with an otherworldly spark amid the flowers.

"Are you enjoying the festival, Brahmsie?”
Brahms nodded faintly.

"Then why are you suddenly so sad?”
Emily knew him too well for lies to work.

"Do you think we’ll still be friends when we’re grown up?”

“Of course! We’ll be friends forever,” she said, utterly convinced.

“But what if your parents decide they don’t want to live in Castle Combe anymore and you move far away?”

“I’ll visit you until I can come back here on my own.”
Brahms’ eyes welled with tears; he lowered his face to hide them.

"I think one day you’ll stop loving me, Emi. You’ll just realize it and won’t want to be my friend anymore.”

The girl stared at him for a long moment before daring to cup his face in her small hands and press her lips to his. It was a fleeting kiss, barely a brush, but enough to send his heart pounding, blood rushing to his cheeks.

"Well, I think you’re a silly goose, Brahms Heelshire. I’ll never stop loving you, and you won’t get rid of me that easily,” she said, frowning as she stood. “Plus, you’re a cheater—it was your turn to catch me, slowpoke!”

She gave him a playful shove and ran off, petals trailing in her wake.
Brahms wanted to etch that moment into his memory forever. Emily was right—it was just his “evil bad brain,” as she called it, ruining a perfect day. There was nothing to fear. In a week, he’d turn eight, and that made him happy because it meant one year less until he could see the world—with her by his side.
His parents were planning a grand party. Emily would be the guest of honor, of course.

He just had to be patient.

*******

Barret’s patience had worn thin hours ago. He was starving, and his bones screamed for a hot bath. He stormed toward the door as the doorbell rang a third time, followed by sharp knocks. Whoever it was, they were about to meet his worst side.
Brahms grabbed the heavy fireplace poker and followed through the walls, on high alert. He hated the foyer passage—it was narrow, and he could barely see—but he wouldn’t leave his uncle alone with a stranger. The doorbell rang again, grating his nerves. He loathed that stupid sound, heralding intruders.
Barret yanked the door open, furious, the curse on his lips dying as he faced a familiar yet time-worn face at his doorstep. Unable to process, he simply stared. The young woman, startled by his outburst, stepped back to the edge of the porch, regretting every decision of the past hour that had led her there. She raised both hands in surrender before clearing her throat.
Brahms, pressed against the wall, could only see his uncle’s stunned silhouette in the doorway. He debated emerging when he heard her—a woman’s voice, deep and melodic. A sudden shiver ran through him, and he dropped the poker with a loud clang. The young woman jumped, and Barret, snapping out of his shock, realized he hadn’t heard a word she’d said.

“What…? M-my apologies, we weren’t expecting… I don’t get many visitors… I don’t usually—that is, give me a moment, please,” he stammered, fumbling in his robe pocket for his glasses case. The urgency to confirm whether his descent into madness had begun made his hands tremble. He took a moment to steady himself, wiping nonexistent smudges from his half-moon spectacles before putting them on.
The porch light revealed a young woman—not as young as she had been. Though her hair was the same intense black, her eyes weren’t the violet-blue of his memories but amber.

“Millicent Davies was here earlier,” the young woman repeated cautiously. “I’m here on her behalf. She just wants her purse back—it’s sentimental. Please.”

Right—the ugly, oversized floral purse Mrs. Davies had dropped on the stairs. Brahms had tossed it in the trash with everything else. The chance to see the woman who’d so rattled his uncle spurred him to slip silently toward he had left it.

Barret forced his kindest expression, trying to ease the tension.

“Of course, Mrs. Davies—charming woman. It’s probably somewhere, but I’ll need to look. If you’d wait, I’ll be right back with it. I can offer you tea if you’d like…” He opened the door fully, gesturing her inside.

“Thank you, I’d rather wait here,” she replied curtly.
Barret stepped onto the porch, peering both ways, noting the absence of a car. The young woman watched him warily.

“You walked here in the dead of night, miss?”

“I parked outside—we parked. The gate was open, but it felt rude to drive in without asking. They’re waiting for me.”

Barret caught the lie in her voice but didn’t press. He’d clearly come off as a dangerous old lunatic. What a day.

“Well, the porch rocker’s comfortable too. Make yourself at home,” he said with a smile before heading back inside. He didn’t even know where to start looking; maybe he’d ask her to return in the morning if he was lucky enough to find it.
There it was, right on the stairs where Mrs. Davies had left it.

“Thank you so much, Brahms,” he whispered, not expecting a reply. Two taps on his back told him his nephew had heard. Brahms must be dying of curiosity about the nighttime visitor to behave so well. Barret would try to give him a glimpse.
He returned to the entrance. The young woman leapt up, tense again. He solemnly handed her the purse, keeping as much distance as possible.

“Please accept my sincerest apologies for my behavior earlier. I’ve been utterly uncivilized and didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. It’s been a very long day… and you bear a striking resemblance to someone very dear I haven’t seen in about five decades,” Barret admitted, his green eyes showing vulnerability for the first time in years.
The young woman’s expression softened. Barret noticed her left eye was a luminous amber, while the right matched his own green. “No need to tell you, with those witchy eyes, that living here can make one awfully jumpy. You’ve surely heard the rumors.”

She shrugged, her body language visibly relaxed.
“Don’t believe in ghost stories and haunted houses, miss?” Barret asked, a roguish smile dancing on his lips.

“Oh, I do, Mr. Heelshire. But I also know Millie Davies well, so whatever happened in your house might be wildly exaggerated…” A strange look crossed her face before she opened the floral bag, rummaged inside, and pulled out the two silver teaspoons Barret had set out for the couple’s tea. “Or well-deserved. I assume these are yours.”
Barret nodded, impressed, taking them.

“Grandmother’s heirlooms.”

“Very nice. Once, Millie took my headphones from my bag and gave them to her son like it was nothing. Like I said, I know her well.” A tight smile revealed dimples in her cheeks. “I’m so sorry for the trouble, Mr. Heelshire.” Barret waved it off.

Brahms, aching from squeezing against the thick foyer wall, had caught nearly everything with his sharp ears and was now even more desperate to meet her. Not only was she brave, but clever and honest. Was she local? She had a peculiar accent—could she be related to the Davies? He hoped not. Lost in imagining her face and name, he didn’t notice the conversation end until his uncle closed the heavy door. He darted from his hiding spot, ignoring his dazed uncle as he crossed to the parlor, its windows closest to the entrance.

He approached without thinking, only a thin day curtain covering the window. Then he saw her—walking lightly toward the gate, a long purple sweater hanging on her frame, her heavy hair falling in loose waves down her back, swaying with her steps. She paused and turned slightly toward the mansion. His heart flipped. Though too far to see him, he felt she was looking at him, knowing he was watching her. After a moment, she resumed her walk, faster now. Passing the Davies’ broken mirror, she crouched, picked it up, and tossed it into the woman’s hideous purse.
Brahms brushed the glass with his fingers, yearning.

“I see you’ve met my new friend,” Barret said, placing a hand on his shoulder, giving him goosebumps. He cursed how silent his uncle was. “We still have a good talk pending.” His grip tried to guide Brahms along, but the boy didn’t budge. “And… maybe afterward, we could plan a little field trip to the picturesque village of Lacock, home of the Davies and their charming employee, naturally.”

Brahms walked docilely beside his uncle back to the dining room, willing to endure every awkward conversation necessary to finally see her.