The Silent Guest

Chapter Four – Shadows in the Walls

The servant stairwell was narrow and steep, the kind built for discretion, not safety. Rachel descended quickly, gun drawn, Lambert behind her. The dim light flickered, casting warped shadows against the cracked plaster walls.

The muddy footprints were still fresh—smeared, hurried. Someone had fled this way just moments ago.

At the bottom, the stairs opened into a cramped hallway beneath the mansion. Pipes ran along the ceiling like veins, dripping. The air was colder here, musty. Rachel's boots squelched faintly as they followed the trail.

Lambert whispered, "There's a service exit near the wine cellar—back of the east wing."

Rachel nodded. "If they're trying to get out, that's their way."

They rounded the corner—then froze.

A figure darted ahead, a blur of motion just beyond the hallway light. Fast. Covered head to toe in dark clothing. Hood up. Gloved hands. Silent footsteps.

"Stop!" Rachel shouted, surging forward.

The figure sprinted.

Rachel chased them through the underbelly of the mansion—past cobwebbed storage rooms and old servants' quarters, through clouds of dust and forgotten relics. Every twist felt like a trap. Every turn, another dead end.

The figure slipped through a narrow doorway into the wine cellar.

Rachel followed, breath sharp, heart hammering.

Barrels lined the walls. Shelves of aged bottles stretched into darkness. The air smelled of cork and damp stone. She moved carefully now, steps quiet, Lambert flanking the other side.

Then—glass shattered.

A bottle hit the floor, red wine splashing like blood across the stone. The figure leapt from behind the racks, shoved Lambert aside, and rushed toward the exterior door.

Lana raised her weapon. "Don't move!"

But the intruder didn't stop.

She fired—once, clean, into the stone above their head.

They froze. Hands raised slowly.

Lambert lunged, tackled the figure to the ground. A struggle ensued—brief, but fierce.

Rachel stepped forward, breathless, and yanked back the hood.

It wasn't Victor. Not Victoria.

It was a girl. Barely twenty. Pale, shaking, and soaked from rain and sweat.

Her lips trembled. "I… I didn't kill her, I swear."

Rachel narrowed her eyes. "Then why run?"

The girl's chest heaved. "Because he told me to disappear. If anyone found me, I'd be next."

"Who?" Rachel demanded.

The girl looked up with watery eyes. "Adam Goodman."