They studied the farmhouse from the overgrown weeds in the yard. The place looked derelict and long abandoned. Though the old couple who owned the farm were recently deceased, years of neglect had taken their toll.


    It stood at the crest of a slight rise, its stone walls weathered and pockmarked with age. Once sturdy and proud, the gray stone had begun to crumble at the edges, worn thin by wind and rain.


    The roof was a patchwork of sagging thatch. It bore dark patches of rot where moisture had settled too long. Stray bits of straw jutted out like the bristles of an old, neglected broom.


    The small, grimy windows, set deep within the stone walls, warped and flecked with dirt, let no light escape. The shutters hung at odd angles. Their once-sturdy hinges were now rusted, the wood warped and splintering. The front door was no better, tilted in its frame, barely held together by its corroded iron bands—a brass knocker shaped like a lion’s head dangled by a single, loose nail.


    The barn stood a short distance from the house, its wooden frame warped by years of disrepair. The slanted roof had partially caved in, and the gaping doorway yawned like a mouth missing half its teeth. Though in poor shape, it seemed undisturbed—as if whatever had come to this place had no use for livestock, only the farmhouse itself.


    No smoke rose from the chimneys. No candlelight flickered from within—no birds stirred in the barn rafters. The entire scene lay in eerie stillness. There was no sign of the mysterious carriage and no sign that anyone was present. Whoever had leased the farm was not here or had never arrived.


    A cold wind stirred the tall grass, whispering as it passed through the weeds. A faint creak sounded from within the house—like old wood shifting beneath an unseen weight.


    “We aren’t going inside, are we?” Elsbeth asked.


    Cordelia arched a brow. “Of course we are.”


    Elsbeth sighed. Of course, they were.


    Hex, lying beside them, cleared his throat. “Let’s hope no one’s home,” he muttered.


    Cordelia’s eyes flicked to the darkened doorway. She took a step forward.


    “If they are, let’s not keep them waiting.”


    <hr>


    The front door groaned on its hinges as Hex gave it a push. The iron latch protested with a rusted screech before the door swung open into the darkened entryway.


    A fine layer of dust billowed up in the cold air as they stepped inside. The air was stale, thick with the scent of old wood and dry fabric, and something faint and acrid beneath it all—like oil left to rot.


    Hex stepped in, waving a hand before his face as dust motes swirled in the lantern light.


    “Charming,” he muttered. “Love what they’ve done with the place.”


    Though the house had the bones of a once-cozy home, signs of disturbance were everywhere. Once properly arranged, the furniture stood at odd angles, as if dragged and ransacked.


    The contents of a writing desk lie dumped into a heap, its drawers left hanging open, their insides scraped clean. Someone had cut the chairs and couches open along the seams, their stuffing spilling loose like open wounds.


    Cordelia crouched near the cold hearth, her fingers tracing a scattering of fine white dust across the mantle.


    “No fire since the deaths,” she murmured. “Not even a squatter for warmth.”


    Hex turned in a slow circle, his lantern sweeping across the walls, blank spaces where paintings once hung.


    “If someone was looking for something, they weren’t subtle about it.”


    He prodded a nearby chair with the tip of his boot. "Would’ve been easier to burn the place down.”


    “Not if they hadn’t found what they were looking for,” Cordelia said.


    Elsbeth pulled her coat tighter as she examined the floorboards near the sitting area. She knelt, running a hand over the uneven edges. Several had been pried up and then hastily replaced. Whoever had done it hadn’t bothered to disguise their work; the boards no longer fit together.


    “Someone was thorough,” she said. “And whatever was hidden here—it’s probably gone now.”


    Hex blew out a low breath. “Great. So, what’s the plan? We pack it up and head back to town?”


    Cordelia turned her attention to the stairs. The narrow wooden steps climbed into darkness, their edges softened by dust and neglect. “We check upstairs,” she said.


    Hex groaned but took the lead, his lantern casting long, shifting shadows along the hallway walls as they ascended. The upstairs was in a similar state—dust settling over abandoned lives—but one bedroom stood out.


    It had been searched more violently than the others. The mattress slashed open, its stuffing torn out and left in heaps. The wardrobe doors hung open, their contents dumped onto the floor. Even the floorboards had been pried up, gouges left where nails had been torn free.


    Cordelia ran her fingertips along the edge of an empty picture frame still hanging on the wall. The glass shattered, its shards still glinting on the floor below.


    “Someone wanted something here very badly.”


    Elsbeth frowned. “You think this was the daughter’s room?”


    Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    Cordelia nodded. With Durry’s help, Elsbeth uncovered a request for adoption—a young girl, around eight years old, almost thirty years past. The daughter, now grown, had not come forward, and despite the authorities’ attempts to find her, her whereabouts remained unknown.


    “Why wouldn’t she claim the inheritance?” Hex muttered. “I’d take a free house.”


    “If she thought someone was looking for her,” Elsbeth pointed out, “she might have wanted to disappear.”


    “Not to mention the back taxes,” Cordelia added.


    Percy, lingering near the doorway, took a hesitant step inside. His foot caught an old oil lamp, sending it toppling with a clang. He jumped back, startled, then scrambled to right it, glancing sheepishly at the others.


    Cordelia’s gaze shifted to the lamp. “That still has oil in it,” she noted.


    Percy froze, looking down at the faint residue now glistening where a small amount had spilled across the wood. “Should I—?”


    “Won’t hurt to have another lamp,” Cordelia said.


    Elsbeth lit the lantern with a quick match strike, its weak flame flickering to life. Percy adjusted the wick, but its sudden surge made him start.


    Hex smirked. “Try not to set yourself on fire, Percy.”


    Percy’s face turned pink, but he muttered, “I wasn’t planning to.”


    Cordelia ignored the boys’ banter, crossed to the window, unlatched it, and pushed it open to let in wisps of cold air.


    This house still held secrets. Something remained undiscovered.


    Whoever had searched the place had grown desperate, their methods frantic and reckless. That meant they hadn’t found what they wanted. Cordelia exhaled, watching her breath curl in the lantern’s glow.


    A creature had killed Oliver Wright. Perhaps the same one that Percy had booted off the carriage. The housekeeper, Mrs. Hampstead, had tried to kill the father, only to take the boy’s life instead. The pursuing carriage had come from this property. And now, unseen hands had torn this house apart, a desperate search, looking for something they couldn’t find.


    Her jaw tightened. She had a sinking feeling that whatever it was, it was still here.


    She turned toward Hex. They were all watching her.


    “Hex, there must be a root cellar. Let’s see what we find there.”


    Hex nodded and turned to head downstairs, pausing when Cordelia continued.


    “Percy and Elsbeth should make sure the beds are usable. We stay here tonight.”


    A look of unease crossed their faces, but they said nothing.


    Hex headed down the stairs, Cordelia close behind.


    <hr>


    Hex entered the kitchen, his lantern casting a dim, flickering glow over the dust-laden countertops and the heavy wooden table in the center of the room. The air was thick, carrying the scent of dried herbs, old wood, and something musty, like rotting potatoes left too long in the dark.


    Cordelia followed close behind. Her keen eyes scanned the shelves along the walls, where jars of preserved fruits and vegetables stood forgotten, collecting dust.


    “Root cellar should be in here,” she murmured, running her fingers along the wall near the hearth. “Older houses like this always have one beneath the kitchen.”


    Hex nodded, lifting his lantern higher. The floorboards creaked beneath his boots, and he stepped forward, listening. The house was too quiet. There was not a whisper of wind, no distant creaks of settling wood, only a silence thick enough to smother sound.


    A faint scrape broke the stillness.


    Hex stiffened. Cordelia’s gaze flicked toward him.


    “Mice,” he said, forcing a smirk. “Or the bones of the old place shifting.”


    Cordelia didn’t look convinced.


    Hex cleared his throat and pressed on, stepping toward the pantry alcove near the far wall. His boot scuffed against something hollow, and he paused, glancing down.


    A wooden latch.


    “Here we go.”


    He crouched and gripped the handle, tugging at it. The trapdoor groaned open, revealing a steep set of narrow wooden stairs, their edges worn and uneven. Cold air rushed up from below, bringing the scent of damp earth, mildew, and something stale.


    Cordelia arched a brow. “Well?”


    Hex exhaled, holding up the lantern. “I’m not afraid if that’s what you think.”


    She smirked. “Never said you were.”


    Hex muttered something under his breath and descended.


    <hr>


    The lantern light struggled against the dark, casting long, shifting shadows along the packed-earth walls. The cellar was more extensive than expected, stretching deeper beneath the house, its stone foundation bracing the walls in uneven patches.


    Rows of wooden shelves lined the space, sagging under the weight of jars of preserves. A dusty workbench stood along one side. Covered with rusted tools and scraps of cloth, it looked as if someone had started a repair and never finished.


    With caution, Hex stepped forward, the damp air clinging to his skin. His boots crunched over something brittle—shards of old pottery. He swept the lantern to illuminate barrels, a few crates, and an abandoned wooden chair missing a leg.


    Nothing unusual.


    Still, a weight sat in his gut. The silence here was worse—a kind of heavy quiet, like the earth was holding its breath.


    He frowned, listening. A faint sound. A shuffling, somewhere in the darkness. Hex’s grip tightened on the lantern. His mind offered logical explanations—a loose board, the echo of his movement, or something shifting from years of neglect.


    But something about it felt… off. He cleared his throat. “Right, well… nothing interesting here.”


    Turning on his heel, he climbed the stairs, pushing the latch shut a little too hard once he emerged.


    Cordelia watched him. Hex rolled his shoulders, feigning nonchalance. “Just a bunch of rotting vegetables and dust. We can leave it to the rats.”


    Cordelia studied him briefly, then said, “Good to know.”


    Hex exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. The noises were nothing more than the house settling. The old place breathing in the cold night air. He told himself he wasn’t spooked. Not at all. But why did he feel such unease?


    Might it be that which lay undiscovered in the furthest corner of the root cellar? In a place where the lantern’s glow hadn’t reached lay another wooden hatch, its edges warped with age. Unlike the rest of the basement, this door bore scratches—deep, ragged furrows gouged through the grain.


    And behind it—something waited.


    Still. Silent. Awakening.


    Wracked with hunger.


    <hr>


    Percy and Hex stood side by side, staring at the small bed. They had plenty of blankets, but there was no getting around it—if they lay down, things would get very cozy.


    Hex scowled. “Christ, this is worse than a Whitechapel lodging house. At least there, I could pretend the bloke next to me was already dead, so I wouldn’t have to worry about him rolling over. Might as well be back in St. Giles—packed in like rats, only with fewer knife fights and a lower chance of waking up with typhus.”


    Percy stiffened. He had heard of those places—the squalid conditions, the rampant disease, the men who slept in doorways because even the worst of the slums had no room for them. But it had never occurred to him that Hex had spent time among them. West London and East London were different worlds, and the people in one rarely, if ever, crossed into the other.


    Hex smirked at his expression. “Relax, Percy. Back in Spitalfields, you’d have six other lads crammed into this bed, all fighting for the warm spot. And let me tell you, this is luxury compared to a fourpenny coffin house—at least here we get to lie down.”


    Percy blinked. “A what?”


    Hex propped himself against the bedpost, arms crossed. “Fourpenny coffin house. You pay for a rope strung across the room, lean against it, and sleep standing up. No joke.”


    Percy gawked, unsure whether Hex was pulling his leg or telling the truth. He wasn’t sure which was worse.


    Still, the bed now didn’t seem so small. Without another word, he pulled off his boots and lay down, claiming the side nearest the door.


    Through the thin walls, he could hear the low murmur of voices from the next room. Cordelia and Elsbeth were talking, their words blurred beyond recognition. He strained to listen, catching only the rise and fall of Cordelia’s voice, its cadence lulling him into something close to comfort.


    He tried to make sense of the muffled conversation, but in the end, it was no use.


    Sleep took him soon after, light and uneasy.