Elmer Smith had always lived in the dim glow of his family's mansion, a sprawling estate nestled deep in the countryside, far from prying eyes. The house, a relic of old wealth, loomed with an eerie presence, its stone walls and towering windows trapping secrets in their depths. The outside world barely touched it—no neighbors, no visitors, just the endless hush of the surrounding woods.
Elmer never questioned the quiet. It was how life had always been.
His parents, Henry and Margaret Smith, were often away, but when they were home, they made sure to spend time with him. Dinner together in the candlelit dining hall, long evenings in the parlor with the glow of the fireplace casting shifting shadows along the walls. They would ask about his books, his thoughts, his routine—but their conversations never went beyond the surface. They were always watching, listening, as if assessing him rather than enjoying his company.
Tonight was one of those nights.
Elmer sat across from them at the grand dining table, the flickering light of the chandelier reflecting in their polished silverware. His mother sipped her wine, her crimson lips pressing into a thin line before she spoke.
"You've been keeping yourself occupied?"
It was always phrased like that—not how are you? or what have you been up to? but a careful, measured question.
Elmer nodded, pushing his food around his plate. "Reading, mostly."
His father, Henry, leaned forward slightly. "Anything interesting?"
"A book about—" He hesitated. It was a fantasy novel, one about a boy who discovers his bloodline isn't human. He knew how they would react. They never liked his interest in those kinds of stories. "Just history," he lied.
His mother's gaze lingered on him for a moment too long before she smiled, but the expression never quite reached her eyes.
"Good. It's important to understand the past."
Elmer swallowed. There was something unnerving about the way she said it, like there was a meaning beneath her words that he wasn't meant to grasp.
The conversation moved on, but the unease never left. His parents never spoke of their youth, their past, or how they had come to inherit the mansion. Whenever Elmer asked, the answers were vague, evasive. It was as if their lives had only begun the moment he was born.
Later, as they settled in the parlor, his mother sat close beside him on the couch while his father took the chair across from them. They played chess—something his parents insisted on often. It wasn't about fun; it was about strategy, discipline. They observed him as he moved each piece, their eyes sharp, calculating.
"You're thinking ahead," his father noted as Elmer captured his rook.
Elmer shrugged. "I guess."
His mother's hand rested lightly on his shoulder. A gentle touch, but something about it felt... rehearsed.
"You're learning," she murmured. "That's good."
The words should have been comforting. Instead, they felt like an evaluation.
It was during these moments that Elmer noticed the small things—the subtle shifts in the air, the way their eyes would flicker to the door as if waiting for something. As if they were always waiting for something to happen, something unseen.
And then there was the silence. A silence that stretched between them, thick and unnerving. Elmer had grown used to it, but tonight it felt heavier. He couldn't help but glance at the clock on the wall, its ticking a steady, rhythmic pulse.
Suddenly, as he stood up to leave, he felt it—a sharp stab of pain in his left arm.
His hand went instinctively to the spot where the ache had begun earlier, but now it was worse. His fingers tingled with the familiar sensation of something deeper, something pressing from within. It felt almost as though something was twisting under his skin, trying to break free.
He froze, a flash of memory cutting through his mind, unbidden.
Thy who holds the key, must be slain.
It was a voice. No, not a voice—just a thought, a whisper that rang through his skull. His breath caught in his throat as he shook his head, trying to dispel the feeling, but it lingered, cold and unsettling.
The memory, or whatever it was, faded as quickly as it had come, leaving him breathless and disoriented. He rubbed his arm harder, feeling the pulse of his own heartbeat against the strange sensation.
"Elmer?" His mother's voice called out softly from behind him.
He turned to face her, his heart pounding in his chest. She was standing in the doorway, watching him with that same careful expression. Her eyes were sharp, calculating.
"Are you feeling well?"
It was a simple question, but there was something beneath it—an undertone of expectation, of something unspoken.
He nodded quickly, not trusting himself to say more.
"I'm fine, just tired," he said, his voice sounding too hollow, too rehearsed.
His father, watching from the chair, raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
The house seemed to hold its breath as Elmer made his way upstairs to his room. The shadows in the hall stretched unnaturally, like they were reaching out to him, but he pushed the thought away.
Once inside his room, he closed the door behind him and locked it, his heart still racing. The thumping sound was still there, faint in the distance, but louder than before. It seemed to come from deep within the house, resonating through the very walls.
His hand shook as he reached for his book, but the words on the page blurred before his eyes. He could still hear the faint whisper, Thy who holds the key, must be slain.
It was impossible to shake. He stood up abruptly, pacing the length of the room.
What was happening to him?
The mansion felt different tonight—heavier, older. The shadows seemed to whisper, pulling at him with an unseen force. The thumping grew louder still, calling him toward something deep within the house, something he didn't understand.
And yet, he was drawn to it, as if something in him had awoken, and it needed to be found.
With a deep breath, Elmer made his decision. He could no longer ignore it.
There was something in this house. And he would find it.