Chapter 3 - The Broken Window
The grandfather clock in the downstairs hallway chimed three times, its deep, resonant gongs vibrating through the floorboards of the silent mansion.
John sat upright in his leather armchair in the study, blinking away sleep. He hadn't meant to fall asleep by the fireplace, but the exhaustion of the day had finally caught up with him. The embers in the hearth had burned down to a dull, glowing bed of red ash, casting long, eerie shadows across his bookshelves.
Suddenly, a sharp, piercing sound sliced through the stillness of the night.
Clatter.
It sounded like heavy glass shattering, followed by a muffled thud echoing from the eastern wing of the mansion—the exact direction of the guest suite where the triplets were sleeping.
John’s breath caught in his throat. Adrenaline flooded his veins, instantly banishing all traces of sleep. He scrambled out of the chair, his joints popping in the cold air, and rushed to his desk. He unlocked the top drawer, sliding his hand inside to grip the cold, heavy steel of his late father’s snub-nosed .38 revolver. He didn't like guns, had never wanted to touch one, but looking at the pristine white snow outside and remembering the terrified whispers in the hallway earlier, he was profoundly grateful it was there.
He crept out into the dark hallway, his bare feet making no sound on the plush Persian runners.
The mansion was freezing now; the central heating seemed to be struggling against the plummeting outdoor temperature, or perhaps... someone had opened an exterior door or window.
As John reached the base of the grand staircase, a blood-curdling scream pierced the air.
"Emma! No! Let her go!"
It was Olivia’s voice, shrill with absolute, unadulterated terror.
John didn't hesitate. He vaulted up the stairs two at a time, the revolver clutched tightly in his right hand, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
When he reached the guest wing, the heavy oak door of the suite was swung wide open. Light spilled out into the dark hallway from the lamps inside. John raised the gun, bracing his shoulder against the doorframe, and burst into the room.
The sight that met his eyes made his blood run cold.
The master window overlooking the rear garden had been smashed inward, jagged shards of glass sparkling across the hardwood floor like diamonds. Frigid winter wind whipped through the room, sending curtains thrashing wildly against the walls.
Emma was gone.
Olivia and Ava were locked in a desperate, weeping embrace in the center of the room. Ava was hyperventilating, her lips blue with cold and shock, while Olivia glared toward the broken window with wild, tear-filled eyes, trembling uncontrollably.
"What happened?!" John demanded, lowering the gun slightly as he rushed forward, scanning the room for intruders. "Where is Emma?!"
Olivia choked back a sob, pointing a shaking finger toward the shattered glass window that opened onto a second-story balcony. "He... he was outside. He was watching us through the glass. Emma saw him first. She... she opened the balcony door to chase him off so he wouldn't hurt Ava, and... and he grabbed her!"
John bolted toward the balcony doors, shoving them open against the heavy snowdrifts piling up outside.
He stepped out onto the frost-covered stone balcony, shivering instantly as the sub-zero wind lashed across his face. He peered over the stone balustrade, scanning the moonlit gardens below.
Footprints—heavy, deep boot prints—crushed the pristine snow on the lawn, leading away from the base of the balcony toward the dense, dark treeline at the edge of the estate. But there was no sign of Emma. No sound save for the howling wind through the pine trees.
She was gone. Sucked out into the freezing night by an unknown predator.
John turned back inside, his face pale, his mind racing at a terrifying speed. He rushed back into the bedroom where Ava was now sobbing uncontrollably into Olivia’s shoulder.
"Who was it?" John demanded, his voice fierce, demanding answers. "Who took her, Olivia? Give me a name!"
May you like
Olivia looked up at him, her eyes wide with a horrific realization. She didn't look like a scared homeless girl anymore; she looked like someone trapped in a nightmare from which there was no waking up.
"It's not just a man," Olivia whispered, her voice cracking with despair. "It’s our uncle. And he’s not going to stop until he finishes what he started thirty years ago."
