PART 3: The Gathering Storm
The heavy rain returned by the time I pulled up to the dark house, matching the gloom in my chest. Heavy tire tracks cut through the soaked lawn, revealing that Eleanor’s bitter nieces had already tried—and failed—to break into the residence while I was away at the lawyer’s office. Clutches of wet rose petals littered the front steps like fresh wounds in the storm.
Inside, the empty house felt suffocatingly quiet, devoid of the soft scraping of her teacups or the click of her knitting needles. I clutched the cold brass key in my coat pocket, guiding my trembling flashlight toward the narrow basement door at the end of the hallway. Every creak of the floorboards felt like a warning echoing from the house’s buried past.
I descended into the damp gloom, unprepared for the dark history buried beneath the concrete floor. What was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs? Go to the next part to discover the horrifying truth…
