Chapter 2 - The Forbidden North Wing

By the time I returned to the Vale estate two days later, wrapped in a medical brace and carrying a small duffel bag of my belongings, Mrs. Hargrove was gone.

A quiet, elderly housekeeper named Maria showed me to my quarters. My room wasn't in the servants' wing downstairs—it was directly adjacent to Noah’s massive bedroom suite on the second floor.

“Mr. Vale had a connecting door installed yesterday,” Maria explained in a hushed tone as she set down fresh linens. “The boy refused to sleep unless he knew you were on the other side.”

“Where is Mrs. Hargrove?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

Maria stopped mid-fold, her hands trembling slightly over the bedsheets. She looked around nervously before leaning in. “Dismissed. Pack up and gone before midnight the same day you left. Mr. Vale’s men escorted her off the property. Nobody knows where she went.”

That night, after I helped Noah finish a dinner he actually ate—the first full meal he had eaten in days, according to the chef—I tucked him into his canopy bed. The little boy clutched a worn velvet bear to his chest, his dark eyes tracking my every movement.

“Clara?” he whispered as I reached for the lamp.

“Yes, Noah?”

“Don’t let the shadow come through the wall.”

My heart heavy, I sat on the edge of his mattress and brushed the dark hair from his forehead. “There are no shadows here, sweetie. Your father has guards everywhere.”

“Not those shadows,” Noah muttered, his eyelids growing heavy. “The shadow that smells like sweet flowers. She tells me Mommy is waiting in the cold room.”

A chill ran down my spine. Lydia.

Lydia Vale was Dominic’s wife. Two years ago, her car had been ambushed on Route 41 by rival mobsters. The vehicle had caught fire and plummeted down an embankment into Lake Michigan. Her body was never recovered, but the police—and the mafia—had pronounced her dead.

I stayed by Noah’s bed until his deep, rhythmic breathing signaled he was asleep.

At 2:00 AM, I woke up to a faint, rhythmic sound reverberating through the walls.

It wasn't a hallucination. It was a sound vibrating through the ancient pipes of the mansion.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

It sounded like footsteps on hardwood floor. Coming from the North Wing.

Driven by an irresistible, dangerous curiosity—and the thought of Noah’s terrified eyes—I quietly slipped out of bed. I wore soft cotton socks and kept my hand pressed against my bruised ribs to stay silent.

The hallway was pitch black, illuminated only by the pale moonlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling stained glass windows. I crept down the long corridor, past the row of historical portraits, until I reached the heavy double iron doors that separated the main house from the North Wing.

A heavy brass padlock sealed the door. But as I drew closer, my breath hitched.

The padlock wasn't locked. It was dangling loosely from the latch.

Someone was inside right now.

I reached out a trembling hand and pushed the heavy iron door open just an inch. Cold air rushed out, carrying a smell that made my blood run cold.

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