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Maya struggles to gather her thoughts, her mind muddled by the tension that saturates every corner of the room. She walks slowly through the bar, her fingers brushing absentmindedly along the edge of the counter, searching for a clue, an object—anything—that might trigger another memory of Inspector Follin. But focusing is nearly impossible. Wherever she goes, she feels that gaze pressing down on her. Hugo is watching. Always. And even though she stubbornly refuses to turn her head toward him, she knows his ice-blue eyes are following her, filled with a sickly gleam she doesn’t dare confront.
Jenks eventually picks up on her unease and, in a protective gesture, steps between her and Hugo, blocking the latter’s view. The man tied to the chair has no choice but to turn his burning gaze on the inspector instead, but that grants Maya only a brief reprieve.
The bar itself offers no help. Its modern layout presents nothing period-appropriate that could serve as a catalyst. Frustration rises in her. Her mind echoes too loudly, too saturated with anxiety and interference, until she hears something—a whisper, barely audible. She turns her head, following the nearly imperceptible echo, and her eyes land on a decorative wooden cabinet, finely carved. On top, a lamp casts a faint light, barely enough to keep the shadows at bay.
“Can’t we turn the main power back on?” Camille echoes Maya’s own thoughts from the doorway.
She’s still supporting Harriet against her, careful to stay as far away from Hugo as possible without ever taking her eyes off him.
“I can’t stand this half-darkness anymore. Feels like something’s about to jump out at me at any second.”
A stifled laugh escapes from Hugo’s gag. Jenks shoots him a murderous glare before replying.
“Unfortunately, I don’t know where the circuit breaker is. And I didn’t want to go looking for it while this… creep was still on the loose. I’ll check as soon as we’re done here.”
Camille nods gratefully while Maya remains focused on the carved cabinet. She kneels in front of it and tries to open one of the doors, but it won’t budge. Her patience frays with each passing second, and in a surge of frustration, she suddenly rises to her feet.
Without a word, she leaves the room under the questioning eyes of Camille and Jenks. She crosses the living room with quick, determined steps, grabs a fire iron. Then she returns to the bar, and without a moment’s hesitation, jams the iron between the cabinet doors. She pushes, forces with all her strength, using the metal as a lever, until a loud crack echoes through the room.
A piece of wood snaps violently under the pressure. Splinters fly, and with one final effort, she manages to tear the cabinet door free. Inside, it reveals an old liquor cabinet, once used to store valuable bottles. Maya can easily picture rows of aged whiskey and cognac lined up there, silent witnesses to forgotten evenings.
As her gaze shifts to the door she just tore off, she notices engravings carved directly into the wood. A series of names, all male, followed by dates—some going back decades, maybe even centuries. It looks like some kind of secret register, a memorial of moments shared among friends, memories of men bound by nights of drinking and trust. A silent brotherhood etched into the wood itself.
She tilts the door toward the faint glow of the emergency lamp and scans the engravings, her finger absentmindedly following the list, stopping on two specific names: Peter Hall and Timothy Follin.
“Found it…” she straightens slightly and turns to Camille. “Sit Harriet here.”
Without asking questions, the Frenchwoman complies and helps the journalist settle into one of the armchairs. Meanwhile, Maya slowly crouches in front of the motionless mask, her gaze locked onto those empty eye sockets.
“Sergeant Follin?”
“Yes, I am Sergeant Follin.”
“When you said you were starting to see good in Peter Hall, does it have something to do with the nights you spent drinking together?”
“Yes. From the moment I arrived, I suffered from insomnia and horrific nightmares. I couldn’t sleep more than a few hours without waking up in a sweat, convinced someone was lurking in my room. My partner stood guard at night, and even though I knew I could rely on him, it didn’t change anything. Sleep kept slipping away. I ended up wandering the house until I reached the bar.”
Follin pauses, then resumes in a deeper voice.
“Hall paid me well to act as his caretaker; he wouldn’t have complained if I stole a few drinks. I thought he didn’t drink. Yet one night, I found him there, in the small lounge, sitting in the dark, looking completely lost. Like he hadn’t slept in days. So we shared a drink. And we talked. He turned out to be… different from what I expected.”
“Different how?”
“Less strange, less unsettling. He was a gentle boy, contemplative, passionate about literature. I don’t think he ever wanted to be a surgeon. That was his mother’s ambition, not his. And she made his life a living hell…”
The ghostly voice sounds heavier now, weighed down with emotion.
“He didn’t regret his death for a single moment. Then he cried. He was convinced she had come back from the dead to kill him. That fear made him extremely devout… to the point of obsession. He had very strong opinions about our time, but not enough to become a murderer. That night, seeing him so vulnerable, my certainties began to crack. We kept up our nightly ritual for an entire month. We enjoyed it. In another life, he could have been my little brother. I liked that idea. To help with my insomnia, he gave me notebooks to write down my dreams. Then we found another body, another murder…”
A fraction of a second later, a vision of overwhelming violence crashes into Maya.
A young boy—an adolescent, perhaps an apprentice or a farmer’s son—runs breathlessly through a dark forest. He’s fleeing something. Someone. His eyes are wide with terror, his legs struggling through the mud. Behind him, a taller, faster figure gains ground. Two hands lash out and grab him. Then… a moment later, his body lies on the ground, twisted into a grotesque position. His once-youthful face is now just a mass of flesh, torn apart by savage blows. His dead eyes stare into nothingness.
Another image forces its way into her mind. A notebook. A hand writing frantically.
Then everything dissolves.
“Maya!”
Jenks’s distant voice yanks her violently back to reality. She’s on her knees, sweat beading on her forehead, hands clutching her temples in unbearable pain. Her eyes are shut so tightly that tears stream down her cheeks, and a metallic taste fills her mouth—she’s bitten her lip where Hugo wounded her.
Firm pressure on her shoulders. Jenks crouches in front of her, his worried gaze betraying his hesitation to let her continue, but Maya gives him no time.
Her eyes, burning with fury, lock onto Hugo, who watches her with cruel irony, relishing her state with sadistic amusement. In a sudden motion, she pulls free of Jenks’s grip, rises to her feet, and charges at the man. Without care, she rips the cord gag from his mouth.
“Still talking to the dead, Maya?” he sneers, mocking.
On impulse, she grabs him by the collar and yanks his face toward hers, just inches apart.
“Since you’re here, why don’t you save us all some time and tell us what you did back then?!”
He doesn’t answer. He just stares back, a smirk on his lips, savoring the moment.
“What did you do?!” she shouts, shaking him violently.
“Maya, step back,” Jenks moves in quickly, his tone firm. “This isn’t a good id—”
“Where’s the fun in telling you, Maya?” Hugo cuts in with a mocking laugh.
The young woman’s rage explodes. She steps back, raises her hand, and without thinking, slaps him with such force that the echo rings all the way to the manor’s entrance.
“WHAT DID YOU DO?!”
“Maya, that’s enough!”
Jenks grabs her roughly from behind, pinning her arms and dragging her out of the room. Camille follows, terrified. They don’t stop until they reach the far end of the living room, where Jenks finally lets her go.
“Maya, for God’s sake, what’s gotten into you?!”
“Oh, now you care about him?!”
Her eyes burn with raw, acidic anger as she starts pacing, unable to contain the storm raging inside her.
“Not about him—about you!” Jenks’s voice cracks like a whip through the air. “Maya, what’s going on? You’re not yourself.”
She feels her breath quicken, her whole body trembling under a tension she can no longer control. The whispers of the dead return, insistent, suffocating, echoing in her skull like a low, relentless hum she can’t silence. Her hands clamp over her temples.
“The visions are starting to affect her,” Camille murmurs hesitantly.
Maya shoots her a glare, furious. A sharp retort rises to her lips, but Jenks raises a hand before she can speak, silencing her with a single gesture.
“Maya, you’re exhausted, on edge, locked in this cursed house with visions of the dead and ghosts that won’t leave you alone. Take a break, for God’s sake.”
“No!” Her voice bursts out, trembling with rage and distress. “We have to figure out how to get rid of this… this thing!”
She realizes she’s crying—not out of sadness, but from sheer frustration, from frayed nerves, from adrenaline burning her from the inside out. Her entire body trembles with small, uncontrollable shakes.
“We don’t know how much time we have left before backup gets here! And if they even get here before Ryan Rand and the rest of Phoenix! And even if they do, what could they possibly do for Harriet? For Simon? For… me?!”
She says it all in one breath, not even pausing to inhale, her heaving breath morphing into a strangled sob. Jenks frowns. He watches her closely, and something in his gaze shifts.
“You? Maya, the ritual obviously didn’t work on you. You’re safe. And—”
“Before I become like him!”
She nearly screams the words, her trembling hand pointing toward the bar door.
A heavy silence falls over the room. Camille looks completely lost, her eyes darting from Maya to Jenks, trying to make sense of it all. But Jenks just stares. His gaze locks onto hers, searching, digging deep into her mind. He parts his lips, about to speak—about to put into words what he’s just realized.
A deafening crash erupts suddenly from the bar. A brutal impact, followed by the sharp clatter of an overturned piece of furniture and the chaotic sounds of a struggle. The three of them exchange alarmed glances before rushing toward the source of the commotion.
Hugo’s chair has toppled, violently thrown onto its side. And Harriet—or rather, Follin—is on top of him. The journalist’s frail body has become a whirlwind of blind rage, her fists pounding relentlessly into Hugo’s face. Every blow lands with desperate force, a savagery no longer human.
And Hugo… Hugo laughs. A broken, uncontrollable, almost hysterical laugh. The laugh of a man who revels in chaos. In the rush, no one has taken the time to put the gag back on him, and God only knows what he whispered to Sergeant Follin’s spirit to push him over the edge.
Jenks tries to restrain Harriet, but the journalist shoves him off violently. She stumbles back, then bolts for the front hall.
“She’s going outside!” Camille reacts instantly, darting after her. “She has the gun! Harriet!”
“Oh, for crying out loud…” Jenks groans in frustration, straightens up, and rushes after them.
Maya, however, doesn’t move. Everything inside her screams to follow, to run—but she can’t. Something holds her in place. Just a few feet away, Hugo writhes on his overturned chair. His face is contorted with rising fury, his wild eyes fixed on her.
“Untie me, and let’s end this. I promise to leave your little friends alone. This is my final offer, Maya. After that, you’ll follow me—whether in this body or another, willingly or half-dead. Do you hear me? Maya? Maya!!”
She doesn’t listen. Something else has caught her attention. In the doorway leading to the hall, Maya sees a flicker of movement. A shimmer of glowing fabric.
The woman in red.
Unlike the other spirits haunting this house, this one feels… different. Maya doesn’t see her through memories, and she interacts without any mask rituals, without possessing anyone. But how?
Maya doesn’t stop to think. She darts out of the bar and lifts her gaze to the top of the staircase. She hears the soft rustle of fabric brushing the floor, sees a fleeting shadow vanish into the darkness above. Behind her, Hugo still thrashes, his ragged breathing punctuated by curses and threats.
Her gaze flickers between the front door—opening into the oppressive blackness of the garden, where Harriet, Camille, and Jenks have disappeared—and the stairs. She clenches her fists and races toward the steps.
“Wait… Wait for me!”
She races up the stairs, doing her best to follow the scarlet shadow. A faint sound, a subtle rustle, a flash of red fabric in the darkness. She must not lose her. Without thinking further, Maya chases the apparition up to the second floor, straight toward the apartment where Jimmy was once held.
She stops in front of the broken door, swinging gently on its hinges. The gaping opening gives her a strange feeling. The apartment appears silent, steeped in a heavy, oppressive atmosphere. She scans every corner in search of a trace of the woman in red.
She finally finds her in a spacious study-library she recognizes from the security monitors. Papers are scattered chaotically across the desk and floor, bearing witness to the obsessive effort Jimmy must have put in during his time here—trying to understand. Scribbled notes, overturned pages, hastily opened files. He had searched for a solution, but everything suggests he never found the answer.
And there, behind the desk, the woman in red is waiting.
She stands motionless, draped in her crimson veil, her face still hidden beneath the translucent fabric. And yet, Maya feels her gaze—feels that she was expected. The young woman steps forward cautiously, as if any sudden move might make her vanish.
“Please… we need help… I need help.”
The ghost does not move. She remains there, frozen like a funerary statue, without a word, without a gesture. Maya swallows hard. This woman seems increasingly familiar. There’s something about her silhouette, this still posture… Where has she seen her before?
She blinks. In the next instant, the apparition now stands near a bookshelf, slowly lifting one finger toward a large binder placed high up. Maya lowers her gaze to the spirit, and a chilling intuition seizes her.
“Are you Agatha Hall? Agatha Winterbourne?”
A faint sigh, barely a breath in the air—then, like a flame being extinguished, the figure vanishes. Maya remains still, scanning the room, searching for a sign, a flicker, a lingering presence. But no. She is gone.
The young woman collects herself. She hurries and shoves the heavy desk toward the bookshelf, sweeping aside the open documents and notebooks in a quick motion, tossing everything to the floor. Then she climbs on top of it and stretches her hand toward the shelf, determined to see what’s inside that damned binder.
She grabs it and opens it carefully, her fingers trembling slightly with the adrenaline still coursing through her. Inside, typewritten documents, neatly organized, and pages yellowed with age, each bearing an archival number. Her eyes quickly scan the introduction.
“Transcription of recovered and later destroyed journals. Source: Hall Family. Estimated period: first half of the 20th century.”
She freezes upon reading the name of the journals’ original owner.
Sergeant Timothy Follin.
A knot of apprehension tightens in her throat. Climbing back down from the desk, she begins leafing through the pages.
[November 3rd]
Last night, I dream of my father. It’s been fifteen years since he died, and yet I could still describe every detail of his face, his voice, his way of laughing. But in this dream, he isn’t laughing. He’s looking at me. He seems like he wants to speak, but no sound comes from his mouth. Then, without warning, he starts screaming.
I wake up drenched in sweat, convinced there’s someone in my room. It’s not the first time.
Ever since I arrived here, these nightmares haunt me every night. I dream of Blackmere. I dream of this house—but not as it is today. I see it under different lights, in different seasons. Summer, winter, spring… Different years. I see furniture that’s no longer here, paintings on the walls I don’t recognize. I walk through the halls and realize I know them as if they’ve always been mine.
But I’m certain I’ve never set foot here before this assignment.
So why does it feel like I’ve already lived within these walls?
[November 7th]
I begin recording my dreams, on Peter’s advice.
He says it might help me make sense of things, to find some kind of pattern. He’s genuinely interested in my nightly visions—more than I would have expected.
Tonight, I try to describe something strange I saw in a dream: a small stone building. I can’t get the image out of my head. Peter frowns. Then he asks how I knew.
We go out into the rain, guided only by a lamp. He leads me across the estate to an area I haven’t yet explored. We have to push through a path half-swallowed by brambles, and there, hidden beneath thick branches, it stands.
The gamekeeper’s cottage. Exactly as I saw it in my dream. Peter seems unsettled. He swears he never told me about it. That no one’s set foot in it for years. Not since my father left.
I tell him to go back inside. I call my partner, who should be somewhere in the garden. Together, we try to open the door. It’s locked, but not as securely as I’d have expected. As soon as we step in, we immediately understand this place isn’t as abandoned as we thought. In the dust on the floor, there are fresh footprints.
[November 10th]
I couldn’t stay any longer. I wish I could have. I wanted to search every room, to look for memories, for traces of the past. My old man lived here for so many years, alone. There’s something oppressively heavy in these walls. I’d rather not stay.
I leave my partner to handle it. He doesn’t need convincing. He loves this kind of situation: digging, inspecting, bringing to light what should remain hidden.
I say nothing. I turn on my heels and walk back to the house.
To Peter, I give just one warning: Don’t go near that building.
He wants to know more, but I say nothing else. He nods and doesn’t press.
[November 15th]
It’s been several days since any strange disappearance was reported.
The servants are starting to breathe easier. There’s talk in the kitchens that maybe the curse has fallen silent. I’ve never believed in those stories, but even I can’t deny that something has shifted. Peter, too. He sleeps better. He looks more rested, less pale. The dark circles under his eyes have almost disappeared.
As for me, it’s the opposite. I sleep with my gun now. I have no proof, but I know someone comes into my room at night. I hear it. The faint creak of a step. The shallow breath of someone watching from the shadows. Every time, I switch on my lamp—and there’s no one.
I tell myself I’m going mad.
But last night, I kept my weapon under my pillow, and my fingers gripped it so tightly that my knuckles still ache. Next time, if I wake up and feel a presence…
I’ll shoot.
[November 18th]
I’ve had a fierce argument with my partner. I knew it was coming.
He’s been simmering for days, stuck outside playing watchdog in the rain while I stay inside watching Peter. He’s had enough. He says we’re wasting time, that we’re here for an investigation—not to babysit a sick rich kid.
But more than that, he’s convinced Peter is involved in all of this.
We yelled. I can’t even remember who said what anymore, but I do remember one sentence, one single line that knocked the wind out of me.
“You owe me everything. Every case we solved together—I’m the one who put the answer in your hands. I’ve always backed you. When no one else wanted you. Not even your own mother.”
I stared at him, stunned. He looked away. I didn’t press—but that sentence haunts me.
My partner has always held deep contempt for weak people. He hates beggars as much as he does pampered aristocrats who can’t survive without their money. He can’t stand the overly emotional, the fragile.
I’ve learned to ignore that. But tonight, when he spoke of my mother, something in me broke.
My father always told me she died in childbirth. But I’ve always known that was a lie.
I joined the police to look for her. To prove I existed. To make proud a woman who never knew me. It’s pathetic, but that’s how it is.
And in some strange way, I feel an echo of that same futile search in Peter. Maybe because he, too, grew up with a mother who never loved him?
[November 20th]
Last night, I had a terrible nightmare. And I understood everything. How could I have been so blind?
I’m in a forest, running breathless.
Not me—someone else. A boy. His legs are tired, his breathing shallow. He’s being hunted. Behind him, heavy footsteps approach, fast, determined. Then a hand grabs him.
He’s slammed to the ground. One blow, then another. His face twists under the impacts. His skin splits. His nose breaks. And when the attacker lifts his head, I see his face.
My partner.
I jolt awake, gasping, soaked in sweat. My heart pounds in my chest like a war drum.
I want to tell myself it was just a dream. But deep down, I know.
It’s him…
It’s always been him.