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Maya straightens up immediately, and she and Jenks join Camille. The young Frenchwoman holds in her hands a thick, dusty album, visibly old and clearly part of a vast collection, with the title engraved in golden letters: “Hall Family Archive – 19th Century.”
She carefully turns the thick pages, revealing a series of yellowed photographs, handwritten notes with frayed edges, and newspaper clippings. The album traces the history of the Hall family through the decades, frozen in these meticulously archived memories.
Here, a sepia-toned wedding photo, a couple with solemn expressions posing in their formal attire. Further on, a birth announcement adorned with calligraphic lettering, announcing the arrival of an heir. Another document mentions a lavish ball held at the manor, followed by an article about a generous donation to a local charity.
“Who keeps stuff like this about their family?” Camille wonders as she slowly flips through the pages.
“Probably the ones who prefer to forget that some of their ancestors were dangerous murderous entities,” Jenks remarks over her shoulder, letting out a joyless laugh.
“Go a bit further,” Maya says, placing a finger on the page. “Our sergeant mentioned 1867.”
Camille nods and continues turning the pages gently, revealing even older photographs, the faces still just as stern, the outfits rigid, the smiles nonexistent. At last, they reach the desired period.
A new newspaper clipping catches their attention, tucked between two thick pages, the paper fragile and yellowed, the text slightly faded in places. But the headline remains legible.
“Death of Elisabeth Hall: the widow of Blackmere Estate leaves behind a sole son, young surgeon Peter Hall.”
The article recounts the elderly woman’s passing at a remarkably advanced age for the time, highlighting her influence over the region and the legacy she leaves behind. Yet it’s the final sentence that draws Maya’s attention, seemingly innocuous at first glance:
“For years, numerous dark rumors have surrounded Blackmere Estate and its late mistress.”
She frowns, unsettled.
“Rumors?” Camille breathes, clearly caught on the same words.
Before Maya can react, a flash of light flares behind her. She spins around quickly, her gaze drawn to one of the large windows in the room. Outside, it is pitch dark. And yet, the window reveals a completely different landscape—a clear, sunny sky, bright light illuminating the gardens of Blackmere Estate.
Maya stands frozen. Her visions have never been this powerful. Usually, they layer themselves over reality, projecting blurry silhouettes onto the current setting. But this… this is like looking through a rift in time. She steps closer, her breath catching.
Below, beneath a gnarled tree, a man is crouching and seems to be examining some disturbed earth. He appears to be middle-aged, perhaps in his forties, though his serious expression and thick mustache give him a sterner air. But another figure, partially obscured in the tree’s shadow, draws the young woman’s attention. The indistinct man from her earlier vision. A cold shiver runs down her spine. Something is wrong with that one.
The kneeling man suddenly turns his head, as if she had just called out to him, and raises a hand in her direction. His piercing gaze seems to lock onto Maya, even though she knows he can’t possibly see her. A strange tightness coils in her chest.
“Mister Hall! I took the liberty of having a little look around the estate before coming to see you.”
His voice echoes, gruff and edged with irritation. He speaks quickly, almost curtly, as if wanting to get the conversation over with as soon as possible. Everything in his demeanor radiates annoyance—his tense posture, the furrow of his brow, the way he jams his hands into the pockets of his long coat, as though restraining himself from gesturing more forcefully.
With a confident stride, he approaches the window and casts a sweeping glance around, studying the surroundings with the precision of a man used to tracking clues. Then, he tilts his head slightly and gestures casually toward the figure standing further off, at the edge of the trees.
“If you don’t mind, my colleague and partner will continue his little walk outside while we talk… and you’re going to explain your little… inconvenience.”
His thumb briefly points over his shoulder, toward the shadow lurking beneath the tall tree. This detail deeply unsettles Maya. Normally, her visions show only fragments of the past—fleeting snapshots centered on a single person or specific memory. But this time… she sees several individuals at once, as if immersed within the memory itself. Her powers are growing stronger… or something is amplifying them. The thought chills her.
Before she can analyze it further, the vision abruptly dissolves, vanishing like sand swept away by a gust of wind. In the blink of an eye, all she sees is the nighttime landscape again, snow shimmering under the moon’s pale glow. The contrast hits her so suddenly that she stumbles back a step, slightly dazed.
“Maya? What did you see?”
Jenks’s voice pulls her back to reality. He’s still standing in the middle of the room, watching her with a mix of concern and anticipation. Behind him, Camille stares at Maya with the same anxious curiosity. The young woman turns her gaze away from the window and focuses on Harriet, still motionless in her trance, body relaxed, head slightly tilted to the side.
“Sergeant Follin? Are you still with us?”
A heavy silence stretches, and for a moment Maya fears the connection has been lost. Then, finally, the deep voice echoes through the room, slightly distorted, like it’s coming from a poorly tuned radio.
“Yes… I’m here.”
Maya exchanges a quick glance with Jenks before continuing:
“I just saw a man in the garden, talking with Mister Hall at the window. Who was he?”
“That was me. The little aristocrat summoned me to the manor for a matter of the utmost importance.”
“When you say it was a matter of the utmost importance… did it have anything to do with Elisabeth Hall’s death?”
Silence hangs in the air, as if the spirit is hesitating, rummaging through memories before replying. Then, his voice rises again, harsher, sharper.
“Yes. The old crone had already been rotting in the ground for a few years by then. And I don’t think anyone really mourned her. All the way to Hexham, she was known as the devil incarnate. Had a passion for cruelty. We stopped counting the poor souls she sent away from Blackmere with broken limbs, injuries, horrors I’d rather not describe. Some even whispered she’d killed servants. Nothing solid, nothing official… but who would’ve dared accuse a woman like that? She was loaded, untouchable. Her husband was always gone. Made their fortune with the East India Company, and spent nearly all his time over there. And he stayed there—died during the Sepoy Rebellion.”
His voice darkens slightly, as if recounting a story he’s told a hundred times, though it never gets less grim.
“The boy, Peter, was their only heir. But between you and me, considering how much time his father spent on another continent, I wouldn’t be surprised if he left a few bastards behind. Not that it mattered. The old woman ruled Blackmere Estate alone. She had plenty of chances to cheat on him… but most men were terrified of her. Sleeping with her would’ve been like making a deal with the devil.”
Jenks lets out a low whistle, barely audible. Maya feels Camille shiver beside her.
“My old man used to be a gamekeeper there before I was born,” Follin continues, his voice taking on a more personal tone. “He said things got worse over the years, but me, I think it had always been that way. A bitch of the worst kind. And the locals wouldn’t have said otherwise.”
Maya crosses her arms, trying to piece the puzzle together.
“Then why call on you? Why you, specifically?”
A short, bitter laugh echoes.
“Because I was the best. I had a knack for solving the cases no one else could crack. In the last ten years, not a single case I was given went unsolved. I had a perfect track record. Well, I admit, my partner had something to do with that. That damn bastard had a nose for sniffing out trouble. But this time, Mister Hall wanted to see me alone. He didn’t want the matter going public. Strange things were happening in the area—disappearances, unexplained deaths… And of course, everyone was wondering if the son had inherited Mommy’s little habits.”
He pauses, his voice dropping lower, almost a whisper.
“I was wondering it myself. And I didn’t think I was wrong. Peter Hall was definitely… odd. Not just because he cut people open for a living… but at his age, no wife, no children, always alone and looking sick. It seemed… off. And I didn’t like it.”
Maya exchanges a worried glance with Jenks and Camille. A bad feeling tightens in her stomach.
“Peter… Peter… why does that name sound familiar?” The inspector flips through his small notebook, the pages filled with scribbled notes.
He stops suddenly, looks up, and locks eyes with Maya.
“Oh… I know… The ghost that possessed Elias.”
Maya feels her stomach twist.
“The little boy terrified of his mother…” she finishes, her throat suddenly dry.
“After what we’ve just heard, we can assume the entity possessed Elisabeth Hall… and that her son inherited it.”
“Then… what does Sergeant Follin have to do with all of this?”
A new vision rises in Maya, soft and fluid, like a tide gently washing in and out. She no longer fights these images that seep into her—they are now part of her, natural, almost familiar.
Sergeant Follin reappears, massive and imposing, his figure carved from the shadows of a foggy memory. Beside him, that elusive presence—his partner, she assumes—the one he spoke of… but whose features Maya still can’t make out.
Then the scene shifts.
The walls are adorned with warm colors, exotic patterns, and finely carved woodwork. Thick carpets muffle footsteps, and the scent of spices and tobacco lingers in the air.
The Indian lounge.
There. That’s where the trail continues.
Maya frowns as the vision slowly fades, like a dream slipping away upon waking.
“We need to go downstairs.”
But she has barely spoken the words when Jenks shakes his head firmly.
“No. I stand by what I said: nothing that could compromise our safety. Not while help is on the way, and especially not while Hugo is still roaming somewhere in this damn manor.”
The young woman opens her mouth to protest, but he doesn’t give her the chance.
“Maya, I refuse to take that risk… for all three of you. I’m sorry, but we’re not going any further.”
His gaze softens, but he doesn’t budge an inch. Then, without another word, he steps toward the journalist and gently removes the mask from her face.
Harriet collapses at once, as if she has just fainted.
Jenks catches her carefully before she hits the floor, cradling her against him, easing her gently into a seated position. He pats her cheeks lightly, careful not to startle her.
“Harriet? Can you hear me? Come back to us.”
She blinks, her eyes searching for a point of reference in the room. She looks dazed, like someone waking from a deep sleep she didn’t know she was in. Her gaze moves slowly from Jenks to Camille, then to Maya, before settling on her own hands, as if she doesn’t recognize them.
“What happened?”
“You put on the mask,” Camille crouches beside her. “And believe me, it wasn’t sleepwalking…”
Maya stays slightly back, arms crossed, frustrated. She hates having to leave the trail here—especially when she knows she’s on the right path. But at least Harriet didn’t start screaming, which, given her temperament, already feels like a small victory.
“How do you feel?” Jenks asks, supporting the journalist and helping her to her feet with infinite care.
She sways slightly, breathing shallow, her features tight with a lingering distress. Her fingers clutch the inspector’s sleeve as if she’s holding on to reality itself.
“Something…” Her voice trembles, cracked with an emotion she struggles to hold back. “Something terrible… There was someone. A man.”
She pauses, searching for her words, then shakes her head as if trying to rid herself of a vision too vivid, too brutal.
“My God… so much violence. So much anger.”
Her pupils are dilated, her breathing quickens. She’s not just describing a feeling—she’s living it. Jenks exchanges a quick glance with Maya. The latter frowns, tense.
“Camille?” she calls, seeking confirmation.
The Frenchwoman bites her lip, uncertain.
“I…” She hesitates before admitting, more shaken than she wants to be. “I didn’t feel this way once the mask was destroyed…”
But Harriet is no longer listening. She seems trapped in a maelstrom of emotions that aren’t hers but overwhelm her with unstoppable force. Her fingers tighten around Jenks’s arm, her gaze brimming with confusion and fear.
“Inspector…” Her voice cracks. “Something terrible happened. And I can’t stop it. There’s so much anger. And despair. I did something horribly wrong.”
Jenks reacts immediately. He takes her face in his hands, forcing her to look at him.
“It’s not you, Harriet.” His voice is calm, grounded. “What you’re feeling—it’s not yours. You’re just…” He searches for the right word, but she cuts him off, shaking her head as panic takes hold.
“I can’t stop it. It won’t stop! It already happened!”
“I’m not sure taking off her mask was a good idea, Inspector,” Camille murmurs, visibly worried.
“She couldn’t keep it on forever!” Jenks snaps back, his eyes never leaving Harriet, who grows more and more agitated in his arms.
But the journalist hears nothing anymore. Her body tenses under the weight of a crisis she can no longer control. She swings between sobs and visceral rage, as if two opposing forces are colliding within her.
While Jenks tries to hold her steady, Maya points to Ashford’s notes on the desk.
“The other participants couldn’t handle the experience being cut short. Some ended up in asylums. Others died. Inspector, we have to put the mask back on her!”
“Goddamn it…” Jenks curses, just as Harriet erupts in a violent fit—half tears, half howls of fury.
He reaches out, grabs the mask from the floor, and in one swift motion, puts it back on her face.
Silence falls immediately.
Harriet goes still, like a puppet whose strings have been cut. Her breathing steadies. Her trembling fades.
The suffocating atmosphere in the room begins to ease.
Camille, who has been holding her breath, lets out a nearly guilty sigh of relief.
“What do we do now?”
Maya meets Jenks’s gaze, her expression hard, determined.
“What we originally planned. We have to help those who are trapped here. Otherwise, Harriet and Simon might just end up as more ghosts haunting this place.”
Jenks doesn’t reply right away. He stares at her for a moment, frustrated. She holds his gaze and understands. She’ll talk to him. She’ll explain why she has to do all of this, she promises herself. But not now. Definitely not now.
“Where do we go, Maya?” the inspector asks, clearly irritated by how things are unfolding.
“The Indian lounge…” she answers without hesitation.
He clenches his jaw but doesn’t argue.
“All right… I’ll go first. Stay behind me.”
Maya and Camille immediately position themselves on either side of Harriet, supporting her as they move into the hallway. The atmosphere in the house feels even heavier than usual. Jenks proceeds cautiously, listening for the slightest suspicious sound, and begins to descend the service stairs adjacent to the bedroom, placing each step with care.
Behind him, Camille suddenly trips over something on the floor. An object rolls slightly before settling into the shadows of a corner. A metallic glint catches the light. Maya narrows her eyes and feels her heart skip a beat as she recognizes the familiar shape.
Robert’s firearm.
It had slipped there all this time, forgotten in a dark corner of the hallway, overlooked in the earlier chaos. Maya immediately looks up at Jenks, her voice barely more than an urgent whisper.
“Inspector…”
He stops dead, hears the urgency in her tone, and quickly climbs back up a few steps. With a swift motion, he crouches down to retrieve the weapon and inspects it. His fingers slide along the slide; he opens the cylinder, checks the magazine. Loaded. He lets out a brief sigh of relief before tightening his grip on the handle.
Buoyed by renewed confidence—thanks to the weapon now in their possession—they continue down the stairs cautiously, all on high alert.
Jeffrey’s corpse still lies in the same spot, a grotesque figure half-covered by a sheet. Someone had the decency—or perhaps just the need—to hide the man’s disfigured face. Maya pauses for a moment, observing the fabric clumsily draped over the body. Robert, maybe? Ashford? She doubts it. Hugo, even less.
Jimmy, in a flash of lucidity amidst the chaos? Could hitting the sigil have driven Hugo out? What a hope that would be. Maya pushes the thought aside. She needs to stay focused. She quickens her pace, leading Harriet toward the Indian lounge.
Jenks follows close behind, then glances at Camille and signals her to keep an eye on the front door, now shut. Then, without a word, he turns to scan the hallways, weapon at the ready, every muscle taut.
“Not to rush you, Maya…”
His voice is low, controlled, but Maya hears the barely contained tension beneath it. He disapproves. She ignores it, even if it twists something in her chest. If she explained that she’s doing this for herself, too—he might understand. Maybe.
The young woman settles Harriet in an armchair against the wall, instinctively checking that she’s safe before letting her gaze sweep across the room. Her attention is immediately drawn to the massive painting dominating one of the walls. A stern-looking man in a dark European suit towers over the composition, his expression locked in austere, authoritarian gravity.
In front of him, seated with striking grace, an Indian woman draped in a vivid red sari stares directly at the viewer. Her gaze, both piercing and shrouded in infinite sadness, seems to pierce through time. The man’s hand rests on her shoulder in a gesture meant to be protective… but which evokes possession more than care.
Maya feels a chill run up her spine. She steps closer, eyes fixed on the woman. There’s something familiar about her now. She could swear she’s never seen her face before, but her posture, the composition—where does that strange sense of déjà vu come from?
“Come on… give me a sign…” she murmurs, almost pleading.