Elena’s voice didn’t shake anymore. It was quiet, steady, and sharp enough to cut glass.

I pushed open the heavy iron door, my fingers gripping the VHS tape like a weapon. Marco, Victor, and Thomas filed in closely behind me, their footsteps echoing heavily in the narrow corridor. The only light came from the dim, flickering bulb dangling from a frayed cord in the center of the ceiling.

"This is completely absurd, Luca," Thomas muttered, wiping sweat from his forehead. "You're dragging us down here into a tomb based on a maid's tall tale."

"Shut up, Thomas," Marco snapped, his cool facade finally beginning to crack. His eyes darted toward the heavy steel door we had just entered through. "Luca, be reasonable. Whatever is on that tape, it's degraded. Magnetic tape rots after eight years. It'll just be static."

"Then you shouldn't be worried, should you?" I retorted, sliding the vintage 1990s Panasonic VCR out from beneath a dusty monitor.

My hands were steady, but my mind was racing. The archive was supposed to be restricted access. Only the head of the Moretti family—myself—and the estate manager held keys to this room. Yet, when I checked the mechanical lock, the brass tumblers had been freshly greased. Someone had been in here very recently.

Click.

I pushed the battered blue-labeled VHS tape into the deck. It slid in with a heavy, mechanical mechanical thud.

The monitor in front of us flickered to life with a blinding flash of white static, accompanied by a harsh, ear-piercing hiss.

"See?" Victor said, stepping forward with an air of manufactured relief. "Just noise. Let's go back upstairs before the guests start wondering—"

Hush.

The static cut out abruptly, replaced by the sharp, undeniable ambient sound of heavy rain lashing against glass panes.

Color bled onto the screen. Grainy, washed-out, but unmistakably clear.

It was the main foyer of this exact estate.

On the screen, the date stamp flashed in bright green digital font: 10/12/2018 - 11:41:22 PM.

"Turn it off," Marco whispered, his voice pitching an octave higher. He lunged toward the power cord, but I grabbed his collar, slamming him back against the stone wall with enough force to knock the wind out of him.

"Touch that cord, Marco, and you won't live to see court tomorrow," I growled, my face inches from his.

On the grainy monitor, the front door of the mansion creaked open.

My sister, Alessandra, stepped into the foyer. Her red rain boots—the very ones I had heard in my memory—were soaked. She was crying, clutching a thick manila folder tightly to her chest.

"I'm going to the police, Marco," the recorded voice of Alessandra rang out from the small monitor speaker, sounding young, desperate, and entirely terrified. "You forged Papa's signature on the asset transfer. You and Victor think you can steal the entire estate out from under Luca while he's in Milan? I caught you."

On the live archive floor, Marco let out a ragged, choked gasp.

On the screen, two figures stepped out from the shadows of the staircase.