Chapter 2 - The Ghost of the Harbor
Marcus looked like he was being led to a firing squad. He fumbled inside his tailored jacket, pulling out a heavy, brass-bound skeleton key that looked ancient enough to unlock a medieval dungeon.
The estate staff had scattered back toward the service quarters, terrified of witnessing whatever was about to be unsealed. Only Samuel and I remained on the wet grass beside Thiago’s chair.
"Stay close to me, Samuel," I whispered, keeping my hand firmly on my son's shoulder.
"I'm right here, Mom," Samuel replied, clutching his plastic fire truck. "Uncle Thiago needs us to see."
Marcus inserted the brass key into the rusted lock of the east wing doors. The mechanism protested with a loud, metallic shriek that echoed off the stone facade of the mansion. With a heavy groan, the doors swung inward, revealing a pitch-black corridor that smelled sharply of old dust, sea salt, and something sweet and medicinal—like faded lavender and crushed aspirin.
There were no windows in the hallway; heavy blackout curtains were nailed over every archway.
"Light," Thiago ordered quietly.
Marcus clicked on a heavy tactical flashlight, sweeping the beam across the interior. The floor was covered in a thick layer of undisturbed dust, except for a single, narrow path of footprints leading toward a set of white double doors at the end of the hall.
As we rolled forward—Thiago operating his electric chair with a soft hum of the motor, Samuel and I following close behind—the ambient temperature dropped significantly. It felt like walking into a crypt.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Three more taps came from behind the white doors. It was rhythmic, deliberate, and painfully slow.
"Elena?" Thiago called out, his voice cracking violently on the syllable. It was a name I had never heard spoken in the three years I had worked at the mansion. "Elena, it's... it's Thiago. I'm here."
No answer came from the other side, but the knob of the white door slowly began to turn.
Marcus raised his flashlight defensively, his other hand sliding toward his pocket where he carried a concealed security radio. "Boss, be careful. She hasn't been rational in—"
"Shut up, Marcus!" Thiago roared, slamming his fist against the armrest. "She is my wife!"
The words hit the hallway like a physical shockwave. Wife? For five years, the public relations firms and financial tabloids had reported that Thiago Almeida’s wife had died in a tragic private yacht explosion off the coast of Maine, leaving him a grieving widower. It was the foundational tragedy that supposedly fueled his ruthless, cutthroat dominance in the corporate world.
The white door clicked open.
A woman stepped out from the shadows of the room.
She wore a simple, cream-colored silk dress that hung loosely over a frame that was far too thin. Her long, dark hair was streaked with silver, falling messily across her shoulders. But it was her face that made my breath catch in my throat—she had the exact same striking, deep-set storm-gray eyes as Thiago, though hers were wide, unblinking, and locked in a state of eternal, frozen terror.
She looked down the hallway, her gaze sweeping past Marcus, past me, and landing squarely on Samuel.
May you like
A small, heartbreaking smile touched her pale lips.
"You brought a little boy," she whispered, her voice sounding like dry leaves scraping across pavement. "Did you bring him to play in the garden, Thiago? Or did you bring him to see the cage?"
