When Amelia receives a mysterious key and a letter with a single word-"library"-she's compelled to return to her father's estate, a cold and vacant mansion she hasn't seen in years. Though she always knew she'd have to return, the shadowy halls now...
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I sat in silence, my head in my hands. The argument replayed over in my mind. Don't act like you care. Did she really think that? That I didn't care for her? A frustrated sigh left me and I stood, leaving the chaotic ballroom to be dealt with later.
She was right. I had leapt at the first chance I got to leave this town. To escape the memories, the darkness, the prestigious name. I wanted to be normal for once. To heal. In Maine, no one knew the Gates family or the tragedy that followed them. The shadow that followed me everywhere I went. Even at home. Grandma had done her best to raise us, but now I wonder if we had swept Emily under the rug.
The dark hall stretched on, leading to the family wing. My fingers traced along the swirling patterned wallpaper. The hardwood floor creaked under my weight. What mother did had left permanent scars, both physical and invisible. I thought leaving would help me. Help my family move forward. I hadn't realized my escape would hurt Emily. She seemed fine when I left. Was it an act or was I blind? Had I failed my sister?
The thought gnawed at me. I'd been so focused on my pain that I failed to see hers. She rightfully felt angry and abandoned. My departure must have seemed like a betrayal, a validation of her worst fears—that she wasn't worth the effort to stay.
I stopped in the hall. Five bedrooms lined up before me. A blue glow and the sounds of a hushed Tv emanated from one. Seemed Emily had taken up residence in our mother's room. I wanted to help her. To comfort her and bridge this gap between us. But right now, she needed space. Needed to clear her mind from the alcohol. The familiar hall sent a shiver down my spine. Surreal, standing in the family wing after so long.
I set my bags down in one of the guest bedrooms. Across the hall was my former room. The door mother previously shot through, replaced, like it had never happened. Curiosity got the better of me and my hand shook as I peeked inside. The room remained frozen in time. Still decorated with the imagination of an 11-year-old, complete with a dusty, purple canopy bed, enormous windows, butterfly decals, stuffed animals galore and a wall of books that arched over my bed. Like ghosts clinging to what used to be, white sheets draped over the furniture, similar to the rest of the house.
But gone was the crime scene that had occurred. A wooden floor replaced the bloodied carpet. The ropes, torn curtains and knife, all gone. Gone but not forgotten. A sharp phantom pain raced down my spine and I quickly shut the door, gasping. My body shook and my legs nearly gave in. The images that flashed across my mind pinned me in place. My mother's cold, vacant eyes. Her face, devoid of emotion. The burning sensation of rope around my wrist as they twist. No amount of screaming or wiggling had freed me. No! Deep breaths. I won't let this break me. I've moved on! My mind screamed.
I tried to focus on something, anything except my erratic heart and the bitter silence of the hall. I'm safe! She can't hurt me. No one can hurt me. The darkness encroached, and I could feel the walls closing in on me. I had to do something. With a deep breath, I pushed myself to step away from the door, only to trip and tumble, gripping my chest as it blazed. I took countless breaths, but they were never sufficient. Unconsciousness danced in the corner of my eyes.
