The Missing Link

024. Awakened

Meanwhile, as the house settled into stillness, the door to their room creaked open, a thin sliver of light spilling into the darkness from the hallway. The faint sound of footsteps accompanied the soft hum of night.

“They’re asleep,” Mr. Aaron murmured to himself, his voice barely a whisper. His eyes scanned the room briefly, lingering on the two resting figures. With careful precision, he reached for the light switch, flicking it off. The room was bathed in shadow, save for the faint silver glow of the first quarter moon slipping through the edges of the curtains.

Satisfied, he closed the door gently, the soft click of the latch blending into the night. Outside, the air carried a quiet stillness, but his expression bore a trace of unease as he retreated down the hallway, leaving their two visitors undisturbed in their slumber.

From the hallway before the stairs, the pendulum clock chimed softly, its mellow tone cutting through the silence. The time—just past eleven in the evening—seemed to stretch endlessly in the stillness.

Mr. Aaron descended the stairs, his steps deliberate, each one a muted shuffle as his slippers grazed the cool floorboards. His brow furrowed, weighed down by the events of the day. Chief among them was the peculiar letter that had arrived that morning. It carried no sender's name, only a stark warning embedded in its strange composition: a single red rose petal seeming to spell out an ominous message.

Mr. Aaron, steeped in superstition, couldn’t shrug it off as mere folly. His upbringing in a household bound by such beliefs had etched these fears deep within him—tales of cursed letters, ominous signs, and vengeful spirits echoed in his mind. Fear and tradition held him hostage, compelling him to act.

In the dim glow of the living room, his hand quivered as he reached for the rosary resting on the modest altar. Lowering himself to his knees, he murmured a prayer, each bead slipping between his fingers with a soft click. Yet, unease gnawed at him. Was this enough? Should he burn the letter, bury it, or pass it on to free their family from its shadow?

The last thought sent a chill coursing through him. What if passing it on doomed someone else?

The clock's soft ticking filled the stillness of the house, each sound magnifying the silence. Shadows danced across the walls, their restless movements feeding his unease. His gaze lingered on them, but the decision came swiftly—he dared not risk ignoring the signs.

At dawn, he resolved, he would make his way to the church and consult the parish priest. Perhaps a blessing or a novena might banish the unseen forces pressing upon him.

For now, he gripped the rosary as if its beads held the power to ward off the lurking dread, his knuckles whitening with the force of his fear.

࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

“Morning!” Raine’s voice brimmed with cheer as she stood over Zane, catching him just as his eyes fluttered open. His chest tightened for a moment, startled by her sudden presence.

“How was the sleep?” she asked, grinning.

“You startled me again,” Zane muttered, rubbing his temples.

“Well, you’re the one who insisted we reach the funeral home early,” Raine quipped. “The Suarezes might turn up, and since we’ll be passing that little café nearby, we can grab breakfast there.”

Her tone shifted to a brisk determination. “We’re leaving Sitio Santa Clara this morning, so we’d better wrap up the investigation by then. Get a move on, sleepyhead. Miss Magallanes is bound to arrive any moment with her driver. City-bound, at last. I don’t care if she takes the wheel herself or not—she owes us that much for dumping us here in the first place.”