CHAPTER HUNDRED & SEVENTY-ONE

CHAPTER HUNDRED & SEVENTY-ONE
KYLE

The house hasn’t been the same since the fire.

It’s like it inhaled all the smoke and never exhaled.
Every hallway feels tighter. Every room heavier. The lights flicker more now, like they’re tired too. Like they’ve seen too much and want to shut their eyes for good.

The East Wing is sealed off.

Burned. Gutted. Gone.

And Mom…

She left the morning after.

Didn’t say where she was going. Just packed a small bag, kissed the top of my head like I was five again, and whispered, “Take care of him.”
I wanted to ask who?
Lucian?
Dad?
Me?

But I didn’t.
Because she was crying, and her hands were shaking so hard she dropped her keys twice.

We haven’t heard from her since.

No calls. No messages. Just… gone. Like smoke.

The fire lasted only a few hours.

But the damage—it lingers. Not just on the walls.
In us.

Dad’s been worse than ever.
Busy. Cold.
Angrier than I’ve ever seen him.

He’s canceled all his outside meetings. Keeps the staff on edge. Has the grounds swept and checked every night like the flames are going to crawl back from the ashes and finish what they started.

I keep hearing things.

Whispers when no one’s in the hallway. Footsteps in the vents. The occasional door that clicks shut even though the wind isn’t strong enough.

I want to say I’m just being paranoid. That maybe all the weirdness is still clinging to my brain because of the shock or the smoke or the fact that I haven’t had a full night’s sleep since.

But deep down, I know it’s not just me.

Because ever since the fire…

Lucian hasn’t been the same.

And maybe he never was.

Dad says he’s unstable.

Says the incident proves it.

That he set the East Wing on fire because he believed his imaginary friend was trapped inside it.
That he painted a picture of a place that doesn’t exist.
That he started collecting chemicals, lighters, scraps of cloth.
That he whispered names in his sleep—names no one else knew.
That he told Mom the fire would "open a door."

A door.

To where?

To who?

Dad says he’s delusional.
That he’s created a fantasy so thick and twisted it’s starting to unravel him from the inside.
That Ezra—the boy he swears he saw—is nothing more than a mental projection. A symptom.

But I’ve seen Lucian’s drawings.

I’ve heard him say things he shouldn’t know.

And sometimes… just sometimes…

I believe him.

Or at least, I believe he believes it.

Which might be worse.

Now he’s being kept in a secured part of the house.
Not a room. A containment suite.
With padded walls, soft lights, and surveillance that doesn’t blink.

Dad says it’s for his own safety.

I don’t think Lucian agrees.

Because the last time I saw him—really saw him—he looked at me like someone drowning in their own mind.
Like someone banging on a door that wouldn’t open.
Like someone who knew something no one else was willing to hear.

And what haunts me most isn’t the fire.

It’s the fact that when I looked into his eyes that night…

He didn’t look unstable.

He looked right.

He looked terrified.

And now I can’t stop asking myself the question:

What if Ezra was real?

What if he was in the East Wing?

And what if Lucian wasn’t trying to destroy something…

But save someone?

I haven’t stepped into the East Wing since the fire.
Not because I’m not allowed—but because I’m scared of what I’ll see.
Or worse… what I’ll remember.

Sometimes at night, I stand at the end of the hallway where the wall turns black with soot and silence, and I stare at the locked double doors.

Dad said it was all an accident.

Said Lucian lit the fire.

Said it was a cry for help.

But lately, when I lie awake in my room—watching shadows bend across the ceiling—I’m starting to think there’s more.

More Dad hasn’t told me.

More that doesn’t add up.

More I forgot.

Until tonight.

Tonight, something feels… off.

It starts with a sound.

A crack.

Like a plate snapping in two.

I sit up in bed, blanket tangled around my legs. I wait, holding my breath. For a second, all is still. Then I hear it again—muffled, sharp.

Voices.

I creep to the door and press my ear to the wood.

“…you don’t understand, I had to!”

Mom’s voice.

I jolt back.

Mom?

She’s back?

I fling the door open. The hallway is dim, but the voices carry down the stairs—echoing faint and frantic through the vastness of the house.

“No. Jonathan..I can't do this anymore I  can't. I don't believe you  this is all bullshit. I don't recognize you anymore an  I'll exposed it all ll swear…I can't do this no more..i can't” 

Then a third voice joins in—hoarse, strained.

Lucian.

“Stop it. Please, just stop—don’t talk to her like that—!”

Something crashes. A chair? Glass?

I don’t even realize I’m moving until my feet are already pounding down the stairs, heart in my throat.

And then it happens.

The scream.

It splits the air like a jagged knife.

I look up in time to see—

Mom.

She’s at the top of the stairs.

Or—she was.

Now she’s falling.

Her body twists midair, arms reaching. Lucian lunges for her—but too late. His hand grazes the banister, slips, and blood splashes against the wood as her body crashes to the marble floor with a sickening thud.

Time stops.

Lucian freezes, fingers torn open, eyes wide and wild.

Dad appears behind him, calm. Too calm. Like this was inevitable.

He looks down at her body, then at Lucian.

And says it.

Flat. Measured. Cold:

“He pushed her.”

I can’t breathe.

Lucian turns to him in slow horror, like he’s realizing something too late.

“No,” he whispers. “No, I didn’t—I didn’t!”

But Dad’s already moving.

He comes down the stairs like a shadow, crouches beside me.

His hand lands on my shoulder. Firm. Possessive.

And then he says, voice low, meant just for me:

“Lucian did this to her. He lost control. You saw it too, didn’t you?”

I shake my head.

Then nod.

Then shake again.

My vision blurs with tears. I don’t know what’s real. I don’t know what I saw.

But Dad’s grip tightens.

“Kyle. You have to remember. You saw him. Say it.”

And I say it.

I say it because I want to believe someone is in control. Because I’m scared. Because Mom isn’t moving. Because Lucian is just standing there, blood dripping from his hand, eyes filled with something ancient and broken.

Because Dad’s voice is so sure.

Because I’m a kid.

And kids believe what they’re told.

So I whisper it.

“Lucian… did it.”

Lucian flinches like I shot him.

And in that moment, something in him dies.

Right there on the stairs.

That’s the night everything broke.

The night Mom was gone. The night Dad started locking doors. The night Lucian disappeared forever.