Going Back to the Past
Going Back to the Past
Across town, the air inside the prison was thick with disinfectant and tension. The metallic clank of doors closing echoed down the narrow corridor as Rami followed the guard to a small visitation room.
“Inmate Blackwood,” the guard called out.
Jesse entered, chains clinking at his wrists. He looked different, leaner, his jaw rough with stubble, bruises faintly purple beneath his skin. His eyes, though, burned the same — cold and sharp, like he was always one heartbeat away from violence.
He sat. “What do you want?”
Rami slid a photograph across the table. “Do you know this man?”
Jesse stared down. Simon Marek. A flicker of recognition, then disgust. “Yeah. He was in here. Claimed he’d found God or something. Kept to himself mostly… until he got stabbed.”
Rami leaned forward. “And why do you think that happened?”
Jesse gave a humorless smile. “Because he talked too much. You know how this place works.”
Rami didn’t blink. “Then tell me how it’s possible that he was last seen at the morgue — the same night Luca’s body disappeared.”
Jesse’s head snapped up. “What?”
Rami held his gaze. “We reviewed the footage. Simon Marek — or someone who looks exactly like him — was recorded signing for the release of Luca’s body. But Luca’s remains never appeared on camera. The footage ends mid-frame.”
Jesse’s hands clenched on the table, his knuckles whitening. His pulse visibly jumped in his throat. “I don’t want anything to do with that man. He’s dead. You hear me? He’s dead.”
Rami’s tone softened, though his eyes stayed sharp. “You sure about that?”
Jesse’s chair screeched as he pushed back abruptly. “Leave me the hell alone!” he shouted, his voice breaking the sterile silence. Guards were already at the door, stepping forward.
Rami watched him — chest heaving, eyes wild and realized something that made the back of his neck crawl.
Jesse wasn’t just angry.
He was scared.
The soft creak of the wooden floor followed Marisol’s hesitant steps. Upstairs, the corridor was still and faintly perfumed, sunlight spilling through thin curtains like golden dust. She had finished polishing the stair rail, but something tugged at her curiosity — a door she had never entered before.
She paused in front of it.
The handle was cold.
For a moment, she thought she heard a faint hum behind it — not the mechanical murmur of Craig’s system, but something softer, rhythmic. Breathing, perhaps. She hesitated, then slowly turned the handle.
The door opened with a sigh.
The room smelled faintly of roses and fresh linen, untouched yet alive. Soft curtains drifted in the breeze, the light falling over a small vanity with scattered trinkets. A hairbrush. A dried flower. And on the desk — a notebook, open but unfinished.
Marisol stepped closer. Her fingers brushed the cover.
The name written in delicate handwriting: Alina.
She froze. The name meant nothing to her — but the way Craig had once spoken it, the hesitation in Clara’s tone, the subtle dread in Rebecca’s glances — it felt important.
The notebook smelled of perfume and faint mold. She turned one page, seeing lines of poetry and then half-erased sentences:
“He said the house remembers… that it chooses who to protect.”
A chill slid up her spine.
Downstairs, laughter faded when the alarm broke through.
A sharp metallic pulse echoed from the main room, followed by Craig’s distorted voice:
“—Intrusion alert. Section B. Intrusion alert—”
Sofia nearly dropped her cup. “What the— Craig, report!”
The monitor flickered, showing static and flashes of hallway footage — then nothing.
Rebecca and Elliott exchanged anxious glances. “What’s happening?” Rebecca demanded.
“Could be a glitch,” Sofia said, trying to sound calm though her jaw tightened. “Craig, show me the cameras. Now.”
Craig’s voice sputtered. “S-s-s-system error. Override denied—”
Sofia leaned in, pressing keys rapidly. “Damn it…”
Rebecca took a cautious step forward. “This house… I told you, there’s something wrong in this place.”
“Stay together,” Sofia ordered firmly. “Don’t wander.”
“Why?” Elliott asked, his voice lower now, a defensive edge creeping in. “What aren’t you telling us?”
Before she could answer, a voice drifted from upstairs — Marisol’s. “Is everything alright?”
All eyes turned upward. Marisol stood at the top of the stairs, holding a notebook against her chest.
“Yes,” Sofia called back quickly. “Just… a security alert.”
Clara stepped out of the main room, drying her hair with a towel. “A what?”
“For safety,” Sofia continued, forcing a smile, “two officers will stay in the guest house across from you for the next few days.”
Rebecca frowned. “I thought you said this place was safe.”
Sofia didn’t reply. Her phone vibrated sharply. She stepped aside and answered. “Rami?”
His voice was urgent. “I talked to Jesse.”
“What did he say?”
“He knew Simon Marek. But here’s the thing — I think it was all staged. Luca didn’t die as we thought.”
Sofia’s grip on the phone tightened. “What do you mean?”
Rami’s voice dropped. “The body that disappeared from the morgue — it wasn’t Simon’s. Luca used Simon’s identity. He became him. They knew each other.”
Sofia froze. “You’re saying—”
“I’m saying Luca might be alive,” Rami cut in. “And he’s not far.”
The line went silent for a moment.
Outside, the wind howled through the trees, the same rhythmic sound the house seemed to breathe with. Inside, every person felt it a shared chill, the same realization crawling over them.
Whatever was haunting the Blackwood estate…
wasn’t finished.
The mansion loomed under a bruised sky, its windows glowing faintly through sheets of rain. Headlights cut across the gravel path, flickering on the iron gate before vanishing into darkness.
Rami’s car pulled up. The engine clicked as it cooled, the sound swallowed by the steady downpour. He stepped out, trench coat already soaked, his expression unreadable but determined. He had driven for hours, tracing the pieces of a truth no one wanted to face.
As he reached the porch, the door opened — Sofia stood there waiting. Her eyes reflected the pale light of the hall.
“You came fast,” she said quietly.