He has fired seven nurses this week, and if your child makes a single sound, you will both be thrown into the snow, Chief Guard Mikhail warned me at the heavy iron gates of the Volkov estate.
The next morning, Mrs. Gable, with a sneer, informed me that I was “permitted” twenty minutes to buy personal groceries at the nearby town. It was less a kindness, more an act of psychological torture, parading my dependence.
“And don’t be late,” she warned, “or the gates will be locked.”
I nodded, grateful for any reprieve. Lily stayed behind, playing with a set of wooden dolls, safe from the cold air outside.
I drove my old beat-up sedan down the long, winding driveway, past the heavily fortified gates, and onto the highway. The closest town was small, a cluster of houses and two gas stations.
My destination was the only diner, a greasy spoon called “Pete’s Place,” with faded red vinyl booths and the smell of stale coffee. I needed food, but I also needed a moment of privacy, away from Drake’s watchful eyes.
I scribbled furiously in a small notebook, detailing Damian’s impossible temperature, the shattered thermometer, and the black blood symbols. My mind raced, trying to find a medical explanation, any explanation.
“That’s quite the medical mystery you’re unraveling there, young lady.”
I jumped, nearly dropping my pen. An elderly man in the booth across from me was staring at my notes. He had a wild, unkempt white beard and thick glasses perched on his nose. His tweed jacket smelled faintly of old books and something metallic.
“I… I apologize,” I stammered, quickly trying to cover my notebook. “I didn’t realize you were watching.”
He chuckled, a raspy sound. “Don’t be. Fascinating. ‘Freezing blood, 28°F, yet active pulse,’ and ‘ancient occult symbols painted in black blood.’ Sounds like a case for a specific kind of expertise.”
My breath hitched. He had read everything.
“My name is Dr. Silas Montgomery,” he offered, extending a hand. His grip was surprisingly firm. “Unconventional toxicologist. Specialization in… shall we say, esoteric compounds.”
I hesitated, my paranoia flaring. Was this another one of Drake’s tricks? But the genuine curiosity in his eyes seemed sincere.
“Clara Halloway,” I replied, shaking his hand. “And these aren’t just ‘compounds.’ This is… supernatural.”
Silas leaned forward, his eyes gleaming. “Indeed. The symbols you describe, especially with the blood and extreme cold? I’ve seen similar accounts. A rare spectral drain ritual. Designed to induce synthetic organ failure by siphoning off vital energy. It leaves the victim medically ‘alive’ but functionally dead.”
My blood ran cold. He had identified it instantly. The terrifying reality of it settled over me.
“A ritual? But… how could that be happening?”
“A specific kind of dark magic, intertwined with very real, though rare, toxicological agents,” Silas explained, tapping a finger on my notebook. “It’s a niche field. Most doctors would dismiss it as hysteria.”
He looked at me, a serious expression now on his face. “You’re in over your head, Ms. Halloway. And your patient, if my guess is right, is being systematically murdered. I can help you expose it. Free of charge. Consider it intellectual curiosity.”
His offer was a lifeline, a glimmer of hope in the suffocating darkness of Volkov Manor.
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