Sequel to I Think You Know
I crept out of my room, gown swishing behind me like a guilty conscience. Across the passage—Hannah’s door. A few steps, and my pulse was already drumming against my ribs.
I knocked softly. Nothing—just the hush of the sleeping villa.
I tried again, firmer this time, impatience edging my voice, but still careful, afraid to wake Nathan or Boris. “Hannah?”
Still no answer.
I hesitated, then reached for the doorknob. My fingers brushed cool metal. It turned too easily—too easily. The door creaked open, loud enough to make my heart leap into my throat.
“Hannah?” I whispered into the dark. No answer. My imagination instantly supplied corpses, shadows, blood—because of course it did.
Fumbling for the light switch, I found it at last. Click.
The room flooded with light—harsh, sterile, absolute.
Empty. The bed neatly made. No movement. No shadow. No corpse. Just emptiness, echoing louder than any scream.
I flicked the switch and backed out of the dark room as slowly as I could, pulse hammering, that weird fizzing panic crawling up my spine.
Where’s Hannah?
The hallway stretched before me, long and dim, shadows leaning and twitching against the walls as if they’d been listening.
Every tile underfoot rang too loudly, a hollow echo magnified by guilt and adrenaline. I went down the stairs to the kitchen.
Empty.
Counters gleamed under the silver wash of moonlight, too precise, too judgmental. A single spoon lay beside a cutting board, perfectly aligned, almost smug in its composure. Nothing stirred.
I moved on to the lounge.
My reflection caught in a dark mirror—pale, wide-eyed, someone I barely recognized. The room was empty. No Hannah. No whisper of movement. Not even her scent, which usually lingered like authority itself. I swallowed hard.
Next: the study.
Door closed. I knocked. Silence. I twisted the knob, half-expecting resistance—anything—but it turned too easily. The door opened with a soft sigh of hinges. Inside, darkness had weight, curtains drawn tight, air deliberate.
“Hannah?” My voice fractured on her name.
Click.
The overhead light flared—sharp, surgical. My pupils shrank, reluctant witnesses.
The room blinked into existence.
Chair at the desk—vacant.
Desk—spotless, disciplined.
Not a trace of life.
I backed out slowly, switching off the light, easing the door shut as if it might snap at me.
Breath quickened, shallow, traitorous.
Every shadow in the hallway seemed to thicken, pulse, stretch toward the shape I had already imagined—Hannah, Nathan, Boris, some combination of all three.
Moonlight spilled across the marble, cold, unfeeling. I passed the study and lounge, making my way back to the kitchen.
The pantry.
I opened the door with the caution of someone who knew all the horror scripts by heart. Cans lined the shelves like obedient soldiers; a single whisk hung from a hook, gleaming faintly, as if it were judging me for even breathing.
I exhaled.
“No corpse. No ghosts. Just… me,” I muttered.
Then—a swish of movement in the kitchen.
Everything slowed down, as if the universe had pressed ‘dramatic pause.’
I went down onto my haunches, barely breathing, aware of the marble cold seeping through my clothes, the shadows thickening around me, each one a potential assassin.
Silence.