Chapter 4 - SECRETS IN THE SILT
Claire hesitated for only a fraction of a second. She grabbed Lily’s hand, unlocking the bedroom door with trembling fingers.
"Stay right behind me, Lily. Don't let go of my hand, no matter what."
They walked down the pitch-black hallway. The only illumination came from the erratic flashes of lightning outside the hall window and the faint beam of Ethan’s flashlight down near the landing of the stairs.
When Claire reached the middle landing, she gasped.
The water had swallowed the bottom seven steps. It was a dark, murky lake right inside their home, carrying bits of floating paper, a sofa cushion, and empty plastic containers. But Ethan wasn't looking at the debris. He was standing on the eighth step, shin-deep in cold, brown water, pointing his flashlight at a large wooden object that had floated out of the flooded dining room and become wedged against the banister.
It was an old, heavy wooden trunk. Bound in tarnished brass strips, covered in decades of dust that had now turned to mud. The lock had been broken open long ago.
"Where did that come from?" Claire asked, holding Lily tightly. "We don't own a trunk like that."
"It was buried in the crawl space under the stairs," Ethan said. His voice was hollow, stripped of all emotion. "When the floodwater broke through the basement vents, it tore open the false wall under the staircase. The water pressure must have pushed it out."
"Ethan... whose trunk is that?"
Ethan reached down, his hands dripping with filthy water, and slowly pried open the heavy wooden lid. The hinges groaned in protest.
Claire stepped down one step, leaning over to look inside the beam of the flashlight.
Inside the trunk, protected by a layer of moldy oilcloth, were dozens of old items: child-sized clothing from thirty years ago, drawing books filled with crayon sketches of a small house, a silver rattle, and thick, leather-bound journals.
And right on top of the journals lay a framed photograph.
Ethan lifted the frame. The glass was cracked, but the picture inside was remarkably preserved.
It showed a young Ethan, around seven years old, standing next to a little girl with bright eyes and braided hair. She was holding the white stuffed rabbit with the lavender ear.
Standing behind them were their parents: Marcus, looking stern and unsmiling, and Eleanor, her face frail and pale.
"It’s your sister," Claire whispered. "Rebecca."
"Yes," Ethan said softly. "But look at the back of the photo, Claire."
He turned the frame over. Written in faded black ink, in neat cursive handwriting, was a sentence that made Claire’s blood run cold:
“Rebecca — Born March 14, 1990. Returned to the dark, November 1, 1996. May God forgive us for what we did to save Ethan.”
Claire stared at the handwriting, reading it three times to make sure her mind wasn't playing tricks on her.
"Returned to the dark?" Claire repeated, her voice cracking. "What does that mean? Ethan... 'to save Ethan'? What were your parents talking about?"
Ethan didn't answer. He reached back into the trunk and pulled out the top leather journal. He flicked through the damp, yellowed pages until he found an entry dated October 1996—just weeks before Rebecca disappeared.
He began reading out loud, his voice shaking violently:
May you like
“The doctors say Ethan’s heart is failing. He won't survive the winter. There are no donors. No hope. But Marcus says there is another way. He says the old bloodline carries a price, but it requires a sacrifice. Rebecca was born under the second moon. She belongs to the house. If we give her to the water, the water will grant Ethan his life.”
Claire pulled Lily back a step, horror washing over her in waves. "Your parents... your parents didn't lose Rebecca in a flood accident. Ethan... they sacrificed her?"
