Chapter 3 - The Shadow of Blackwood
We escaped through the rear garden gate just as the lock on the front door was kicked open. Dana had left her old station wagon parked in the alley behind the house—a rusty, beat-up vehicle the Montgomery security detail wouldn't instantly recognize. I strapped Lily into the back seat, covering her with a blanket, while Dana tore out into the rainy street, her tires spinning on the wet asphalt.
Looking back through the rear window, I saw the two men burst out of the back door of the townhouse, their flashlights cutting through the rain. But we were already turning the corner onto the main avenue, vanishing into the midnight traffic.
"Where are we going?" Dana asked, her knuckles white on the steering wheel. "We can't go to my family, we can't go to a hotel—they’ll check credit cards."
"We go north," I said, clutching the micro-SD card tight in my palm. "To the Blackwood Annex."
"Are you insane?" Dana glanced at me, horror etched on her face. "Clara, those files showed women being locked away in private facilities! Whatever is happening out there, it's dangerous."
"It's the only leverage I have," I replied, looking back at my sleeping daughter. "If Robert and Margaret go to the court tomorrow, they will use their money and prestige to take Lily from me. The law won't protect us unless I have proof so catastrophic that no amount of Montgomery money can buy it off. Whatever is inside Blackwood is the key to destroying them."
We drove in silence for forty minutes, leaving the bright lights of the city behind as the road narrow into winding, tree-lined lanes surrounded by dense forest. The rain heavy, sheets of water striking the windshield like gravel.
According to the property deed on the micro-SD card, Blackwood was built in the late 19th century as an isolated sanatorium before being bought by Margaret’s father. It didn't appear on modern GPS maps, but I knew the general layout of the family's historic holdings from old land maps Robert had shown me when we were dating.
We turned onto an unmarked dirt road obscured by overgrown pine branches. The station wagon bounced violently over deep ruts until we saw it: a massive, dark iron gate set into an eight-foot brick wall. The gate was secured with a heavy chain and a keypad lock.
"Stay in the car with Lily," I told Dana, pulling my hood over my head. "Keep the engine running. If I'm not back in thirty minutes, drive straight to the federal courthouse in the city and hand this memory card to the U.S. Attorney's office."
"Clara, wait—"
I didn't give her a chance to argue. I pushed the door open and stepped into the freezing downpour.
I approached the gate. The brick wall was old, covered in ivy, and near the eastern post, a section of the mortar had crumbled away. I hauled myself up onto the lower stone ledge, found a foot-hold in the ironwork, and hoisted myself over the top of the wall, dropping heavily into the mud on the other side.
The grounds of Blackwood were completely dark. The air smelled of wet earth, moss, and decaying wood. Looming through the trees was the silhouette of a three-story Victorian structure made of dark stone, its gothic gables rising into the storm like jagged teeth. Almost every window was dark, except for one on the ground floor near the back, where a faint, rhythmic amber light flickered.
I crept through the tall grass, staying low beneath the line of shrubs. As I drew closer to the lighted window, I heard a sound that made my breath catch in my throat.
It was a hum. A low, mechanical hum mixed with the soft, faint tone of a piano playing a classical melody—the exact same piece that had been playing in Margaret’s ballroom hours earlier.
I edged up to the stone sill and peered through the dirt-streaked glass.
The room inside was immaculate, painted entirely in white. It was furnished like a high-end nursery, filled with antique toys, rocking horses, and silk curtains. But there were no windows leading to the outside—only the faux window I was looking through, which was reinforced with thick steel mesh behind the glass.
Sitting in a small rocking chair in the center of the room was a woman in her late twenties. She wore a simple white linen dress. Her hair was brushed neatly, but her eyes were wide, vacant, and fixed on the wall ahead of her.
Around her neck was a black leather collar.
My heart stopped. I leaned closer to the glass, my breath fogging the cold pane. I wiped it away frantically with my sleeve.
It was Eleanor Vance.
She wasn't dead. She wasn't in the Midwest. She had been kept here, inside this secret house, trapped in a grotesque, perpetual childhood created by the Montgomery family.
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Before I could process the horror in front of me, a hand—heavy, cold, and smelling of leather—clapped tightly over my mouth from behind, and a hard object pressed directly into the small of my back.
"Don't move, Clara," a familiar voice whispered in my ear. "Margaret figured you'd come here first."
