Chapter 5 - The Trail of Blood
Ethan stared at the crimson droplets staining the expensive white carpet.
A cold, paralyzing dread seized his heart.
Claire did not hesitate.
She dropped to her knees and touched the blood with her fingertips.
“It’s fresh,” she whispered.
“They couldn't have gone far.”
Ethan drew a heavy, titanium flashlight from his coat pocket, gripping it like a weapon.
They followed the red trail out of the bedroom and down the long, dark corridor.
The drops did not lead toward the grand staircase or the front door.
They led directly to the east wing of the massive estate.
“Nobody goes down here,” Ethan muttered, his pulse pounding in his ears.
“This wing has been locked since my wife passed away.”
The blood trail ended abruptly at a heavy mahogany door.
It was the door to Eleanor Caldwell’s private study.
Ethan reached for the brass handle, fully expecting it to be locked.
The handle turned smoothly, and the door clicked open.
The room was dimly lit by a single desk lamp.
Noah was sitting on the floor, surrounded by hundreds of scattered medical files.
He was not in his wheelchair.
He was holding a blood-soaked letter opener in his small hand.
“Noah!” Ethan gasped, rushing forward to grab his son.
“Are you hurt?”
The boy looked up, his face pale and entirely devoid of emotion.
“I cut my hand trying to pry the desk drawer open,” Noah said flatly.
Claire quickly wrapped her scarf around the boy’s bleeding palm to apply pressure.
“Why did you come in here, buddy?” Ethan asked, his voice cracking.
Noah pointed a shaking finger at an old, yellowed document resting on the rug.
“Margaret left the door open,” the boy explained.
“She was in here talking to Dr. Vance about my mom.”
Ethan picked up the fragile piece of paper.
It was an autopsy report from seven years ago.
The official story was that Eleanor Caldwell had died in a tragic car accident.
The report in Ethan’s hand told a completely different, horrifying truth.
Eleanor had not died of blunt force trauma.
She had died from an acute reaction to a localized paralytic toxin.
It was the exact same poison Ethan had found in Noah’s pill bottle earlier that evening.
Before Ethan could process the terrifying revelation, a loud click echoed behind them.
The heavy mahogany door swung shut and locked from the outside.
“I am so sorry, Ethan,” Margaret’s voice crackled through the room’s hidden intercom system.
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“But you really shouldn't have gone looking for ghosts.”
A thick, sweet-smelling white gas began pouring from the air vents in the ceiling.
