Episode 3

The dinner concluded as silently as it began. Elias, with the same unhurried, almost ritualistic movements, cleared the plates, each clink of porcelain echoing in the cavernous room. The family remained seated, motionless, until he had finished, then, with a synchronized, almost imperceptible shift, rose and dispersed like shadows. No goodnights, no polite farewells, just a gradual, silent dissolution into the house’s numerous passages. The matriarch, the patriarch, the young woman, and the young man vanished, leaving Alex alone with the unblinking gaze of the gun and the flickering candlelight.

Elias reappeared at Alex’s side, his presence as unnerving as his absence. "If you would care to retire," he stated, his voice as flat as ever. He didn't wait for a response, simply turned and led the way. The ascent to Alex's assigned room was a dizzying journey through more silent corridors, up a grand staircase with banisters that felt slick with age, and past numerous closed doors. Moonlight, now stronger, filtered through vast, intricate leaded glass windows that lined the upper hall, painting spectral patterns on the dark wood floors. Every mirror, every glass-paneled wall, every polished surface seemed to hold a fleeting, distorted image of Alex, a multitude of silent observers.

Alex’s room was on the second floor, at the end of a long, shadowed hallway. Elias pushed open a heavy, unadorned door. The room itself was vast, surprisingly so, yet felt strangely austere despite its grandeur. A four-poster bed, draped in heavy, dark velvet that seemed to absorb what little light there was, dominated the center. A large, ornate armoire stood against one wall, its dark wood gleaming faintly. A writing desk, its surface polished to a mirror shine, sat beneath a tall, narrow window that looked out onto an unseen expanse of grounds.

The house, despite its evident opulence, felt profoundly cold. It wasn't merely the absence of a roaring fire or heating; it was a pervasive, bone-deep chill that seemed to emanate from the very stone and glass of the structure. It felt like a chill that had seeped in over decades, a permanent resident. Alex shivered, a reflex unrelated to the subtle, almost imperceptible vibrations that hummed through the floorboards. The air was still, heavy, carrying the same faint scent of old dust and that unsettling metallic tang that had permeated the dining room. It felt like the house itself was holding its breath.

Elias placed Alex’s single bag at the foot of the bed. "Should you require anything," he said, his voice as mechanical as before, "a bell pull is by the bed." He indicated a thick, braided cord hanging beside the headboard, its tassel almost touching the floor. Then, with another silent bow, he exited, the heavy door clicking shut with a soft, final sound that seemed to seal Alex within the vast, cold space.

Alex stood for a moment, listening. Nothing. Only the profound, unyielding silence of the house, broken only by the frantic thump of their own heart. The grand room felt less like a sanctuary and more like a gilded cage. The pervasive cold gnawed at Alex, a constant, unpleasant reminder of the house's unwelcoming embrace. Alex walked to the window. Outside, the moon was high, a perfect pearl in a velvet sky, illuminating a sprawling, untamed garden. Distorted reflections of the moonlight danced on the innumerable glass surfaces of the house's exterior, making it look like a monstrous, sleeping crystal.

Turning from the window, Alex decided to unpack. It was a mundane task, but offered a sense of control, a small anchor in the unsettling tide. Alex unzipped the bag, placing a few changes of clothes into the empty drawers of a large, dark dresser. The wood was cool and smooth beneath their fingers, the drawers sliding open with a low, mournful groan, as if protesting the disturbance.

It was in the third drawer down, tucked beneath a stack of pristine, unused linen napkins, that Alex made the first discovery. It wasn't immediately obvious, a shape slightly too rigid for fabric. Alex pulled it out.

It was a diary.

Not a modern notebook, but an artifact from a bygone era. It was bound in dark, aged leather, its surface worn smooth in places, the corners scuffed and softened with time. The pages, visible through a slight gap where the binding had loosened, were thick and yellowed at the edges. A tarnished, intricate silver clasp held it firmly shut, clearly locked. There was no keyhole; instead, a tiny, almost invisible button on the side of the clasp hinted at a hidden mechanism. Alex’s fingers traced the delicate, almost floral engravings on the silver, feeling the cool metal beneath their thumb. The diary felt heavier than its size suggested, a dense block of secrets. Its spine bore no title, no author, just the silent weight of unread words. A faint, sweet, decaying scent, like dried flowers and old paper, emanated from it.

Alex tried to open it, gently pressing on various parts of the clasp, but it remained stubbornly sealed. The lock was complex, designed for discretion. It was clear that brute force would only damage it. Who did this belong to? Why was it hidden among unused linens? The fact that it was locked made it all the more intriguing, hinting at contents too personal, too dangerous, to be left exposed. Alex placed the diary carefully on the writing desk, a silent promise to return to it later. It felt like a small victory, a tiny crack in the house's impenetrable facade of silence.

Alex continued unpacking, but their mind kept drifting back to the diary. The feeling of being watched, which had been a subtle undercurrent since arriving, intensified. Alex paused, listening intently. The house was silent, but it wasn't empty. There was a faint, almost imperceptible hum in the air, a vibration that seemed to resonate deep within the very structure of the building. Or was it just their nerves, frayed by the silent dinner and the earlier, fleeting glimpses of the impossible?

Alex moved to the armoire, pulling open its heavy, creaking doors. Inside, it was mostly empty, smelling faintly of mothballs and stale air. A few dusty, forgotten hangers dangled forlornly. As Alex reached for one to hang a shirt, their fingers brushed against something tucked into a hidden recess at the very back of the armoire’s top shelf, almost flush with the wall. It was thin, flat, and brittle.

Alex pulled it out. It was a photograph.

It was a small, sepia-toned print, clearly very old. Its edges were soft and curled, and the image itself was faded, blurring the details into a ghostly sepia mist. It depicted a solitary figure, a young woman, standing in what looked like a grand, overgrown garden. Her dress was of a style long out of fashion, indicating the photograph was perhaps from the late 19th or early 20th century. Her face, though indistinct due to the fading, held an expression of profound sadness, her eyes downcast, her posture slightly stooped. Her hair, light-colored, seemed to shimmer even in the faded print. She was undeniably beautiful, even in her melancholy, but utterly unknown to Alex. No name, no date, no inscription on the back, just the faded image of a mournful stranger.

Alex turned the photograph over in their hands, feeling the thin, brittle cardstock. Who was she? A past resident? A servant? A tragic lover? Her sorrow seemed to seep from the image, filling the cold room with a phantom ache. Why was it hidden? It felt like a piece of a puzzle, but one with no obvious connections to the family downstairs, or to the gun. Yet, the deep melancholy in her gaze resonated with the pervasive sadness Alex felt clinging to the very walls of the house. It was a fragment of a lost story, a silent plea.

Alex placed the photograph next to the diary on the desk. Two hidden artifacts, two pieces of a past yearning to be uncovered. The cold of the room seemed to deepen, but Alex barely noticed it now, lost in the tantalizing threads of mystery. The Glass House was not just a house; it was a tomb of forgotten lives, and Alex had just stumbled upon its keys. The silence outside the room pressed in, but inside, Alex felt a growing hum of questions, a nascent desire to pierce the veil of the house’s secrets. The initial dread, while still present, had begun to mingle with the thrill of discovery. Alex was no longer just a guest; they were an accidental archaeologist of the house's past, armed with a locked diary and a faded, melancholic photograph.

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