Episode 5

The chilling episode with the gun had left Alex even more unsettled than the silent dinner. The way the young woman had visibly shuddered, and the young man’s raw, suppressed fury, had confirmed Alex’s deepest suspicions: the Glass family’s silence was not merely eccentricity, but a deeply ingrained response to a terrifying, shared trauma. The gun was undeniably central to it all. Alex spent the remainder of the afternoon secluded in their room, the locked diary and faded photograph the only companions, a growing sense of urgency compelling them to understand.

Dinner that evening was another repeat of the previous, tasteless meal, and the gun was back in its place at the center of the main dining table, a silent, malevolent guest. The family maintained their unnerving stillness, their eyes distant. Alex ate mechanically, keenly aware of the weight of unspoken questions pressing down. Elias, as always, was a constant, gliding presence, serving and clearing with robotic precision. It was during the serving of a small, unidentifiable dessert that Alex decided to act. Elias’s proximity, his near-motionless vigil, presented a rare opportunity.

As Elias leaned over to place Alex’s dessert plate, Alex lowered their voice, making it barely a murmur, a whisper against the room’s crushing silence. "Elias," Alex began, trying to inject a note of casual curiosity into their tone, "this house… it has a very distinct atmosphere. Very old. You've been here a long time, haven't you?"

Elias paused, his hand hovering over the plate. His head, which had been bowed slightly in his serving posture, barely tilted up. His dark, impenetrable eyes met Alex’s for a fleeting moment. There was no flicker of emotion, no recognition of the personal question. His voice, when it came, was the same low, grating monotone.

"The Glass House has been in the Glass family for generations," he stated, his words clipped, precise, and utterly devoid of warmth. "My family has served theirs for as long." It was a statement of fact, not an invitation to conversation. His gaze remained unreadable, offering no glimpses of his inner thoughts. Alex felt a wall slam down, impenetrable and unyielding.

Alex pressed on, emboldened by the sheer audacity of the house's secrets. "And the family… they are accustomed to this… silence?" Alex gestured vaguely around the vast, quiet dining room.

Elias’s hand finally placed the dessert plate, a faint clink on the polished table. He straightened up, his back ramrod straight. He did not look at Alex. His gaze remained fixed on some point beyond Alex’s shoulder, towards the distant, shadowed end of the room. "The family adheres to certain… traditions," he replied, his voice still flat, but with a subtle, almost imperceptible emphasis on 'traditions,' as if that word held a deeper, unstated meaning. It was a perfectly non-committal answer, yet the choice of word resonated. Traditions implies a choice, a legacy, a deliberate perpetuation of something.

"Traditions can be difficult to maintain," Alex ventured, hoping to coax out something more, a crack in his formal facade. "Especially ones that demand so much…" Alex trailed off, gesturing again at the family, who remained still, untouched by the subtle exchange.

Elias moved to serve the next silent family member, his movements fluid, unhurried. He didn't respond immediately. Alex thought the conversation was over, swallowed by the silence once more. But then, as he stood briefly behind the young man, his voice, still low, almost too quiet to hear, drifted back to Alex.

"Some traditions are not chosen, sir/madam," Elias murmured, his eyes still fixed on the distance. "Some are simply… binding."

The word hung in the air, heavy and significant. Binding. It wasn't just a tradition then; it was a compulsion, a chain. Elias continued his service, moving around the table, but Alex felt the weight of his words. This wasn't a choice; it was a consequence.

Later that evening, after the silent dinner concluded and the family once again melted into the shadows of the house, Elias found Alex in the drawing room, ostensibly admiring a particularly intricate glass chandelier. Alex had intentionally lingered, knowing Elias often made a final round before retiring.

"Is there anything further you require before the night?" Elias asked, his voice echoing in the vast, empty space.

"Only answers, Elias," Alex replied, turning to face him, abandoning pretense. "What is the history that binds this family? What is the secret of this house?" Alex gestured to the glass walls, the moonlight pouring through them, creating disorienting patterns on the floor. "And the gun, Elias? Why is it always there?"

Elias’s face remained a mask of polite indifference, but Alex thought they saw a flicker, a brief, almost imperceptible tightening around his eyes. He paused for a moment longer than usual, his gaze sweeping over the shimmering, reflective surfaces of the room, as if weighing invisible forces.

"The history of this house," Elias began, his voice dropping to a slightly lower register, still monotonous, yet imbued with a subtle, chilling resonance, "is etched into its very glass. It reflects all that has been. And all that will be." He paused again, a long, drawn-out silence that amplified the quiet of the house. "The family… they are merely keepers of the reflection."

He offered no further explanation. He had spoken in riddles, in metaphors that only deepened the mystery. Etched into its glass. Reflects all that has been. Keepers of the reflection. What did that mean? Was the house literally a repository of past events? Was the family forced to relive or witness some historical trauma?

Alex pressed him. "But the gun, Elias? Why is it there? Is it a warning? A threat?"

Elias finally met Alex’s gaze again, and for the briefest of moments, Alex thought they saw something there – a flicker of profound sorrow, or perhaps, a deep, weary understanding. It vanished as quickly as it appeared.

"The gun is merely… an anchor," Elias stated, his voice returning to its flat, detached tone. "It keeps things… stable. For now."

An anchor? Alex’s mind raced. An anchor for what? For the family’s sanity? For the house itself? Or for something else entirely? It keeps things stable. For now. The implication of impermanence, of a precarious balance, sent a fresh wave of unease through Alex. It suggested that whatever 'things' were, they were volatile, always on the verge of breaking loose.

"Stable from what, Elias?" Alex asked, leaning forward, desperate for a concrete answer.

Elias took a slow, deliberate step back. His eyes, though still fixed on Alex, seemed to glaze over, losing their faint spark of something akin to communication. His expression resumed its customary impenetrable formality. "Some questions, sir/madam, answer themselves in time," he intoned, his voice now entirely devoid of inflection, a wall of sound once more. "The house, it speaks. To those who listen."

With that, he bowed deeply, a gesture of finality, and turned to leave. Alex wanted to call out, to demand more, but the air around Elias seemed to congeal, creating an invisible barrier. He moved with his customary silent grace, disappearing into the shadows of the grand hall, leaving Alex alone amidst the shimmering, reflective surfaces, the heavy silence, and the chilling weight of his cryptic words.

The house, it speaks. To those who listen. Elias's words echoed in Alex’s mind as they finally retired to their cold, silent room. He hadn't given direct answers, but he had given enough. Enough to confirm that the house was alive with a terrifying history, and that the family’s strange behavior was a direct consequence of it. He had hinted at a profound connection between the house, the family, and the gun. A connection that was not merely symbolic, but active, a source of a binding force that held them all captive. The dread Alex felt was now laced with a potent mix of fear and an insatiable desire to listen, to decipher the house's silent narrative. The gun’s shadow, Alex realized, stretched far beyond the dining table; it reached into the very foundations of the Glass House, and into the tormented souls of its inhabitants.

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