I remained motionless beneath the covers, heart pounding violently as tension gripped every muscle. Morning could not arrive quickly enough.
With trembling hands, I reviewed the footage.
Beatrice emerged from her room wearing a pale nightgown that drifted softly around her movements, her steps slow, measured, eerily deliberate. She approached our door, paused briefly, then glanced down the hallway with cautious awareness that suggested secrecy rather than confusion.
She knocked three times.
Then she stood there.
For ten agonizing minutes, she remained completely still, her face devoid of expression, eyes fixed upon the door with chilling intensity. The silence inside that recording felt heavier than any sound could have conveyed.
Finally, she reached into her pocket.
A silver key appeared.
She lifted it gently toward the lock, holding it there without turning, lingering as though contemplating a threshold invisible yet deeply significant. Moments later, she withdrew quietly and vanished down the hallway.
My breath felt trapped somewhere between disbelief and fear.
When Ethan watched beside me, color drained visibly from his face.