Victoria's POV
Dr. Whitmore arrived that afternoon.
I watched from the upstairs window as his car pulled up the long driveway. He was old now, his back bent with age and maybe guilt. He'd been our family physician for forty years. He'd signed Elias's death certificate without an autopsy. He'd helped bury our secret.
Now he was here to face it.
Mother had called him in a panic after breakfast. She needed someone who knew. Someone who understood what we'd done. I wondered if she realized she was just making everything worse.
I found them in Father's study. Whitmore sat in a chair by the fire, his hands gripping a glass of whiskey. He drained it in one swallow.
"Where is he?" Whitmore asked.
"Walking the grounds," Thomas said. He stood by the window, watching the gardens. "He does that. Just walks around like he owns the place."
"Because he does," I said from the doorway. Everyone turned to look at me. "This was his home. Before we took it from him."
Father's face darkened. "Victoria, not now."
"When, then? When should we talk about the fact that we murdered Elias? Next week? Next year? Maybe at your seventieth birthday party?"
"Enough!" Father slammed his hand on the desk. "We did what we had to do. I won't apologize for saving this family."
"You saved your bank account," I shot back. "Not the family. We died that night too. We just kept walking around pretending we were alive."
Whitmore cleared his throat. "The question is what do we do now? If this truly is something supernatural, something connected to the ritual, then traditional methods won't work."
"Can you reverse it?" Mother asked. Her face was desperate. "Can you send it back?"
"I'm a doctor, Margaret, not a priest. You're the one who read those damned books."
Mother twisted her hands. "I burned them. After. I couldn't stand having them in the house."
"Then we're blind," Whitmore said. "We don't know what we're dealing with or how to stop it."
The door opened. The stranger walked in, still wearing his coat. Snow dusted his shoulders.
"Don't stop talking on my account," he said. "I'm enjoying learning about my death. It's not every day you get to hear how your family murdered you."
Whitmore stood up so fast his chair fell over. His face went white as paper. "Dear God."
"Not quite." The stranger moved closer. "Do you recognize me, Doctor? You signed my death certificate. You told the police the fire destroyed most of my body. You helped them cover it up."
"I had no choice," Whitmore stammered. "Your father, he threatened my career, my family. I did what I had to survive."
"Everyone did what they had to do." The stranger's voice was hard. "Except me. I didn't get a choice. I just burned."
He turned to Mother. "Tell me about the ritual. What exactly did you summon?"
Mother shook her head. "I don't remember. The words were in Latin, or something older. The book said it would grant prosperity in exchange for an innocent soul."
"A demon, then. Or something close enough." The stranger walked to the fireplace. He held his hand over the flames. They bent away from his skin like they were afraid. "And when you killed me, I became the payment. My soul bound to whatever entity you called."
"But you're here," I said. "How did you get free?"
He pulled his hand back. "I don't know. I remember darkness. Centuries of darkness, even though only twenty years passed out here. I remember hunger and cold and endless screaming. Then something changed. A crack appeared. A way back. And here I am."
Father stood up. "What do you want from us?"
"Justice."
"We'll pay you anything. Name your price."
The stranger laughed. It was a terrible sound, empty and cold. "You already paid your price, Father. Twenty years of wealth and success. The entity kept its end of the bargain. But now the balance has shifted."
"What does that mean?" Thomas asked.
"It means the debt is coming due." The stranger looked at each of us. "The ritual required an innocent sacrifice. But my death was wrong. Unjust. That injustice created a crack in the contract. Every year you prospered, the crack grew wider. Your guilt fed it. Your secrets strengthened it. Until finally, it was big enough for something to slip through."
Whitmore sank back into his chair. "You're not Elias at all."
"I have his memories. His face. His voice. His love for his sister and his hate for his killers. Am I not Elias? Or am I something that ate Elias and wears him like a suit?"
No one answered.
He smiled. "The truth is, I don't know either. But I know what I want. I want to feel them suffer the way Elias suffered. I want them to burn the way he burned. I want payment for the twenty years he lost."
"You want revenge," I said quietly.
He looked at me. For just a moment, something human flickered in his eyes. "Wouldn't you?"
Before I could answer, Whitmore made a gurgling sound. He clutched his chest, his face turning purple. He fell forward onto the carpet, convulsing.
Mother screamed. Thomas ran to him, loosening his collar. But I saw the frost spreading from where the stranger stood. Saw the darkness gathering in the corners of the room.
Whitmore's eyes rolled back. His last breath rattled out of him like chains dragging across stone.
Then he was gone.
The stranger looked down at the body without emotion. "One down. The entity is pleased. It got its appetizer."
Father stepped back, his hand reaching for the letter opener on his desk. A useless weapon against whatever this thing was.
"Don't worry," the stranger said. "You three are the main course. But first, we're going to play a game. We're going to uncover every secret. Every lie. Every sin. And when I'm done, when the truth is laid bare, then you'll pay. Then you'll understand what it feels like to be betrayed by the people who were supposed to love you."
He walked to the door. "Oh, and Father? Happy birthday. I got you exactly what you deserve."
He left us there with Whitmore's corpse and the cold certainty that this was only the beginning.