Part Two – The Heirloom
Jonathan paused at the base of the staircase. His gaze slid — not upward to Room 32 — but sideways, toward the wall beside the great steps. There, in its glass case, hung the golden Winchester revolver.
It glimmered faintly in the candlelight, catching the fire in its engraved barrel. A family heirloom, a relic of Iron Age wars. His father had polished it religiously, retelling the story of how the Hanns bloodline had once stood shoulder to shoulder with hunters, driving back the night's creatures during the second, third and fourth war.
Now his father was nothing but bones beneath the earth, murdered.
Jonathan's hand lifted almost of its own accord. The glass case opened with a tired creak, and the revolver slid free into his palm.
It was heavier than he remembered. He held it up, studying the weapon. In its reflection he caught sight of himself.
A pale face stared back at him — younger than his nineteen years should have allowed. His skin, once warm with youth, now held a sickly hue, drained as if the house itself had bled him dry. His eyes, green like young apples, no longer carried the brightness of summer fields but the dim, hollow gleam of a boy who had looked too long into the dark. His black hair fell untidy across his forehead, damp with sweat.
A streak of dried blood lingered at the cuff of his shirt. He hadn't noticed it before. Whose blood? Animal? His own? He couldn't remember.
Jonathan exhaled, the sound shaky, and curled his fingers around the revolver's grip. The metal was cold, biting into his skin. His father's voice rose unbidden in his mind: "A Hanns does not flinch before duty. If you aim, you fire."
But Jonathan's hand trembled.
He looked up the staircase again. The candles flickered as though stirred by a hidden breath. The stair boards groaned under his first step, then the next, each sound a reminder: the higher he climbed, the closer he came to Room 32.
Jonathan whispered under his breath, a broken vow to himself.
"Tonight… I'll do it. Tonight." his courage wasn't enough so tonight he had taken courage from wine.
Yet even as he said it, the words tasted like ash.