Chapter Twelve: The Warning

The fabric still rested in Leon's hands, the bloodstains dark against the lantern's glow.

Elena's mind raced.

This was his.

But it was too old. Too fragile. Like it had been buried for centuries.

The voice in the walls. The whisper that had known his name.

She swallowed. "Leon, how—"

The front door slammed open.

Elena jumped.

The wind howled through the house, rattling the floorboards. The lantern's flame guttered, shadows stretching unnaturally across the walls.

And then—footsteps.

Not outside.

Inside.

Upstairs.

Leon's head snapped toward the ceiling. His grip on the fabric tightened.

Someone was in the house.

Elena's pulse thundered. "Did you—"

"No," Leon said sharply.

The footsteps moved again. Slow. Deliberate.

Then—

A voice.

"Elena."

Her stomach dropped.

She knew that voice.

Knew it too well.

It was Mr. Holloway.

The same man who had run from them in terror not an hour ago.

But his voice…

It was wrong.

It was closer than it should be.

Leon moved first. He stepped away from the grave, past the nameplate, past the bloodied cloth, and toward the stairs. His posture was tense. Controlled.

But Elena could feel it—the shift in the air.

He wasn't just on edge.

He was ready.

The footsteps creaked above them again. Mr. Holloway was moving.

"Elena," the old man called again, his voice sharper now. More urgent.

Leon didn't hesitate. He strode up the steps, his movements too smooth, too fast.

Elena hurried after him, heart hammering.

The house groaned around them.

And as soon as they reached the top of the stairs—

Mr. Holloway stood at the end of the hallway.

His eyes were wide. His breath ragged.

His cane was gone.

And in his trembling hands—

Was an old, yellowed book.

A book that looked just as ancient as the grave below.

"Elena," Mr. Holloway rasped, his fingers gripping the book so tightly his knuckles went white.

His gaze flickered to Leon—then back to her.

His face was pale, his expression full of terror.

"You have to leave."

Elena stiffened. "What?"

"Leave this house," he whispered. "Before he remembers."

The air thickened.

Leon did not move.

Did not speak.

But Elena…

She felt the cold realization creep into her bones.

Because Mr. Holloway wasn't looking at the grave.

Wasn't looking at the house.

He was looking at Leon.

And he was afraid.

More afraid than he had ever been.