Whispers in the West Wing

Chapter 7: Whispers in the West Wing

The west wing of the Montgomery estate felt like stepping into another world. The air was thick with dust and a faint metallic tang, as though the walls themselves bore witness to countless untold stories. The corridor stretched long and narrow, its dark wood paneling illuminated only by Ian's flashlight and the faint glow of the storm-muted sunlight struggling through heavy velvet curtains.

Ian walked carefully, his shoes muffled against the threadbare carpet. Sheriff Evelyn Cross followed a few steps behind, her hand resting on her holstered sidearm. "The deputy said they found something by the west wing storeroom," she said, her voice low, as though the walls might carry her words to unwelcome ears.

"Not just something," Ian replied. "He said they found blood."

The corridor opened into a larger space, the storeroom door hanging ajar as if inviting them in. The deputy stood at the entrance, his face pale and eyes wide. "I've never seen anything like this," he muttered. "It's… sick."

Ian's flashlight swept the room as he stepped inside. The storeroom was filled with neglected furniture—dusty chairs, cracked mirrors, and forgotten relics of a once-prosperous household. But in the center of the room was a sight that made Ian's stomach churn.

A makeshift altar had been set up, a crude platform draped with a tattered red cloth. On it lay objects that defied immediate understanding—an animal skull blackened with soot, melted candles forming strange, chaotic spirals, and a rusted dagger whose blade was still smeared with dried blood. Above the altar, scrawled on the wall in dark, uneven strokes, was the same spiral symbol Ian had seen etched on the mirror in the parlor.

"It's a ritual," Evelyn said, her voice tight with unease. "But what the hell were they trying to summon?"

Ian didn't answer, his focus narrowing on the dagger. The blood on the blade looked fresh enough to make him uneasy. He crouched low, his gloved fingers brushing against something barely visible beneath the platform—a photograph. It was old, the edges frayed, but the image was clear: a group of masked individuals standing in a circle, their hands joined. In the center of the group stood a woman with striking features—Eleanor Montgomery.

"Eleanor was no stranger here," Ian murmured, standing and holding the photograph out for Evelyn to see. "Whatever this place is, she was part of it."

Evelyn's jaw tightened as she examined the image. "If she was, then this was more than a murder. It was a message."

Ian nodded, his mind racing. The ritualistic setup, the symbols, and the photograph all pointed to the Crimson Hour Society, but this was darker than anything he had imagined. The society wasn't just a network of power—it was something far more insidious. And whoever had killed Eleanor had left a trail soaked in blood, daring him to follow.

His thoughts were interrupted by the faint sound of footsteps echoing down the corridor. Ian tensed, his flashlight flicking toward the doorway. Evelyn's hand went to her sidearm, her eyes narrowing. "Stay here," Ian whispered, motioning for her to stay back as he moved toward the source of the sound.

The footsteps grew louder, uneven and dragging, as if the person approaching was limping. Ian pressed himself against the wall near the doorway, his body taut with readiness. When the figure finally appeared, Ian's breath caught.

It was Clara Montgomery, her hair disheveled, her hands smeared with dirt and blood. Her eyes were wide, filled with panic and something else—something darker. She froze when she saw Ian, her voice trembling as she whispered, "I didn't know… I didn't know they'd go this far…"

Ian stepped forward slowly, keeping his voice calm but firm. "Clara, what are you talking about? Who's 'they'?"

Clara's hands clutched at her sides, her breathing shallow and erratic. "I— I thought it was just tradition," she stammered. "But this… this is something else. They wanted her dead, Ian. They said it was her fault, that she—" Her voice broke into a sob, and she collapsed to the floor.

Ian crouched beside her, his mind a storm of questions. Clara's fear felt genuine, but her words hinted at complicity. The Crimson Hour Society wasn't just an abstract power structure—it was a force of fear, and Clara had been closer to it than she'd let on.

Evelyn approached cautiously, her voice steady. "We need answers, Clara. Tell us everything."

Clara looked up, her tear-streaked face pale and trembling. Her next words sent a chill through Ian's core. "It's not just about her. It's about me. I was supposed to be next."