Chapter 3 - THE ROSARY IN THE DARK
The Carter mansion was a labyrinth of marble floors, vaulted ceilings, and suffocating silence.
Charles led the way, his long strides eating up the distance as we left the dining room behind. I followed closely, my black maid’s uniform still smelling faintly of the soup I had thrown. Evelyn trailed us, her heels clicking frantically against the floorboards, her voice a relentless, desperate hum of excuses that neither of us acknowledged.
We reached the heavy iron gates that separated the main house from the East Wing.
For the three years I had worked here, this section had been strictly off-limits. The staff was told it was structurally unsound, awaiting renovation. Dust coated the floor. The air was stale, smelling of old wood and buried secrets.
Charles bypassed the gates, walking down a long, windowless corridor until we reached a solid oak door at the very end.
There was no doorknob. Just a heavy, antiquated brass deadbolt.
Charles’s hands were shaking so badly he couldn't align the key. He looked at me, a silent plea in his eyes.
I took the brass key from his trembling fingers. I slid it into the lock.
It turned with a heavy, satisfying click.
I pushed the door open.
I expected a dungeon. I expected a vault filled with stolen money.
Instead, a cloud of dust swirled into the corridor, revealing a room that made my lungs stop working.
It was a nursery.
Answer One, Open Two. The room beneath the East Wing wasn’t a torture chamber; it was a shrine. Faded pastel yellow wallpaper peeled at the corners. A pristine white crib stood in the center of the room. Bookshelves were lined with vintage children's books. In the corner sat a beautiful, hand-carved mahogany rocking chair.
Charles fell to his knees in the doorway. He buried his face in his hands, letting out a sob so profound it seemed to tear his chest apart.
“I built this for you,” Charles wept, his voice muffled by his hands. “I built it with my own hands. I was going to leave Evelyn. I was going to give you and Elena everything.”
I walked slowly into the room. This was supposed to be my life. Before the fire, before the orphanage, before the years of scrubbing floors until my knuckles bled. I had been loved.
I reached out and touched the railing of the white crib.
Something cold and metallic brushed against my fingers.
I looked down. Wrapped tightly around one of the wooden spindles was a heavy, ornate Catholic rosary.
It was made of black onyx beads, ending in a sharp, silver crucifix.
Reversal.
I turned around, holding the rosary up in the dim light filtering from the hallway.
“Evelyn,” I said quietly. “You aren't Catholic.”
Evelyn stood in the doorway, her arms wrapped around herself, shivering despite the warmth of the house. She stared at the black onyx beads, and the last shred of color drained from her face.
“No,” she whispered.
Charles looked up from the floor, wiping his face. His eyes locked onto the rosary.
“That belongs to my sister,” Charles said, his voice turning to ice. “Victoria.”
If Victoria’s rosary was sealed inside a room that had been locked for twenty-two years, it meant Victoria had been in this room the night my mother vanished.
Before Charles could stand up, Evelyn grabbed the heavy iron handle of the oak door.
Her eyes were wild with a terror I had never seen before.
“I’m sorry, Charles,” Evelyn sobbed. “If she finds out we opened this room, she will kill my grandson.”
She slammed the heavy oak door shut.
May you like
The brass deadbolt clicked loudly from the outside.
We were locked in.
