She set up her temporary living quarters in what had once been the butler's pantry—small, windowless, and defensible. Then she began her walkthrough.
She stepped into the grand foyer. A staircase curved upward into darkness, its banister carved with faces—not the usual acanthus leaves or geometric patterns, but actual faces. Dozens of them, small and twisted, their expressions caught somewhere between agony and ecstasy. Brooke ran her fingers over the wood. The craftsmanship was extraordinary, but the subject matter was deeply unsettling. brooke beretta
Then the faces on the banister began to change. She set up her temporary living quarters in
And she had walked right into its mouth. A staircase curved upward into darkness, its banister
The ragged stubs had grown back, filled with dense, spidery handwriting that had not been there before. The ink was wet.
And Silas—my Silas—is the foundation. Every stone, every beam, every nail. The house is built from his bones, and it will never let him go.