Episode 1

The invitation arrived without fanfare, a simple, heavy cream envelope amidst the usual bills and junk mail. No sender’s address, only a hand-calligraphed inscription of Alex’s name. Inside, a single card, thick and cool to the touch, bore a stark, unadorned message: "You are cordially invited to The Glass House. Your presence is expected. Transport arrangements enclosed." There was no explanation, no signatory, just an elegant scrawl of what looked like a date in faint, almost illegible ink at the very bottom. A small, printed itinerary detailing train times and a car pickup at a remote station accompanied it.

Alex, a freelance architectural historian with a penchant for the overlooked and the unsettling, had initially dismissed it as a prank. No one knew Alex’s home address, least of all anyone connected to a grand estate. Yet, a peculiar tremor of curiosity, coupled with an inexplicable sense of obligation, snagged at them. The sheer audacity of the summons, its anonymous authority, piqued a deeply buried academic interest. The Glass House. Alex had only ever seen grainy photographs, articles from obscure journals detailing its architectural oddities – a sprawling, Victorian-era mansion rumored to be constructed with an unprecedented amount of glass, a structural folly, almost a deathtrap by design. Legends whispered of optical illusions, disorienting reflections, and a persistent, inexplicable silence that hung around its grounds. It was a place of myth, not reality, certainly not a place that would send Alex an invitation. But the date hinted at something significant, perhaps an anniversary, though of what, Alex couldn’t guess. After days of internal debate, the allure of the unknown, the professional intrigue, proved too strong to resist. Alex confirmed their attendance, sending a terse, equally formal reply to the provided discreet PO box, and packed a single, sensible bag.

The journey itself was a slow descent into isolation. The train, a quaint, regional line, thinned its passenger count with each stop, disgorging them into increasingly desolate landscapes. Rolling hills gave way to vast, shadowed forests, the sky overhead a bruise of deep purples and grays, promising an early dusk. The air grew colder, crisper, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant pine. Alex watched the last vestiges of civilization recede, the signal lights winking out like forgotten promises. The final station was little more than a platform shrouded by skeletal trees, a single flickering gas lamp casting long, dancing shadows. There, waiting patiently, was a dark, impossibly polished vintage car, its chrome glinting faintly in the fading light. A driver, as stiff and expressionless as a mannequin, emerged and wordlessly took Alex’s luggage, ushering them into the plush, silent interior.

The road wound deeper into the wilderness, narrower and more overgrown with every turn. The car’s headlights cut through the encroaching gloom, revealing gnarled branches that clawed at the night sky. The hum of the engine was the only sound, a monotonous drone against the growing quiet of the world outside. Alex pressed a hand to the cold glass of the window, feeling the immense, oppressive solitude of the place. Then, through a sudden break in the trees, it appeared.

The Glass House.

It wasn't merely a house; it was an apparition. Even in the encroaching twilight, its presence was undeniable, a colossal, multifaceted jewel embedded in the landscape. Walls of gleaming glass soared upwards, reflecting the bruised sky in distorted, fractured images. Gables and turrets, all rendered in glass, caught the last, weak light, making the structure seem to shimmer, almost breathe. It wasn't just windows; it was entire sections, entire rooms seemingly constructed of nothing but panes, some clear, some frosted, some tinted. It seemed to defy architectural logic, a shimmering paradox of solidity and transparency. An imposing wrought-iron gate, adorned with an intricate, almost unsettling, motif of intertwined branches, stood open as if expecting them. The car purred through, moving along a long, gravel driveway that crunched softly under the tires, the sound amplified by the surrounding stillness. No lights were visible within the house, giving it the appearance of an enormous, sleeping eye.

The car stopped at the foot of a grand, sweeping staircase leading to a heavy, ornate oak door. As Alex stepped out, the chill of the evening air wrapped around them, distinct from the air inside the car. The silence here was profound, deeper than anything Alex had ever experienced, a vacuum that seemed to press in on the ears, muffling even the sound of their own footsteps on the gravel. Before Alex could even reach for the door, it swung inward with a faint, sighing creak.

Standing in the dimly lit cavern of the foyer was a figure who could only be the butler. Elias. His posture was ramrod straight, his face a study in neutral, aged formality. Dressed in impeccable dark livery that seemed to absorb the scant light, he was an imposing, almost spectral presence. His eyes, dark and fathomless, held no warmth, no welcome, only a deep, unsettling stillness. He didn't offer a greeting, didn't extend a hand. He simply bowed his head in a precise, almost robotic gesture.

"Welcome to The Glass House," Elias intoned, his voice a low, gravelly monotone, devoid of inflection, like stones grinding together. It was the first human voice Alex had heard in what felt like hours, and it only deepened the sense of unreality.

Alex attempted a polite, if strained, smile. "Thank you. I'm Alex."

Elias merely gave another slight inclination of his head, his gaze unwavering. He reached for Alex’s single bag, his movements fluid and efficient, yet strangely stiff, as if practiced countless times for an audience of none. "If you would follow me," he said, turning on his heel and gliding silently into the shadowy depths of the house.

The foyer was vast, echoing, and eerily silent. High ceilings, supported by dark, polished wood beams, disappeared into gloom. Ornate tapestries hung on the walls, their colors muted by age, depicting scenes Alex couldn't quite decipher in the dim light. The silence here was even more potent than outside, swallowing footsteps, breathing, thoughts. Elias moved with a swift, noiseless grace, his form almost blending with the shadows. Alex followed, acutely aware of the echoing emptiness around them. Each step Alex took felt unnaturally loud, a jarring intrusion in the profound quiet.

They passed through a series of grand, interconnected drawing rooms, their furniture draped in pristine white sheets like sleeping giants. Moonlight, now beginning to assert itself, pierced through vast glass panels, casting an intricate lattice of silver on the dust covers. Alex glimpsed distorted reflections of themselves and Elias in the polished surfaces, fleeting and ghost-like. The air was cool, dry, and carried a faint, almost imperceptible scent of old wood, dust, and something else—something metallic, like cold iron, or something else. A whisper of forgotten sorrow.

Elias finally paused before a pair of tall, double doors, made of a dark, richly grained wood. He pushed them open without a sound.

The dining room.

Alex stepped over the threshold, and the scene that unfolded froze them in place. The room was immense, perhaps even larger than the foyer, and utterly devoid of warmth. A single, tall candelabra stood at the center of a long, highly polished mahogany dining table, its three lit candles casting flickering, meager light. But it wasn't the size or the gloom that arrested Alex; it was the tableau around the table.

Seated in silence, rigidly upright in high-backed chairs, were four figures. The family.

They were dressed in formal, dark clothing, almost funereal in their starkness. An older woman with sharp, severe features and hair pulled back in a tight bun sat at the head of the table. Beside her, a man of similar age, his face etched with a profound weariness, stared blankly ahead. On the opposite side sat a young woman, perhaps in her late teens or early twenties, her posture unnaturally stiff, her eyes wide and fixed on something unseen. Next to her, a young man, a few years older, sat with his jaw clenched, a faint tremor running through his hands, though his gaze, like the others, was locked forward.

No one spoke. No one moved. They simply sat there, utterly still, their faces pale in the candlelight, their eyes staring into the middle distance, or perhaps, directly at Alex. Their plates were empty, their silverware untouched. It was a tableau vivant, frozen in time, unsettling in its unnatural stillness.

And then, Alex saw it.

At the absolute center of the long, empty table, resting on the polished wood beside the candelabra, was a gun. Not a relic, not an antique display piece, but a modern, dark-metal handgun. Its cold, metallic gleam absorbed the candlelight, a stark, menacing focal point in the room’s chilling silence.

A knot formed in Alex’s stomach. This wasn't merely eccentric; it was profoundly wrong. The sight of the weapon, so casual yet so menacingly placed, amplified the unyielding silence, turning it into a palpable threat. The family’s blank, unblinking stares suddenly felt like a judgment, a silent accusation. The air crackled with unspoken tension, a story untold, a secret festering at the heart of this silent house of glass. Alex stood there, frozen, the implication dawning with a cold dread: something was terribly, profoundly wrong with this family. And Alex was now squarely in their silent, unsettling world.

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***