Episode 2

Elias, oblivious to Alex's internal turmoil, simply gestured towards an empty seat at the far end of the table, directly opposite the matriarch. "Your place, sir/madam," he droned, his voice cutting through the thick silence like a dull knife. There was no 'please,' no 'allow me.' Just a command, spoken with an unsettling lack of urgency, as if this was the most natural thing in the world. Alex felt a strange compulsion to obey, as though defying Elias would shatter the fragile equilibrium of the room, unleashing something far worse than awkwardness.

With stiff limbs, Alex moved to the designated chair and slowly lowered themselves into it. The chair, a heavy, velvet-upholstered piece, made a faint, soft hiss as it settled, a sound that seemed to echo disproportionately in the vast, quiet room. Alex’s gaze flickered to the gun, then to the faces of the family. They hadn’t flinched, hadn’t so much as blinked. Their eyes, like dark, polished stones, remained fixed, unreadable. It was as if Alex hadn't even entered the room, as if the entire scene was a meticulously arranged diorama, and Alex merely a misplaced piece.

Elias began to serve. From a silver cloche, he meticulously placed a small, perfectly round serving of what appeared to be some kind of pale, unidentifiable puree onto Alex’s plate. No bread, no water, no other accompaniments. Just the puree. He then moved to each family member, repeating the exact same motion. Each accepted their portion with the same rigid stillness, not even a flicker of acknowledgment. The only sounds were the soft clink of porcelain on mahogany and the almost imperceptible rustle of Elias’s starched uniform.

Alex picked up the spoon – a delicate silver utensil that felt impossibly heavy in the silence – and hesitated. The puree had no discernible aroma. It looked bland, lifeless. Alex took a small, experimental bite. It was tasteless, a flat, gelatinous texture that offered no pleasure, only sustenance. Across the table, the family remained unmoving. No one ate. No one drank. They simply stared. Their unblinking gazes were unnerving. The matriarch, her face a mask of weary resolve, seemed to look through Alex, into some distant, troubled past. The patriarch beside her, his jaw slack, eyes vacant, was like a statue carved from sorrow. The young woman’s wide, fearful eyes darted almost imperceptibly, as if she were tracking something invisible in the air. The young man, on the other hand, held a simmering intensity, his gaze fixed on the gun, his knuckles white against the dark wood of the table.

The silence grew heavier, thicker, pressing in on Alex like a physical weight. It was not the comfortable silence of intimacy, nor the tense silence of anticipation. It was a sterile, desolate quiet, like a room where laughter had been surgically removed. Alex tried to break it, to inject some semblance of normalcy into the macabre charade.

“The journey was… quite long,” Alex offered, the words sounding absurdly loud, clumsy, and utterly out of place in the profound stillness.

No one responded. Not a glance, not a twitch, not even the faint rustle of clothing. It was as if Alex hadn't spoken at all, as if their voice had been swallowed whole by the silence. The candelabra flickered, momentarily deepening the shadows that danced on the family’s faces, making them seem even more corpselike.

Alex tried again, a desperate attempt to bridge the chasm. “This is a remarkable house. Architecturally fascinating.” The words died in the air, falling flat, swallowed by the oppressive quiet. Alex felt a blush creeping up their neck. It was clear. No one was going to speak. No one could speak. Or perhaps, no one dared to speak.

The realization settled in with a cold dread. This wasn't merely a silent dinner; it was a ritual. A performance. But for whom? And why? Alex’s spoon scraped faintly against the porcelain plate as they pushed the tasteless puree around, feeling like an intruder in a private, deeply unsettling ceremony. Every nerve ending was alert, hyper-aware of the slightest movement, the faintest sound. The pressure of the family’s collective gaze was suffocating. Alex felt scrutinized, judged, weighed, and found wanting. It was a test, perhaps. A test of patience, of sanity.

And then, it happened. The first subtle unsettling incident.

It began as a barely perceptible shift in the air, a cool draft that wasn’t quite a draft, a sudden, fleeting drop in temperature that prickled the hairs on Alex’s arms. It was followed by a sound.

A whisper.

It was impossibly faint, like the rustle of old paper or the sigh of wind through a crack in a window, yet it seemed to emanate from directly behind Alex’s right ear. It wasn't a distinct word, more a breathy, drawn-out syllable, a sibilant hiss that seemed to stretch into a mournful wail before fading. Sshhhh… or perhaps Diiiiieee… The ambiguity was more terrifying than a clear threat.

Alex’s breath hitched. They froze, spoon halfway to their mouth. Slowly, painstakingly, Alex turned their head, trying to appear nonchalant, as if merely adjusting their posture. There was nothing there. Just the empty space behind their chair, the wall, a tall, dark cabinet. No one else reacted. The family remained transfixed, unmoving, their gazes still locked. Elias stood by the sideboard, a silent sentinel, his back to the wall, his expression unchanging.

Did Alex imagine it? Was it the strain, the unnerving silence playing tricks on their mind? Alex’s heart hammered against their ribs, a frantic drum against the room’s oppressive quiet. They forced themselves to turn back, facing the silent, staring family once more.

Just as Alex did, their gaze fell upon the enormous, polished silver platter positioned perfectly in the center of the table, directly beneath the candelabra and beside the gun. Its surface was so highly reflective it acted almost like a mirror, albeit a convex one, distorting whatever it reflected.

And in its gleaming surface, Alex saw it.

A reflection glimpsed.

It wasn't Alex’s own distorted face, nor the candelabra, nor the gun. For a fleeting, stomach-lurching instant, an impossible, ethereal form shimmered in the silver. It was a gaunt, elongated shadow, impossibly thin, stretched and distorted by the platter’s curve, yet undeniably humanoid. It appeared to be standing directly behind the matriarch, its head tilted at an unnatural angle, its 'face' a featureless void. It was there for less than a second, a dark, wavering distortion that seemed to absorb the candlelight rather than reflect it.

Then, just as quickly as it appeared, it was gone. The platter now showed only the distorted reflection of the candelabra, the gun, and Alex’s own pale, wide-eyed face.

Alex blinked, then blinked again. Was it a trick of the light? A smear on the silver? A hallucination brought on by the suffocating tension? Alex glanced wildly at the matriarch, but she hadn’t moved a muscle, her eyes still vacant. None of the family showed any sign of having seen anything. Elias remained impassive.

The silent dinner continued, but for Alex, the atmosphere had fundamentally shifted. The silence was no longer just awkward; it was charged, menacing. The family’s stillness was no longer just odd; it felt like a deliberate act, a desperate attempt to contain something unseen, something that lurked just beyond the veil of perception. The Glass House wasn't merely an architectural oddity; it was a stage for a silent, chilling drama, and Alex, the reluctant guest, had just been given a terrifying glimpse behind the curtain. The whisper and the reflection were not just anomalies; they were echoes, invitations to a terror that resided within these glass walls, a terror the family seemed to live with, minute by silent minute. Alex swallowed, the tasteless puree a lump in their throat, acutely aware that the real dinner had just begun, and its main course was dread.

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