Episode 4

Sleep did not come easily to Alex that night. The chilling tableau of the dining room, the silent family, and the ominous gun at the table’s center replayed constantly in their mind. The faint whisper and the ghostly reflection from the silver platter haunted the edges of their consciousness. Even in the spacious, silent room, Alex felt an oppressive presence, a sense of being constantly observed by unseen eyes, or perhaps by the very house itself. The discoveries of the locked diary and the faded photograph had ignited a fierce, almost obsessive, curiosity, but they had also deepened the sense of dread. The house felt less like a grand estate and more like a carefully constructed vault for some terrible, unspoken truth.

When morning finally arrived, heralded not by sunlight (the heavy curtains blocked most of it) but by the faint, distant chime of a clock Alex hadn't heard before, Alex felt unrested. The cold of the room persisted, a damp, insidious chill that seemed to cling to the bones. After a quick, cold wash, Alex dressed and ventured out. The hallways were still silent, seemingly empty. The grand staircase led down into a foyer that seemed even more cavernous in the pale, morning light that filtered through the high glass panels.

Breakfast was a repeat of dinner, though in a smaller, less formal dining nook off the main kitchen. The same pale, tasteless puree was served by Elias, who moved with the same unsettling efficiency. The family was present, sitting in the same rigid silence, their eyes as blank and unreadable as before. The gun, however, was conspicuously absent from this smaller table. Its absence, rather than being a relief, only made its presence in Alex’s mind more potent. The metallic glint, the stark black against the polished mahogany – it was burned into Alex’s memory.

Throughout the morning, as Alex tried to navigate the labyrinthine corridors and numerous rooms of the house, their thoughts constantly returned to the gun. What was its purpose? Is it decorative? Threatening? It seemed too stark, too real, too unadorned for mere decoration. Yet, its placement in the very center of the dining table, a focal point during the family's ritualistic silence, suggested a profound symbolic weight. Was it a grim reminder? A silent threat to any who broke the family’s code of quietude? Or was it something far more sinister, a macabre altar piece waiting for a sacrifice? Alex’s academic mind, used to dissecting symbols and historical artifacts, grappled with its ambiguity, finding no logical answer. The tension it implied was palpable, a silent promise of violence that seemed to hang in the air of the Glass House like a suffocating shroud.

Alex spent the late morning exploring a vast, dusty library, hoping to find more clues, perhaps historical records of the house or its former inhabitants. But the books were mostly classical literature, their bindings cracked, their pages brittle. No family records, no diaries, nothing that seemed to shed light on the Glass family's peculiar habits or the house's disturbing history. The air in the library was heavy with the scent of aged paper and an almost cloying sweetness, like decaying flowers, similar to the scent emanating from the locked diary. Alex found a high-backed, leather armchair near a tall window and settled into it, ostensibly reading, but in truth, watching.

Periodically, family members drifted through the library, like somnambulists in their own home. The matriarch would glide in, retrieve a book (always the same, it seemed, judging by its placement), and then glide out. The patriarch would sit by a window, staring out at the desolate grounds, his face a study in profound melancholy. The young woman, her eyes still wide and darting, would sometimes pause, her gaze fixed on a particular spot on the wall or ceiling, as if observing something invisible. And the young man, the one with the clenched jaw, would occasionally stand by the fireplace, his back to the room, his shoulders hunched.

Alex made a point of observing them, particularly the young man. His intensity, the tremor in his hands from the previous night, hinted at a struggle just beneath the surface of the family's enforced calm. He seemed to carry the most overt tension. Alex wondered if he was the key, the one most likely to break.

In the early afternoon, a subtle shift occurred. Elias entered the library, carrying a silver tray with a pitcher of what appeared to be iced tea and four glasses. He set it down on a small side table. And then, he did something else.

From beneath a linen cloth draped over his other arm, he produced the gun.

He placed it deliberately on the side table, next to the pitcher, as if it were just another piece of cutlery. It was the same gun from the dining room, its dark metal stark against the polished silver tray. Elias then bowed, and departed as silently as he arrived.

Alex stiffened, every fiber of their being suddenly hyper-alert. This was it. The gun, re-introduced into a seemingly casual setting. Alex feigned absorption in a decaying tome, but their eyes, through a narrow slit between the pages, were fixed on the family.

The matriarch and patriarch were already seated in various armchairs, seemingly lost in their own silent reveries. The young woman, however, had just entered the room, moving towards a bookshelf.

Alex watched.

As the young woman’s gaze drifted across the room, she saw the gun. It was a fleeting moment, barely a beat of a heart, but Alex saw it. Her wide eyes, already tinged with fear, dilated even further. A gasp, tiny and soundless, seemed to escape her lips, though no actual sound was made. Her hands flew up, not quite touching her mouth, but hovering there, trembling. Her entire body stiffened, then, in a sudden, almost violent motion, she recoiled into silence. Her head snapped away from the gun, her eyes squeezing shut for a fraction of a second, as if to erase the image. When they opened again, they were fixed on the wall, utterly blank, as if she had retreated deep within herself, shutting out the horrifying reality. She backed away slowly, almost imperceptibly, towards the furthest corner of the room, positioning herself behind a tall, glass-fronted display cabinet filled with antique porcelain dolls. There, she remained, a silent, trembling statue, her back to the gun.

Alex’s gaze darted to the young man. He had been standing by the fireplace, still hunched. He hadn’t visibly reacted to Elias bringing the gun in, but now, as the young woman recoiled, his head slowly, almost reluctantly, turned. His eyes, already intense, narrowed to mere slits as he fixed on the gun. His jaw, already clenched, tightened further, a muscle jumping frantically in his cheek. He didn’t flinch, didn’t recoil. Instead, a wave of profound, suppressed rage seemed to wash over his features. His hands, which had been resting loosely by his sides, slowly curled into fists, his knuckles turning white again. He took a single, slow, deliberate step towards the table where the gun lay, his eyes never leaving it.

Just as Alex thought he might reach for it, the patriarch, from his armchair by the window, stirred. It was a subtle movement, a slight shift of his head, a fractional turn of his vacant eyes. He didn’t look at the gun, or the young man, but his silent movement was enough. The young man hesitated, his body rigid with tension. The rage on his face flickered, replaced by a defeated resignation. He lowered his hands, unfurling his fists, and then, with a heavy, silent sigh that seemed to drain all the air from his lungs, he slowly, almost painfully, turned his back to the gun. He walked to the nearest bookshelf, pulled out a random volume, and stood there, facing the wall, his posture mirroring the patriarch's blank stare, completely recoiled into silence.

The gun, sitting innocuously on the side table, seemed to hum with malevolent energy. Its presence was a poison, infecting the very air, reducing the family to silent, traumatized puppets. Alex felt a cold certainty settle in. This gun wasn't decorative. It wasn't merely a symbol. It was an instrument, a trigger, perhaps even the very object of a past tragedy that had shattered this family, forcing them into a perpetual, horrifying tableau of silence and dread. And it was still active, still capable of evoking such profound, immediate terror. The house was not just haunted by spirits; it was haunted by the echo of violence, a past trauma held captive by the very object that had caused it. Alex gripped the spine of the old book in their hands, the ink on its pages blurring. They were no longer just observing; they were deeply, irrevocably entangled. The gun’s shadow had fallen over them too.

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