Page 38 of Widow’s Walk

“Are you Captain Jeremiah Blackwell, lost at sea?” Mason pressed.

Nothing.

“Are you Verity Blackwell? The widow who walks the widow’s walk searching for her husband’s return?”

The room waited. Then, the green light glowed steadily, slow and sure.

Excitement rippled through the crew. Amy’s throat dried.

Mason leaned forward, voice thick as honey. “Verity, we’re honored. Tell us… did you carve these marks, or order them carved during this house’s birth?”

A quick flash—green.

He gestured sharply at the camera. “You see? Yes.”

“Were they made for protection?” Mason asked immediately.

The green bulb glared so fast Amy felt her skin prickle.

Someone swore softly. Another whispered reverently, “She wants us to know.”

A crackle of radio static broke in. One of the crew brought a hand to his earpiece. “Movement outside,” he muttered. “Camera five just caught a shadow crossing the terrace.”

“I’ll check it. I think we have a view from here,” another said, hurrying to the French doors that framed the balcony. He pulled them open, and cool night air spilled in. The sea roared from the cliffs, steady and unfeeling. “Nothing here,” he called after a moment.

Amy pulled her phone reflexively, thumbing through the security feed only to remember the system was dark for the crew’s setup. Convenient. Too convenient. Suspicion gnawed like saltwater through stone.

Inside, Mason pressed on, undeterred. “Verity, were you afraid of something outside? Is that why you had these marks placed?”

The green light flared almost instantly and held.

The crew murmured, restless with thrill.

“Is it still there?” Mason asked. His voice had dropped to a theatrical whisper.

The French doors slammed shut with a gunshot crack. Everyone jumped. Amy’s heart leaped into her throat, and Sully tensed at her side. At once, both lights on the box blazed, red and green fluttering in spasms, faster and faster.

Then, silence.

Any noise, even the faint creak of floorboards, seemed sucked away. Deadly still. The air pressed cold across Amy’s skin, a razor’s breath skating her arms.

Bang.

The sound resonated through the house, deep and jarring.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

As if fists were hammering the walls, or doors slamming in sequence.

“Control room just said,”—one of the crew whispered hoarsely—“doors are closing. In every room. Every camera’s showing it.”

Amy’s stomach free fell.

The door to their own chamber shuddered—then slammed with a violence that rattled glass in the panes.

And then complete darkness pressed in with the force of a waiting tide, swallowing light, sound, and breath.

Darkness fell like a slap. One second the sensors were shrieking, the next—nothing but a pressure that made Sully’s ears ring.