CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 6
THE HOUSE UNDER THE HOUSE
The red heel was still warm.
Victor held it in one hand and the folded note in the other.
FIND THE DOCTOR.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
The black car had already disappeared beyond the iron gates.
I stared at the road.
“Was that Serena?”
Victor didn't answer.
“Victor.”
“I don't know.”
Graves walked toward him.
“Give me the note.”
Victor didn't move.
“No.”
The old butler stopped.
“You don't understand.”
“I understand enough.”
“That message wasn't meant for you.”
Victor looked at him.
“It had my name all over it without actually using it.”
Graves's face tightened.
“Then you should understand the warning.”
“What warning?”
“That whoever wrote this knew exactly where we'd be.”
I looked at the chapel.
The broken chain.
The open doors.
The candle still burning on the altar.
Someone had expected us.
Someone had wanted us to find that photograph.
Someone had wanted Victor to believe Serena was still alive.
And now someone wanted us to find the doctor.
Dr. Adrian Black.
Ethan's doctor.
The man who had signed his birth certificate.
The man who had been present when Eleanor gave birth.
The man who had somehow known about the third child.
I looked at Victor.
“We go back to the house.”
He shook his head.
“No.”
“What?”
“We go to the hospital.”
“Why?”
He looked at the heel.
“Because if Serena left that for us, she wants us looking somewhere.”
“And you think she's lying?”
“I think everyone is lying.”
Graves nodded slowly.
“Finally.”
Victor looked at him.
“You knew this would happen.”
“I feared it.”
“You knew the chapel was being watched.”
“No.”
“You knew about the hidden rooms.”
“Yes.”
“You knew Serena was connected to my family.”
“Yes.”
“You knew about Evan.”
“Yes.”
“And Clara.”
Graves lowered his eyes.
“Yes.”
Victor stepped closer.
“What else do you know?”
The old butler swallowed.
“There is one place in this house I have never entered.”
Victor stared at him.
“Where?”
“Beneath the house.”
We returned to Blackwood Manor just before midnight.
The estate looked different in the darkness.
The windows were black.
The gardens were empty.
The statues cast long shadows across the lawn.
Even the security lights seemed weaker.
Victor locked the front door behind us.
Then he turned to Graves.
“Show me.”
The butler didn't move.
“Show me what?”
“The house beneath the house.”
Graves closed his eyes.
“I was hoping we'd never have to go there.”
“So was I.”
“Then why are you asking?”
“Because my family has been hiding things underground for twenty-three years.”
Victor held up the red heel.
“And because someone just left this for us.”
Graves stared at it.
Then whispered:
“The lower house.”
I frowned.
“What is the lower house?”
Graves looked at me.
“A second residence.”
“Underneath the manor?”
“Yes.”
“How is that possible?”
“Your father's architects built it in secret.”
Victor shook his head.
“My father never told me.”
“He wasn't supposed to.”
“Why build a house under a house?”
Graves answered quietly:
“To keep people where nobody could find them.”
A chill moved through me.
“People?”
Graves nodded.
“Children.”
The entrance was hidden behind the wine cellar.
Graves moved several bottles aside.
Behind them was a stone wall.
He pressed one brick.
Nothing happened.
He pressed another.
Still nothing.
Then a third.
A click echoed through the cellar.
The wall moved inward.
A narrow staircase appeared.
Cold air rose from below.
I stared into the darkness.
“How far down?”
“Three floors.”
Victor took a flashlight.
“Who built this?”
“My master.”
“Why?”
Graves hesitated.
“Because he believed the Blackwood name needed somewhere to hide its mistakes.”
Victor's jaw tightened.
“I'm beginning to understand why my father was afraid of dying.”
Graves looked at him.
“He wasn't afraid of death.”
“What was he afraid of?”
“The truth.”
We descended.
The first floor smelled of damp stone.
The second smelled of old paper.
The third smelled like antiseptic.
That was when I stopped.
“Do you smell that?”
Victor nodded.
Graves said nothing.
We reached a metal door.
A faded sign was bolted above it.
PRIVATE MEDICAL FACILITY
Victor stared.
“This was a hospital.”
“Not exactly.”
“What was it?”
Graves took out an old key.
“A place where your father could control what happened to the people inside.”
The door opened.
Beyond it was a corridor.
White walls.
Old examination rooms.
A surgical theater.
Medical cabinets.
A rusted wheelchair.
And photographs.
Hundreds of them.
Children.
Babies.
Pregnant women.
I covered my mouth.
“What is this?”
Graves looked away.
“The Blackwood family clinic.”
Victor walked slowly down the corridor.
“Why are there so many children?”
Graves didn't answer.
Victor stopped beside a glass cabinet.
Inside were medical files.
One name caught his eye.
ELEANOR BLACKWOOD
He pulled it out.
The file was thick.
Too thick.
He opened it.
The first page was dated three years before Ethan was born.
The second contained pregnancy records.
The third—
Victor froze.
“What?”
He handed it to me.
It was an ultrasound.
Three small shapes.
Three heartbeats.
Three babies.
The report said:
TRIPLET PREGNANCY.
My heart stopped.
“Triplets.”
Victor stared.
“So Eleanor wasn't carrying twins.”
“No,” Graves whispered.
“She was carrying three children.”
“Yes.”
I looked at the records.
“Then why did everyone keep saying twins?”
“Because your father changed the records.”
Victor's voice was quiet.
“Why?”
Graves looked down the corridor.
“Because the third child wasn't supposed to survive.”
We found the next file.
It belonged to Evan.
His name had been erased.
But the photograph was still attached.
A newborn baby.
Blue bracelet.
MICHAEL VALE.
Victor touched the photograph.
“My son.”
He turned the page.
Medical notes.
Weight.
Blood type.
Vaccinations.
Then a handwritten note.
Subject demonstrates unusual memory retention.
Victor frowned.
“What does that mean?”
Graves shook his head.
“I don't know.”
The next page said:
Subject recognizes voices after minimal exposure.
Then:
Subject appears capable of identifying individuals despite changes in appearance.
Victor stared.
“Why would they test a baby for that?”
Graves didn't answer.
The final note was handwritten in red ink.
DO NOT ALLOW THE FATHER TO SEE HIM.
Victor's face hardened.
“My father.”
“Yes.”
He turned to the next file.
The third child.
The name had been completely removed.
Only one letter remained.
C.
Underneath it:
FEMALE.
SURVIVED.
TRANSFERRED.
Victor's hand shook.
“Transferred where?”
Graves looked at the bottom of the page.
There was a stamp.
LOWER HOUSE — ROOM 7.
We looked at each other.
I felt cold.
“There were rooms down here?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“Seven.”
“And Room 7?”
Graves didn't answer.
Victor walked toward the end of the corridor.
A metal door stood there.
The number seven was painted across it.
He reached for the handle.
Graves grabbed his arm.
“Don't.”
Victor pulled away.
“That's my daughter.”
“We don't know that.”
“The records say she was transferred here.”
“And then?”
“Then I find out.”
Graves shook his head.
“Victor, listen to me.”
“No.”
“You don't know what you're going to see.”
“I've spent twenty-three years not knowing.”
He opened the door.
Room 7 was empty.
Almost.
There was a bed.
A small table.
A child's chair.
A wardrobe.
And on the wall—
Hundreds of drawings.
Crayon drawings.
Children.
Houses.
Trees.
A woman.
Three babies.
A man with no face.
I walked closer.
Some drawings were old.
Others looked newer.
Much newer.
One showed a little girl standing outside the Blackwood Manor.
Another showed a woman with red shoes.
Another showed a doctor.
And the final drawing—
A man standing beside three children.
The face had been scratched out.
Victor touched the paper.
“Who drew these?”
Graves whispered:
“Clara.”
I turned.
“How do you know?”
“Because she always drew the same way.”
“You knew her?”
His face changed.
“Yes.”
Victor stared at him.
“You said you never saw her.”
“I lied.”
The room seemed to go silent.
Victor stepped closer.
“How long did you know her?”
“Three years.”
“Three years?”
“Yes.”
“Where was she?”
“Here.”
Victor looked around.
“In this room?”
“Yes.”
My stomach turned.
“You kept her here?”
Graves shook his head.
“I tried to protect her.”
“From whom?”
“Your father.”
Victor's voice cracked.
“What happened to her?”
Graves looked at the drawings.
“She escaped.”
“When?”
“Twenty years ago.”
“Where did she go?”
“I don't know.”
Victor grabbed his collar.
“You always say that.”
“Because sometimes I truly don't.”
“You were the one person who knew.”
“I was also the one person your father watched.”
Victor released him.
Then I noticed something.
A drawing tucked beneath the bed.
I picked it up.
It showed four children.
Not three.
Four.
Two boys.
Two girls.
Above them was written:
MY FAMILY.
I turned the paper over.
A date had been written on the back.
May 17, 2006.
I looked at Victor.
“That was after Eleanor died.”
He nodded.
I stared at the drawing.
“Then Clara was alive in 2006.”
“Yes.”
“And she knew about another child.”
Graves went still.
Victor noticed.
“Who is the fourth?”
The old butler didn't answer.
Victor stepped toward him.
“Who?”
Graves looked at the drawing.
“I don't know.”
“You do.”
“No.”
“You recognized it.”
Graves swallowed.
Then whispered:
“She drew that picture the day before she disappeared.”
“Who was the fourth child?”
Graves closed his eyes.
“Ethan.”
Victor shook his head.
“No.”
“She had never met Ethan.”
“She had.”
“When?”
Graves pointed toward the corner.
There was a tiny photograph pinned beneath one of the drawings.
A baby.
Ethan.
Taken shortly after his birth.
Beside it was a note.
I HAVE A BROTHER.
Victor stared.
“Clara knew Ethan.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
Graves hesitated.
“She saw him.”
“Where?”
“In this house.”
“When?”
“The night Eleanor died.”
Victor's face went pale.
“You're telling me my newborn son was brought down here?”
Graves nodded.
“For a few minutes.”
“Why?”
“To prove to Clara that he was safe.”
Victor looked at the drawings.
“And she disappeared the next day.”
“Yes.”
“Because someone took her.”
Graves nodded.
“Who?”
“I don't know.”
Victor slammed his fist against the wall.
“Enough!”
The sound echoed through the underground facility.
He breathed heavily.
Then he saw something written beneath the drawing.
Four words.
SHE TOOK ME AWAY.
Victor stared.
“Who is 'she'?”
Graves walked toward it.
His face changed.
“I know that handwriting.”
“Whose?”
He whispered:
“Serena's.”
A door slammed somewhere behind us.
We turned.
The corridor was empty.
Victor grabbed his flashlight.
“Someone's here.”
We heard footsteps.
Slow.
Measured.
Coming from the medical wing.
Graves whispered:
“Don't move.”
The footsteps stopped.
Then a woman's voice floated through the corridor.
“Looking for me?”
Victor raised the flashlight.
“Serena!”
She stepped into view.
Her clothes were torn.
Her hair was disheveled.
There was blood on her sleeve.
But she was alive.
Victor stared.
“Where have you been?”
She looked at me.
Then at Graves.
Finally, she looked at Victor.
“Trying to stay alive.”
“You attacked my son.”
She shook her head.
“No.”
“You hurt him.”
“I did not.”
“I saw you.”
“You saw what someone wanted you to see.”
Victor took a step forward.
“Then explain.”
Serena looked toward Room 7.
“You opened it.”
“Yes.”
“You shouldn't have.”
“Why?”
“Because the person who lived there wasn't Clara.”
Victor froze.
“What?”
Serena's voice dropped.
“Clara was never kept here.”
Graves whispered:
“You're lying.”
Serena looked at him.
“You know I'm not.”
Victor stared between them.
“Then who was in Room 7?”
Serena answered:
“Me.”
Silence.
I felt my stomach drop.
“You?”
Serena nodded.
“After my mother died, your father brought me here.”
Victor's face changed.
“You're saying my father imprisoned you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I knew what he had done.”
“What?”
Serena looked at the files.
“He had killed someone.”
“Who?”
She looked at Victor.
“Eleanor.”
Victor stopped breathing.
“You're lying.”
“I wish I were.”
“You said Eleanor died in childbirth.”
“She didn't.”
“Then how did she die?”
Serena's eyes filled with tears.
“I watched it happen.”
Victor stepped closer.
“Tell me.”
She shook her head.
“I can't.”
“Tell me!”
Serena looked toward the ceiling.
Then whispered:
“Because the person who killed Eleanor is still alive.”
Victor's face hardened.
“Who?”
Serena looked directly at him.
“Your father didn't kill her.”
Victor went still.
“Then who?”
Serena's voice broke.
“Dr. Adrian Black.”
The name echoed through the underground corridor.
I remembered the note.
FIND THE DOCTOR.
Victor stared at Serena.
“Why?”
“Because he wasn't working for your father.”
She took one step closer.
“He was working for Eleanor.”
Victor frowned.
“What does that mean?”
Serena looked at Graves.
“Tell him.”
Graves said nothing.
“Tell him what happened that night.”
The old butler lowered his head.
Serena whispered:
“Eleanor discovered that one of her children wasn't Victor's.”
Victor froze.
“What?”
Serena continued:
“Ethan is yours.”
Victor's face hardened.
“Then who isn't?”
Serena looked toward the files.
“Evan.”
Victor's breathing stopped.
I stared at her.
“No.”
Serena nodded.
“Evan was not Victor's biological son.”
Victor stumbled backward.
“You're lying.”
“I'm not.”
“Then whose son was he?”
Serena closed her eyes.
“Dr. Adrian Black.”
Silence.
The underground house seemed to hold its breath.
Victor looked at Graves.
“Is this true?”
The old butler didn't answer.
Victor shouted:
“IS THIS TRUE?”
Graves finally whispered:
“Yes.”
Victor looked like the floor had disappeared beneath him.
“All these years…”
Serena said:
“Your father knew.”
“Why did he hide it?”
“Because Evan was the child who could expose everything.”
Victor shook his head.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Then why did Eleanor keep him?”
“Because she loved him.”
“And Clara?”
Serena looked away.
“She knew.”
“About Evan?”
“Yes.”
“And she knew about Dr. Black?”
“Yes.”
“Then why was she hidden?”
Serena whispered:
“Because she was the only one who knew the full truth.”
Victor stared at her.
“What truth?”
Serena's eyes filled with tears.
“The truth about who killed Eleanor.”
She paused.
Then said:
“Clara saw everything.”
A sound came from behind us.
A metallic click.
We all turned.
The lights went out.
Serena screamed.
Then something hit the floor.
When the emergency lights came back on, Serena was gone.
Again.
But this time, she had left something behind.
A hospital bracelet.
White.
Old.
The name written on it was not Ethan.
Not Evan.
Not Clara.
It said:
BABY GIRL — MOTHER: ELEANOR BLACKWOOD
Victor picked it up.
His hands were shaking.
Then Graves noticed something beneath the bracelet.
A key.
Stamped with a number.
ROOM 8.
The old butler's face went completely white.
Victor saw it.
“There is a Room 8?”
Graves whispered:
“There wasn't.”
Victor stared at the key.
“Then why does this exist?”
Graves didn't answer.
We followed the corridor past Room 7.
At the very end was a section of wall.
No door.
No sign.
Just stone.
Victor pressed the key against it.
Nothing happened.
Then—
A hidden mechanism clicked.
The wall slowly moved aside.
Cold air poured into the corridor.
Behind it was another room.
Larger.
Newer.
And unlike the abandoned rooms around it, this one was spotless.
There was a bed.
A desk.
A refrigerator.
Fresh clothes.
A child's books.
Someone had been living there recently.
On the desk sat a framed photograph.
Victor picked it up.
It showed a young woman.
Maybe twenty-one.
Long dark hair.
Green eyes.
A familiar smile.
Victor stared.
“Who is she?”
Graves couldn't speak.
I looked at the photograph.
Then at Victor.
The woman was wearing a small silver bracelet.
The same bracelet from the portrait.
The same black stone ring Serena had worn.
And beneath the photograph was a handwritten note.
MY NAME IS CLARA.
Victor's hands began to tremble.
He turned the photograph over.
On the back was a second message.
I DIDN'T RUN AWAY.
A pause.
Then:
SERENA HELPED ME ESCAPE.
Victor looked at me.
For the first time, I saw something like hope in his eyes.
Then he read the final sentence.
BUT SHE COULD NOT SAVE THE OTHER GIRL.
I frowned.
“Other girl?”
Victor looked at Graves.
Graves was staring at the floor.
“Who is the other girl?”
He didn't answer.
Victor grabbed him.
“Who?”
The old butler finally looked up.
His eyes were filled with tears.
“Your father had another secret.”
“What secret?”
Graves pointed to the photograph.
“Clara wasn't the third child.”
Victor went completely still.
“What?”
“She was the fourth.”
The words hit like a gunshot.
I stared at him.
“But the triplets—”
“Were real.”
“Then who was the third?”
Graves closed his eyes.
“Eleanor's first daughter.”
Victor whispered:
“Before the boys?”
“Yes.”
“Where is she?”
Graves looked toward the freshly furnished room.
Then he said:
“She was the child your father spent twenty-three years trying to erase.”
A sound came from the room behind us.
A small girl's voice.
Soft.
Terrified.
“Mommy?”
Victor turned.
The voice came again.
“Mommy, is Daddy here?”
I felt every hair on my arms rise.
Victor stepped into the room.
The bed was empty.
The books were untouched.
The chair was still rocking.
But on the pillow lay a photograph.
Victor picked it up.
It showed Eleanor holding a baby girl.
On the back was a date.
Three months before Ethan was born.
And beneath it, in Eleanor's handwriting:
MY FIRST DAUGHTER.
Victor turned the photograph over.
There was one final sentence.
IF SHE EVER COMES BACK, DO NOT LET DR. BLACK FIND HER.
Victor's phone rang.
He answered without speaking.
A familiar male voice said:
“Mr. Blackwood.”
Victor's face hardened.
“Dr. Black.”
The doctor laughed softly.
“You found the lower house.”
Victor tightened his grip on the phone.
“Where is my daughter?”
Silence.
Then the doctor said:
“You have been looking for the wrong family.”
Victor stared at the empty bed.
“What does that mean?”
“It means Eleanor wasn't the beginning.”
The line crackled.
“She was the middle.”
Victor's eyes narrowed.
“Then what was the beginning?”
The doctor answered:
“Your mother.”
The call ended.
May you like
And from somewhere beneath our feet—
we heard another door unlock.
