We barreled down the hallway toward the kitchen, Ronette trailing behind like a nervous duckling.
"The kitchen's always a good bet," I said with a confident nod. "Where there's food, there are answers. Or at least a ghost snacking on toast."
Ronette groaned. "Please don't say 'ghost' and 'toast' in the same sentence. My heart can't take it."
The swinging kitchen doors creaked open as we stepped in. The smell of roasted something still lingered in the air—meat, herbs, a hint of lemon. Pots were stacked precariously, knives gleamed from their holders, and something was bubbling in a pot that no one seemed to be watching.
There were no chefs. No maids. Not even a sneaky mouse.
"Too quiet," I whispered, peeking into the stew. It blinked back at me. I closed the lid politely.
Ronette opened a pantry and shrieked. A cabbage rolled out and tapped his foot like it was offended.
"Calm down," I said. "It's just produce."
"It moved."
"It's rolling, not haunting."
We split up. I checked under the long central table, expecting perhaps a sleeping butler or a misplaced librarian. Ronette, meanwhile, opened drawers like he thought Mr. Witson had folded himself up for storage.
Then, something strange.
Above the fireplace, half-hidden behind a row of dusty ladles, a photograph hung—crooked and faded. I climbed onto the counter, knees wobbling, and pulled it down.
It was an old photo of the mansion staff.
In the front stood a tall man with sharp eyes and a stern mustache, dressed in black.
"Hey, Ronette," I called.
He jogged over, looked at the picture.
"That's him," he said softly. "That's Mr. Witson."
I frowned. "How old is this photo? It looks like it was taken back when bread cost a coin and people died from stubbed toes."
Ronette looked closely at the date. "Forty years ago."
"But he looks exactly the same."
We stared at each other. Then at the picture.
Then at the empty kitchen.
I heard the stew bubbling again—faster this time.
"Let's... not be here anymore," I muttered.
Ronette didn't need to be told twice. We shoved the kitchen doors open and slammed them behind us, hearts thudding against our ribs.
We leaned against the wall, panting like we'd just outrun Death himself.
"I told you we should've brought garlic," I muttered between breaths.
"I miss home so much," Ronette whimpered, his voice trembling with the weight of cabbage trauma and ghost suspicion.
We sprinted down the hallway like two rats fleeing a sinking ship. Only when the echoes of our footfalls faded behind us did we finally stop, gasping for air, bent over with hands on our knees.
"Why is this place so haunted?" Ronette wheezed between breaths.
"You're asking me?" I shot back. "This is your mansion."
Ronette sniffled, wiping his face. "I don't remember it being this scary…"
"Oh, I miss my little baby," he added with a sudden pout.
That made me pause. "Oh, right. Where is she?"
He blinked at me, confused. "Oh yeah… Where is she?"
"You ask me, I ask who?" I threw my hands up. "The ghost of the mansion?"
As if answering my sarcasm, a sharp wind howled down the corridor, tugging at our clothes and stirring the dust into little ghostly swirls.
Ronette and I flinched. He let out a squeak and collapsed to the floor, trembling.
"Why is there such big wind inside a mansion?" he whimpered, hugging his knees.
"I can't believe I'm doing all this for a stranger," I muttered, brushing dust from my sleeves.
Still, I reached out a hand to him. "Anyway, let's go find your little girl."
He glanced up at me, eyes a bit glassy, but he smiled and took my hand.
"Her name's Maria," he said, voice soft but fond.
I pulled him to his feet with a grunt, Ronette turned and began leading us down the corridor, away from haunted kitchens and whispering winds, toward the quiet room where Maria should have been.
We reached Maria's door, and Ronette immediately began pacing like a cat on a hot roof.
"Should I go in?" he muttered, wringing his hands. "But what if she doesn't remember me? What if I scare her? What if she cries? What if I cry?"
I leaned against the wall, watching him spiral, arms crossed. It was like watching a pot boil itself into a stormcloud.
Finally, fed up, I marched over and kicked the door open with dramatic flair.
"Hellooo, little Maria!" I called into the shadows. "Daddy—female version—is here to see you!"
Ronette's face contorted in pure horror. "What are you doing? You'll traumatize her!"
But no one screamed. No giggle, no startled gasp. Just silence.
We both stared into the dark room. The curtains were drawn tight, and no flicker of light moved within. The air felt… still. Too still.
I narrowed my eyes and stroked my chin like a detective in a theatre play. "Hmm. No child. No sound. No chaos. Clearly…"
I turned slowly to Ronette. "She was kidnapped."
He gasped, hands flying to his cheeks. "Kidnapped?! But for what?!"
"Ransom," I declared, stabbing a finger dramatically into the air. "Obviously."
Ronette blinked at me. "Ransom? From who?! We don't even have money!"
"Well, then maybe they took her out of spite!" I barked.
We stood in the doorway, both wide-eyed and ridiculous, as the silence in Maria's room stretched ominously.
As we caught our breath, the tension finally easing, I turned to Ronette with a squint. "Wait a minute—what do you mean you have no money? You're filthy rich! Just look at this mansion! You fire pants!"
Ronette blinked at me, then looked down in confusion. "It's neither a pants, nor red."
"That's beside the point!" I snapped. "Where's Maria?"
Ronette rubbed his chin. "She… she should be in her room around this time."
I huffed. "No idea, then. Got it."
Without hesitation, I strode into the room, stepping over the threshold like a detective with no permit.
Ronette gasped and scrambled after me. "This is trespassing!"
"Oh hush," I said, waving him off. "It's not trespassing if it's a rescue mission."
Maria's room was tidy—too tidy. Toys stacked neatly on shelves, blankets tucked with military precision, and not a hairbrush out of place. Suspicious. Children weren't known for this kind of order. Either she was abducted—or possessed by an adult ghost.
We began combing the room. I lifted pillows and peered under the bed. Ronette checked behind curtains like Maria might be playing an extremely dedicated game of hide and seek.
The silence was too clean. Too sterile. Something was definitely off.
I moved to the writing desk—quaint, wooden, and suspiciously dustless. "Kids don't dust. Either Maria's a supernatural anomaly, or someone's been in here tidying things up… recently."
Ronette poked his head into the wardrobe. "Nothing here but dresses and… is this a lollipop in a sock?"
I snatched it from his hand. "Classic kid move. Sugar stash. She was here."
I slid open the desk drawers, fingers skimming through stationery, a cracked music box, and a stack of drawings. I pulled the top one free and stared.
It was a crayon sketch—wobbly lines, cheerful colors. A little girl holding hands with a tall figure in a kilt. The man had bright yellow hair and round eyes like saucers. A crude speech bubble floated above him: "Let's play forever, Maria."
I turned the drawing around to show Ronette.
"That's… me," he whispered, eyes wide. "But I don't remember saying that. Or… that moment at all."
"Maybe you've got an evil twin," I offered. "Or a doppelgänger with a crayon fetish."
He gave me a look.
I kept flipping through the drawings. The next few were harmless enough—Maria with a bunny, Maria at the dining table, Maria in the garden. But then I paused.
One drawing showed Maria standing alone. Behind her, looming large and scribbled entirely in black, was a shape. Vague. Tall. No face. Just ink-black crayon gouged into the paper like someone had gone over it a hundred times.
Ronette frowned. "That… doesn't look friendly."
"Yeah, it screams 'bad vibe.'" I squinted at the corner. A name was written there, in shaky little letters: "The Whisper Man."
Ronette shivered. "Who's that supposed to be?"
I didn't answer. I didn't have one.
Then, we continued our search. We scoured the room like two amateur sleuths who'd lost their magnifying glasses. Ronette tiptoed through the toy chest, lifting dolls like they might explode. I poked around the bookshelf, half-expecting a hidden lever or secret passage.
Then, something caught my eye—a framed photo on the bedside table, half-tucked behind a lamp shaped like a goose in a bonnet.
I picked it up, squinting at the image.
It was Maria—smiling sweetly, dressed in a frilly dress, with a snake curled contentedly around her shoulders.
"Hey, Ronette," I called out. "What kind of parent are you to let a little girl keep a pet snake?"
Ronette glanced over, unfazed. "What? That snake was there before I possessed Mr. Lerrington."
I turned back to the photo and brought it closer. The snake's scales were iridescent, its gaze cold and regal. Something about it felt... familiar.
I frowned. "Ronette?"
"Yes?"
"Doesn't this snake look a bit too familiar to you?"
Ronette leaned in, eyes narrowing. Then his face drained of color. "Oh... It looks like the cobra from the hidden passage."
We stared at each other.
"Oh..." we echoed, in perfect horror harmony.
The air in the room seemed to drop a few degrees.
I set the photo down carefully, as if it might slither off the frame and wrap around my neck.
"Do you think it's the same snake?" I asked, voice low.
Ronette bit his lip. "If it is… then where the snake is, Maria might be too."
"Great," I muttered. "We're now on a rescue mission to find a missing child and a possibly possessed reptile."
He clutched his kilt. "Do we have to go back to that hidden passage?"
I sighed and headed for the door. "Put on your brave face, Ronette. And maybe some armor."