Part Four – The Glimpse
Jonathan's hand reached the lock.
It was cold against his palm, colder than stone, colder than death.
For a moment he simply stood there, eyes squeezed shut, every muscle taut. The revolver hung at his side like dead weight. His breath rasped, shallow and uneven.
The voices on the other side shifted, softening, coaxing.
"Jon… darling. You don't need the gun tonight. Just open the door. We miss you. We want you,"
His brother's whimper followed, childlike in tone though his brother was nearly grown:
"I'm so hungry. Please, Jon. Just a little food. We won't hurt you. We love you."
Jonathan's lip trembled. His thumb traced the worn engraving on the revolver's grip — the Hanns crest, two lions devouring each other. A family symbol of strength. Now it felt like mockery.
His body moved before his mind could stop it.
Click.
The lock yielded.
He pulled the door a fraction open.
Darkness bled out, thick and choking. The stench hit him first — metallic and rancid, a cocktail of spoiled blood and rotting meat. He gagged, clapping a sleeve over his nose, but his eyes remained fixed forward.
In the gloom, something shifted.
A silhouette. Familiar. Human. His mother's figure, slight and graceful, sitting upright on the iron bedframe. Her posture was perfect, as though she'd been waiting, expecting him.
"Jon…" she whispered, her voice syrup-sweet.
And then he saw her eyes.
Twin orbs of molten orange cut through the dark. They gleamed like dying coals, burning with hunger, with madness. They were not his mother's eyes. They were the eyes of something that wanted to wear her face like a mask.
Jonathan's hand convulsed. The revolver lifted an inch — then faltered.
From the shadows behind her came another pair of eyes. Smaller, sharper. His brother. His lips curled back, revealing teeth too long, too white, smeared in dark stains.
Jonathan's breath froze. The room reeked of freshly slaughtered animals — the half-eaten carcass of a hound lay in the corner, ribs exposed, the sound of flies buzzing faintly.
His stomach turned.
"Come closer," his mother crooned. "We won't bite."
A laugh slipped from his brother, low and guttural, nothing like the boy Jonathan remembered.
Jonathan's knees buckled. He stumbled backward, the revolver shaking in his grip. The door creaked as it swung wider — and in that instant, the chains rattled. Iron straining, metal bending.
They lunged, only to be yanked back by their bonds.
The sound — the sheer violence of it — tore through Jonathan's skull.
He slammed the door shut, his chest heaving, his vision blurred by tears. His back struck the wall and he slid down to the floor, clutching the revolver to his chest like a child clutching a toy against the dark.
From inside came the sound of nails dragging across wood. Long, deliberate scratches.
Then silence.