Chapter 3 : The Broken Phone call

Evelyn pov 

The sun spilled across the polished hardwood of the nursery, warming the pattern of the woven rug where I sat surrounded by my wooden blocks. I was three, and my world was as small and complete as the perimeter of that room. Outside, the rain tapped steady rhythms against the tall glass windows of the estate, but inside, everything was quiet, smelled of warm lavender polish, and felt entirely safe.

I stacked a red block carefully on top of a yellow one, holding my breath so my wobbling hands wouldn’t knock it down.

"Look, Martha," I said, pointing a tiny, knuckle-dimpled finger at my tower. "It's big."

Martha, who sat on the edge of the plush armchair with her sewing kit in her lap, looked up and smiled. Her eyes were soft behind her silver-rimmed glasses. "It’s a magnificent castle, my sweet girl. The tallest one yet."

I beamed, reaching into my basket for a blue square to cap the top. In my mind, this was where Mommy, Daddy, and I lived. Daddy was away on a business trip across the mountain pass, and Mommy had gone to meet him so they could drive back together. They had promised me a green wooden train with real wheels when they returned tonight. I kept watching the doorway, expecting to hear the heavy thud of Daddy’s wingtip shoes or the soft rustle of Mommy’s silk coat.

A floorboard creaked in the hallway outside the nursery door. It wasn't the light, rhythmic step of the housemaids or the heavy, measured walk of the head gardener. It was fast, erratic, and accompanied by the muffled sound of someone catching their breath.

The heavy mahogany door swung open, hitting the brass stopper with a sharp clack.

Arthur, the senior estate manager who had worked at the house since long before I was born, stood in the frame. His customary straight posture was gone, his shoulders curved inward as if he were trying to ward off a cold wind. His face, usually flushed and cheery, was the color of wet chalk. In his trembling right hand, he held the black landline receiver, its cord stretching back down the corridor like a dark, twisting snake.

"Martha," Arthur rasped. His voice broke on the single syllable, sounding less like a man and more like dry leaves grinding together.

Martha’s needle stopped mid-air. The quiet warmth in her expression evaporated, replaced by a sudden, rigid stillness. "Arthur? What is it? Why do you have the hall telephone?"

"It’s... it’s the state police," Arthur whispered. He didn't look at me. He kept his eyes locked on Martha, but his gaze was vacant, looking right through her. "The highway patrol. From the mountain pass."

I picked up another block, a green one this time, and held it out toward Arthur. "Look, Artie! I made a castle for Mommy."

Neither of them looked at my block.

"Arthur, speak plainly," Martha said, standing up slowly. The sewing needle slipped from her fingers, catching in the wool of her skirt before dropping to the floor. "What are you talking about? They’re supposed to be at the hotel down in the valley by now. The storm—"

"The storm washed out the northern stretch of Highway 9," Arthur interrupted, his voice pitching higher, raw and unstable. "A landslide. The estate car... the car went over the guardrail, Martha. It fell into the ravine."

The silence that followed was heavy and suffocating. It pressed down on the room, thick enough to drown in. I dropped the green block. It hit the floor with a hollow thud, rolling against Arthur’s shoe, but he didn't move.

"No," Martha said simply. She shook her head, taking a small step back. "No, Arthur. You misheard. Mr. Vance is a careful driver. He knows those roads better than anyone. Tell them to re-check the plate number."

"They checked it," Arthur sobbed, a single, violent convulsion racking his chest as the tears finally broke through his pale eyes. "They found the registration in the glove box. The car... it caught fire on the rocks at the bottom. There were no survivors, Martha. Both of them. They’re both gone."

The word gone drifted through the air, floating over my head. I knew what gone meant when we played hide-and-seek. It meant someone was hiding behind the long velvet curtains in the drawing room, waiting for me to find them. It meant they would pop out, laugh, and pick me up to swing me around until I was dizzy.

"Where’s Mommy?" I asked, pushing myself up from the rug on my knees. My small legs felt shaky, catching the shift in the room's air even if my mind couldn't hold the truth. "Is Daddy behind the door?"

Martha turned to look at me, and the expression on her face scared me far more than the dark storm outside the window. Her features seemed to crumble, her lips trembling so violently she had to press her hand against her mouth to stop a scream.

"Evelyn..." she gasped, dropping to her knees right there on the hard floor. She reached out with shaking arms, wrapping them around me so tightly it hurt my ribs. She pulled me against her chest, burying her face in my shoulder, and her body began to shake with deep, wretched wails that sounded like a wounded animal.

"Martha, you're squeezing," I whimpered, twisting against her grip. "Where is Mommy? She promised me my train."

Arthur stepped into the room, dropping the telephone receiver. It hung suspended an inch off the floor, swinging back and forth on its coiled black cord, emitting a tinny, robotic beep-beep-beep that filled the spaces between Martha’s violent sobs. He knelt beside us, laying a large, weathered hand over my head, his tears dripping onto my hair.

"What are we going to do?" Arthur wept openly now, his voice full of terror. "The relatives... the board members... they’re going to tear this family’s legacy to pieces. And this poor baby... she’s all alone."

I didn't like the way they were holding me. I didn't like the cold, sharp sound coming from the hanging phone, or the way Martha was crying so hard she couldn't breathe. I pulled my face away from her wet apron and looked past her shoulder, toward the doorway that led down the long stairs to the front entrance.

Down in the foyer, the heavy double doors clicked open.

A gust of freezing rain blew into the house, bringing with it the smell of pine, wet pavement, and cold iron. Footsteps echoed on the marble tile below—heavy, deliberate, and entirely unhurried.

Martha’s crying abruptly stopped. She froze, her breath catching in her throat as she slowly lifted her head. Arthur turned around on his knees, his jaw slackening in shock.

Someone was walking up the grand staircase.

It wasn't the police. It wasn't the paramedics.

A tall figure stepped into the doorway of the nursery, dripping rain onto the plush carpet. He wore a dark wool coat, completely soaked through, and his face was shrouded in the dim light of the hallway. He held a small, green wooden train in his wet, pale hand.

He looked down at me, his eyes cold, empty, and terrifyingly calm.

"Hello, little niece," he said softly. "It seems your parents had a little trouble on the road."