The Echoes we Bury

The letter arrived on a Monday.

Elliot almost didn’t open it. Bills and threats from creditors came regularly, shoved through his mail slot like a slap in the face. This envelope, though, stood out—thick, cream-colored, and stamped with an unfamiliar crest. The handwriting on the front was sharp and precise, spelling his name as though someone had carved it there.

He slit it open with the edge of a key, curious despite himself.

“Wintercroft Hall invites you to uncover the truth. A story you won’t forget. Your passage will be arranged.”

No signature, no explanation. Just an address, and at the bottom, a postscript: “Some things refuse to stay buried.”

Elliot tossed it onto the cluttered coffee table, next to an empty whiskey bottle. He tried not to think about it. Wintercroft Hall? It sounded like one of those haunted tourist traps rich people paid to renovate.

But by Wednesday, he’d Googled it. By Friday, he was packing.

The ferry rocked against the tide, the spray of saltwater biting against Elliot’s face. The captain, a man who looked like he’d stepped out of a maritime nightmare with weathered skin and a voice like gravel, barely spoke. “Wintercroft,” the man grunted when Elliot asked for confirmation. “Ain’t a place you wanna linger.”

The island rose out of the mist like a broken tooth, jagged cliffs towering over the sea. At its peak stood the mansion. Wintercroft Hall looked as though it had been abandoned to rot, its gothic spires silhouetted against the graying sky.

Elliot felt the first twinge of unease as he disembarked, his boots sinking into the damp earth.

The others were already there—six of them, standing awkwardly near the entrance. A young woman with dark, calculating eyes glanced his way and then looked quickly away. A man in a tailored coat paced the gravel, his movements sharp and impatient. No one spoke.

“Mr. Dorne?” A voice broke the silence, low and formal. A butler—straight-backed, pale as milk—motioned toward the open doors of the mansion.

Inside, the air smelled of mildew and old wood. A grand staircase loomed ahead, its banisters lined with faded carvings of wolves and roses. Elliot took it all in, trying to quiet the voice in his head whispering, You shouldn’t have come.

In the dining room, the strangers gathered. The long table was set with gleaming silverware, as though they were attending a banquet, but the chairs creaked under their weight.

“Why are we here?” someone asked.

Before anyone could answer, the door at the far end of the room opened. A wheelchair rolled into view, pushed by the butler.

At first, Elliot didn’t see the figure in it. She was shrouded in shadow, small and frail. Then she raised her head, and her voice cut through the room like a blade.

“Welcome to Wintercroft Hall,” said Vivienne Ashworth. Her voice, though weak, carried an edge of authority. “You are here because the truth always demands an audience.”

Vivienne’s eyes scanned the room, sharp and knowing. “Before this is over, some of you will wish you’d stayed away.”