"Maya? Are you okay?"
Elias's voice cuts through Maya's haze, gentle but laced with concern. She looks up at him, still shaken, and freezes when she notices that the floor, which she was certain was smeared with blood just moments ago, is actually only splattered with tea. The air feels distorted. At that moment, Robert peeks his head through the slightly open door, his eyebrows furrowed slightly.
"What's going on here?"
"Nothing serious," Elias responds calmly. "The cup fell—just a small accident. I'll help clean it up."
Maya ignores their exchange, still staring at the floor, her mind unable to make sense of what she just experienced. The scream still echoes in her head, that brutal tear in the air, impossible to dismiss.
"You… you didn't hear it?" she asks finally, her voice trembling.
Elias and Robert exchange a puzzled glance. Maya realizes then that she alone heard and saw it all. As if... oh…
"You probably mistook it for the wind," Elias suggests, his tone soothing in the face of her obvious distress. "It's howling pretty loudly with the storm."
"And maybe the tea hit you a bit faster than usual," Robert adds. "Normally, it takes a few cups to feel anything, but if you're sensitive... the relaxation might trigger some hallucinations."
"Yes, that's probably it," she murmurs, trying to end the conversation.
A new sound suddenly grabs her attention: hurried footsteps, accompanied by muffled sobbing. Maya turns her head toward the dining room entrance just in time to catch a fleeting glimpse of a figure—a woman in red—disappearing around the corner.
She freezes for a moment, her breath catching. She knows now that neither Elias nor Robert noticed anything. The scream, the footsteps, the woman... they belong to her alone.
"Maya? Are you sure you're all right?" Elias asks, his tone more concerned.
"Yes, yes," she forces a smile, struggling to maintain her composure. "Too much tea, that's all. I'll... I'll go rest in my room."
Without waiting for their reply, she rises and slips out, heading into the corridor where the red-clad figure vanished. Her quick steps echo on the wooden floor, driven by an instinctive determination. This isn't an hallucination, she thinks. It's something else. Something only I can see or hear.
A ghost.
Maya couldn't say exactly when it all began, when she started to "see." Memories jumble together in her mind: fragments of images, blurred sensations, fleeting moments she can't quite grasp. As a child, she often pointed to people her mother couldn't see—a blurry old woman, a man who seemed to dissolve when she looked away, vague memories drowned in time, like mirages.
Most of the time, it was just a strange feeling—a shiver down her spine, a cold breath in the air, or the sensation of a finger brushing along her back. Occasionally, it became more insistent: fleeting movements, barely perceptible, at the edge of her vision—so quick she doubted them, wondering if she'd imagined it. And then there were the rare times when the images and sounds imprinted themselves so vividly into her reality they felt as alive as anything else. She only had to close her eyes to see them again, an indelible mark on her mind.
The Sea View Hotel was the climax, the first time these visions became too real to ignore. She had never experienced such intensity before that night, unsurprising given the place's history, steeped in drama. You might think it would have been exciting, even fascinating. But for Maya, these visions always carried a bitter taste, an irresistible terror. How could she feel fascination for the vision of a little girl's lifeless body at the bottom of a staircase, lying in a pool of her own blood? Or a man hanging himself, his face contorted in despair? Or another man clutching his slashed throat, gasping for air like a fish out of water, as flames consumed a woman who screamed in agony?
She stopped counting the nights she woke up in a cold sweat, screaming, the smell of blood lingering in her nose, the cries of the dying ringing in her ears. These lost souls... she never spoke of them. The few times she tried to share these visions discouraged her from ever trying again. As Elias might say: her Shadow, chasing her into the dark recesses of her mind. But for Maya, her Shadow wasn't an abstract concept—it was a procession of faces frozen in agony, a thousand voices merging into one scream of torment. She had no desire to "have tea" with that. Not for a single second.
After that night at the Sea View, she stopped listening to this sixth sense, stopped paying attention to the whispers in the air. What saved her that night also marked her forever, leaving a scar in her mind: one ghost, more persistent than the rest, a more oppressive presence. Hugo Hall. And since her arrival at Blackmere Estate, if any presences tried to manifest around her, she had resolutely ignored them. She didn't see them, didn't hear them—and that suited her just fine.
So why, at this very moment, does she find herself sprinting through the manor's corridors, chasing after the red-clad figure, the sound of sobbing echoing off the walls like an irresistible force compelling her to follow? Why is she so determined to pursue this specter when her entire past has taught her to flee from such phenomena, to ignore them, to never confront them?
Maya moves cautiously down the dim hallways, her breath shallow and her nerves stretched taut. She soon finds herself before a narrow, dark service staircase, the steps creaking faintly under her weight. The staircase leads to a part of the upper floor she has never explored before. The silence is so oppressive it feels almost physical, broken only by the faint, distant sound of weeping.
Maya presses on, her throat tight with anxiety she cannot suppress. The hallway ends at a massive mirror, eerily similar to the one in her room, giving the illusion of an infinite corridor stretching beyond reality. In the daylight warped by the blizzard raging outside, the mirror seems to hold shifting shadows behind her, prompting her to glance back—just in case. She avoids meeting her own gaze in the reflection, haunted by the unsettling feeling that something is staring at her.
The spectral sobs grow louder, wrenching and despairing. They lead her to a closed door. Maya halts, her trembling hand hovering inches from the doorknob. She hesitates. Every instinct screams at her to turn back, to escape this madness. Yet the sobs from beyond the door are so raw, so intense, they ignite an almost painful compassion in her chest. Taking a deep breath, she finally turns the handle.
The light from the hallway barely penetrates the room beyond, as though the darkness inside bristles at the intrusion. Maya steps cautiously forward. A bedside lamp on a table near the bed suddenly begins to flicker, casting intermittent bursts of light that reveal a figure collapsed on the floor, shaking with sobs.
Guided by the stuttering light, Maya approaches slowly, her heart pounding in her chest. The flickering glow illuminates a form draped in an intricate red veil, its strange beauty adorned with complex gold embroidery. Through the translucent fabric, she can make out a woman kneeling, her shoulders quivering, her face buried in her hands.
Maya hesitates, her instincts begging her to retreat. But something in the weeping—its raw pain, its almost tangible despair—pushes her forward. Slowly, almost reluctantly, she extends a hand and rests it on the veiled woman's shoulder.
The woman's head jerks up violently, her face still obscured by the veil. But through the thin fabric, Maya sees a pair of terrified eyes staring back at her, wide with unspeakable horror. The woman's lips move rapidly, murmuring something Maya can finally make out—distinct and sharp.
"Run."
Before Maya can react, an unseen force grabs her by the shoulders and hurls her backward with such violence that it knocks the air from her lungs. She crashes onto the floor near the doorway, gasping for breath. Pain shoots through her body, but survival instincts take over. Scrambling backward on her hands and feet, she desperately tries to distance herself from whatever attacked her.
She looks up, and what she sees freezes her in place. A massive, disproportionate figure stands before the veiled woman. The man is an amorphous mass of shadow, his face concealed by darkness clinging to him like a second skin. He takes a heavy step forward, each movement causing the air around him to tremble.
The veiled woman's scream erupts suddenly, shrill and piercing, slicing through the room like a sonic wave. Maya feels an unbearable pain in her head, her skull threatening to split apart. Her ears ring, her vision blurs. She tries to focus on the man, but everything goes black before she can comprehend what she is seeing.
Then, nothing.
Maya's eyes snap open, and she gasps for air. A deep inhale tears through her lungs as she feels the rough texture of the hallway carpet against her cheek. Even the dim light of the manor seems cruelly bright. As she slowly sits up, her vision still wavers slightly. She rubs her temples, the memory of what she just experienced burning vividly in her mind.
In front of her, the door to the room appears intact, closed as though it had never been opened. She shakes her head, trying to piece together her thoughts. How long has she been here? This isn't the first time she's experienced something like this—those moments when reality seems to unravel around her, when the tangible world gives way to incomprehensible fragments of terror. She recalls the visions tied to Hugo Hall, those scenes of visceral violence. But this... this couldn't be him. The spirits she sensed here seem rooted in something far older, more deeply entwined with the manor itself.
She remains still for a moment, staring at the door as though expecting it to open again, for something—or someone—to emerge. But everything stays silent. Too silent.
"Wow... And here I thought we didn't have access to the bar."
The mocking voice startles her. Maya turns sharply to see Simon leaning casually against the hallway wall, arms crossed, a smirk playing on his lips. His eyes gleam with a mix of curiosity and sarcasm. Clearly, he's been watching her for a while, which provokes a blend of unease and irritation in her. He shrugs, relaxed, though his gaze examines her face intently, as if trying to unravel her thoughts.
"You look like you've seen a ghost."
She doesn't answer, her heart still pounding, and rises cautiously to her feet. An insidious nausea begins to creep over her. A foul stench clings to her nostrils, the acrid scent of rotten eggs. She tries to ignore it and lifts her still-blurry gaze toward Simon, who continues to watch her with that half-amused, half-predatory look.
"I just need to rest in my room," she deflects, attempting to step around the young man and end the uncomfortable conversation.
Simon, as fluid as a snake, shifts a step to block her path. His smile broadens, casual, but his gaze carries a calculated edge, as if he's performing a role he knows all too well.
"In your room? Why not in mine?" he suggests, his tone oozing with unwelcome familiarity. "I've got all kinds of cool old stuff. An antique mirror, some weird books, a bunch of old stuff… and a bed. Super comfortable."
Maya barely suppresses a grimace of disgust, understanding exactly what he's implying. She takes a sidestep, but he mirrors her movement, closing the distance slyly until she feels the cold wall against her back. She calculates quickly—how long would it take for someone downstairs to hear her if she screamed? Her heart races as she realizes her throat is so tight she's not even sure she could produce a sound. Taking a deep breath, she tries a polite, cautious approach.
"Simon, I'm not interested. Thanks, but no."
Her tone is measured, her words chosen with care, but Simon, deliberately or not, pretends not to hear the meaning of her refusal. He leans in slightly, narrowing the already claustrophobic space between them.
"You're too tense, Maya. I think this place is boring too, but we could find… better ways to pass the time, don't you think?" he murmurs, leaning in even closer.
Maya's nausea intensifies. She averts her gaze, hoping ignoring him might extinguish his persistence, but it only emboldens him further. She shifts slightly, trying to escape the oppressive space, but he extends his arms, planting his hands on the wall on either side of her.
He's too close. Far too close. His voice, cold and condescending, keeps spewing thinly veiled compliments and insinuations that stick in her mind like splinters. She feels his breath brushing her lips. Then suddenly, a loud noise echoes down the hallway.
BAM.
BAM.
Both of them flinch, Simon snapping his head toward the far end of the corridor, where the massive mirror dominates the space. The sound seems to come from the other side of the glass. The reflection, frozen in place, shows nothing but an empty hallway, yet the pounding continues, dull and oppressive.
BAM.
Maya doesn't waste a second. Seizing the moment of Simon's confusion, she ducks under his arm and quickly moves away, her footsteps echoing in the sudden silence. Behind her, she hears Simon mutter curses under his breath, his irritation mounting as he realizes she's not coming back.
She races down the service stairs, her nausea still present but eclipsed by a cold wave of relief. The manor's ghosts might be terrifying, but at least they don't demand what Simon wanted to take.
Nevertheless… what had just happened?
Another manifestation? If so, it had come at exactly the right time. But Simon had heard it too though…
"Maya, are you alright?"
Unwittingly, she has passed by Ashford's office. The psychiatrist closes her laptop with a sharp motion as Maya appears, her brows slightly furrowed. The younger woman stops, still catching her breath, as Ashford rises from her chair, her expression polite but vaguely concerned.
"I heard you had a little accident with a cup…"
"Oh, it… It was nothing," Maya replies, waving her hand dismissively as if to brush the incident away. But Ashford doesn't seem convinced.
"Then what's wrong?"
Maya takes a deep breath, searching for the right words. While she has no intention of mentioning what she saw in the room, there's no way she'll keep what just happened with Simon to herself.
"It's Simon. He was… let's say… inappropriate."
At this confession, Ashford rolls her eyes.
"Simon. Of course. I'll have a word with him."
Maya isn't expecting the nonchalance with which Ashford utters these words.
"You don't understand. He really made me uncomfortable. We're stuck here for another week, and—"
"Exactly," Ashford interrupts, her voice soft but firm. "Which is why it's important not to make too much of this. You're all working through complicated issues, and things will come to the surface. It's vital to keep your inner peace as intact as possible. I know Simon can be a bit… much, but I'm sure he'll behave himself after our little chat. It's probably just a misunderstanding."
Stunned, and unsure she's heard correctly, Maya straightens slightly, ready to push back, but Ashford, adopting an almost maternal stance, raises her eyebrows in a gesture that feels patronizing, as though she's addressing a child throwing a tantrum.
"Listen, go back to your exercise. Avoid wandering alone in the hallways, and everything will be fine. Come on… off you go."
Her smile barely manages to counter the impatient gesture that accompanies her words. To Maya, it feels like a slap. Reluctantly, she turns on her heels and leaves the office. The dull thudding of her heart does little to calm her, and the nausea refuses to dissipate.
She returns to the living room, but the unease still clings to her. Something isn't right. She can't say if it's the house, the seminar, the other participants, or just herself, but everything feels off, like a puzzle piece being forced into place.
At the entrance of the living room, the sight of the storm outside hits her full force. Snowflakes swirl in an endless chaos, erasing any possibility of seeing the world beyond the estate's gates. The feeling of being trapped, which had slightly dissipated after her conversation with Elias, returns with overwhelming force. There's no escape.
Her gaze eventually shifts from the outside to Camille, sitting cross-legged near the fire. The light of the flames dances on her face and hands, which are busy knitting. Maya pauses to watch her for a moment. There's something calming about the scene, but also a strange melancholy. Annie. She reminds her of Annie. Camille looks up as she hears Maya's footsteps and offers a shy smile. She seems to be doing... better?
"Hey."
"Hey…"
Camille squints slightly, studying her intently.
"Are you okay? You look pale."
"It's nothing. I don't think the tea agrees with me."
Maya forces a smile meant to reassure, but the truth remains stuck somewhere in her throat. She steps a little closer, her gaze falling on the strange piece of wool Camille is knitting. It's not really a masterpiece: uneven stitches, holes poorly hidden. Yet Camille seems absorbed, focused.
"What are you making?"
"Oh, this?" Camille snorts, amused. "A disaster. But it calms me down. And, well, it gives me something to show him, doesn't it?"
Maya realizes she's talking about her doll, sitting against her as one would hold a child in their lap. Not sure what else to say, she focuses on the knitting.
"It's not that bad."
"It's awful! But at least I can stay by the fire. I feel like if I move away, we'll freeze to death."
Maya leans against the opposite sofa. Camille looks so vulnerable, so small, with her hunched shoulders and hesitant fingers. The fact that she talks about her doll as if it's a living being doesn't help, though, paradoxically, it seems to be doing her some good.
"You're right. Might as well stay here. And... you shouldn't stay alone."
"Don't worry," Camille briefly lifts her eyes to her, a fragile smile on her face, mixed with gratitude and sadness. "No one cares about me."
"Don't say that," Maya frowns, surprised by the resignation in her voice.
"It's true. But I'm fine with it. Really."
"Just… be careful, okay?"
Camille nods silently, returning to her knitting. Maya stays there for a moment longer, then her gaze drifts back to the window and the storm. What to do? Leaving seems out of the question: even if she reached the gates, she might skid off the road or worse. Locking herself in her room? Ashford wouldn't let her do so. No, staying here with the others was the best option. The less unbearable ones, at least.
As for the visions, she needs to start ignoring them again. She's been managing for a year now. She just has to start again. Robert was probably right: it's just a reaction to the tea or the stress. The woman in red and the man in black were probably just expressions of her personal anxieties, as Leclerc had explained to her. Nothing more.
She walks over to a shelf, grabs a random book, and sits down on the sofa. The pages open in front of her, she forces herself to focus on the words, pushing everything else away. Everything's fine. She repeats it in her mind, again and again, like a mantra.
Everything's fine. Everything's fine.
Isn't it?
Dr. Ashford climbs the stairs to the second floor, her annoyance betrayed by the sharp click of her heels on the steps. Reaching the cramped landing, she crosses the hallway quickly. Two doors. She ignores the one on the right and enters the one on the left.
The surveillance room is bathed in semi-darkness, lit only by the bluish glow of the screens. Jeffrey is slouched in a chair, a packet of Jammy Dodgers resting on his lap. He chews absentmindedly while staring at the monitors.
"Could you stop stuffing your face like a teenager?" Ashford says as she shuts the door behind her. "It's already annoying enough."
"I guess that means everything's going well?"
"At this rate, I'll end up killing them before the end of the week. Give me some good news…"
"Nothing new."
Ashford lets out an exasperated sigh, walking closer to stare at the monitors. Several of them display images from the private apartment on the second floor: a large modern kitchen, a stark office, a library bursting with books, a living room, a barely disturbed bedroom, all bathed in a dim, almost oppressive light.
"Same old routine. Every move to the millimeter. He still refuses to sleep in the bed, I think he's figured out where all our cameras are at this point. He's made a nest for himself with cushions and sheets on the floor, in a camera blind spot. He spends all day reading the diaries the old hag left behind. I've been to them a few times, there's nothing fascinating in them, though. But he devours them like a raving lunatic. Exactly like yesterday. And the day before. It's creepy, seriously."
"It's his way of keeping control. Every action planned, no room for the unexpected. It minimizes the risk of... letting go."
She grinds her teeth.
"And that's exactly what we need."
Jeffrey nods, still focused on the screens.
"Is the boss pissed off?"
"You have no idea how," Ashford shoots him a heavy look. "If we don't find a way to break our host, it's over. We have no other chance. This group has to succeed where the others failed."
"I could always... I don't know, put a little pressure on him, you know?"
"An idea, but let's keep it as a last resort. We don't want to damage the host."
She turns away to look at the screens again. Her voice becomes more distant, as though speaking to herself.
"We've analyzed everything, but the patients' stories don't tell us anything. They're too different, too fragmented. No common thread. We still haven't figured out what they all have in common and without that, we won't know what the trigger is. We'll have to move to phase two."
"Already? With the other groups, we waited at least a few days."
Ashford finally takes her eyes off the screens and shoots him a smile that lacks warmth.
"We don't have a choice. Tell Robert. Have him increase the dose in the tea."
She turns to leave the room.
"We need results... tonight."