In front of them, a metal door appeared, incongruous in the hallway of plaster and wood. Jenks and Maya stopped abruptly, their eyes meeting in silent question. The inspector, ever pragmatic, stepped forward cautiously and placed a hand on the icy handle. He took a deep breath, then opened it with deliberate slowness. A metallic creak tore through the silence, heightening the tension.
The beam of Jenks' flashlight pierced the darkness of the room, revealing a tiny, long-forgotten darkroom. The walls were lined with faded black panels, and old chemical processing tanks sat in neat rows on a rickety table. A thick layer of dust covered everything like a funeral shroud, and with each step they took, clouds of irritating particles rose into the air. They both coughed, trying to shield their faces with a hand.
"I think we just stumbled upon our photographer's hideout," Jenks murmured, his voice echoing strangely in the confined space.
Maya nodded, her gaze sweeping across the room. She spared a glance at Camille—the young woman remained huddled, her white mask lowered like the head of an abandoned effigy. Maya inhaled deeply, steadying herself before methodically sifting through the clutter. Her fingers brushed against stacks of yellowed papers, jars of dried-out chemicals, and a dust-covered photographic enlarger draped in cobwebs.
Meanwhile, Jenks searched a more secluded corner of the room. His flashlight settled on an old wooden box, half-buried under debris. He crouched and carefully lifted it, the thick dust clinging to his hands, then slowly opened it.
"Oh..." he exhaled, barely audible.
Maya, intrigued, turned toward him.
"What is it?" she asked, stepping closer, wiping her hands on her pants before leaning over Jenks' shoulder.
He hesitated for a moment, shielding the contents before tilting the box slightly so she could see inside. His voice, low and strained, nearly broke into a whisper.
"I suppose this is Sara..."
Behind him, Maya glanced inside before quickly looking away. A wave of shock and disgust twisted her stomach.
Inside the box lay a collection of old black-and-white photographs, yellowed with age. Some depicted a beautiful young girl, posing in vintage undergarments, seemingly meant to honor her youth and beauty. But the rest unraveled into a nightmare of violence and humiliation.
Sara appears naked, bound in suggestive poses that leave nothing to the imagination. Her skin bears the marks of blows, the imprint of fingers around her neck, a bite on a breast or the upper inner thigh, where flesh is most sensitive. Her eyes are drenched in tears and anguish, yet all the shots seem to focus solely on her gaze, as if to wring something from it. Some portraits were taken during sexual acts or just afterwards, showing an adolescent body washed up on an unmade bed, messy hair hiding a face drenched in tears and sweat. Sometimes she's gagged, sometimes the photo was taken in the midst of a scream of pain or fear, sometimes glistening with semen squirted on her in a pure spirit of domination.
Maya felt her breath hitch and instinctively raised a trembling hand to her mouth, fighting back the nausea. She took a few steps back, unable to look any longer, overwhelmed by the sensation of being tainted.
"They're trophies," Jenks muttered, placing the photographs back into the box, his face dark and tense. He nodded, his expression tinged with palpable bitterness. "She was just a kid..."
His voice carried a cold fury, but also a deep, heavy sorrow. He wiped his hands on his jacket as if trying to rid himself of something vile. Maya closed her eyes for a brief moment, trying to push away the images now burned into her mind. She took a deep breath, her fingers pressing against her lips, before turning slightly toward Camille's frozen white mask.
"S-Sara?"
"I'm here."
Maya opened her eyes, but her gaze remained haunted, and her heart pounded so hard she could feel it pulsing in her throat.
"We… we found some photographs. What… what are they?"
"They're photographs taken by Mr. Hall. We spent so much time together. He was so kind, so polite. He told me I was beautiful, intelligent, funny, wonderful… I fell under his spell, and he seemed so happy to take those pictures. He reassured me, told me it was art, that I wasn't a girl of ill repute. That I was someone good."
Jenks, standing slightly behind, clenched his fists, his face hardening under the weight of a barely contained rage.
"How many young women have fallen into that kind of trap?" he murmured in a rough voice, but Sara continued as if she hadn't heard him, trapped in the flow of her own story.
"Mr. Hall became happier. It was like… he came back to life. He started coming downstairs to eat with Madame again, spent more time with the children. As long as we took the time he needed for his photos, everything was fine. Madame Hall knew, but I think she was so happy to have her husband back that she said nothing."
Maya exchanged a quick glance with Jenks, who was gritting his teeth. He looked ready to explode, but Sara carried on, undisturbed.
"Sometimes, when we worked on his photos… he would get angry. Because I wasn't looking at the camera the right way or… because he couldn't see what he wanted to see. In those moments, he scared me."
"What did he mean by 'not seeing what he wanted to see'?" Maya asked, her throat tight.
"I don't know. But when he was angry, he would… slap my cheeks or my legs. He said it would help me focus. He said it was necessary—for art… and for him."
Maya took a deep breath, trying to keep her voice steady despite the heavy tension settling over her.
"When you said he started asking for different things, bad things… was it connected to his anger?"
"Yes. He said my gaze… revealed everything. That my eyes showed what I truly felt, but that it wasn't enough. He said I wasn't being honest enough. That I needed to… strip myself bare, expose myself, show myself completely. That's when he started touching me. He said it was part of the art. That it was to capture something real, something pure. But what he really wanted… wasn't art."
She paused, and the air around them seemed to grow even colder.
"He made me touch him. Made me do things that I… that I didn't want to do. He told me I had to be brave, that I had to sacrifice myself for him, for his work."
Maya's throat tightened, her fingers clenching the edge of a dust-covered table.
"And when you refused?"
"I couldn't refuse. He never gave me a choice. He always found a way to force me. When he got angry, he became… someone else. Someone… monstrous."
Jenks and Maya exchanged a heavy glance, filled with unspoken understanding.
"Hugo?" Jenks asked, his voice low, laced with anger and disgust.
The young woman nodded, sharing his emotions, before turning back to Sara.
"What was he trying to see? What was he looking for when he… did those things to you?"
The ghost remained still, her white mask tilted slightly to the side, as if listening to a distant voice. Then she spoke, her tone still neutral, almost mechanical, yet steeped in invisible pain.
"My soul… He wanted to see my soul. And he saw it… That's when he changed. That's when he stopped everything. Because he decided I had no worth."
Sara's words hung in the air like a curse, and before Maya could respond, a vision struck her with brutal force. She swayed slightly, instinctively grabbing onto Jenks's arm to steady herself. Her vision blurred, and images began flashing through her mind.
She sees a hatch set into a stone-tiled floor, a room she has never seen before. Wild plants, ivy climbing up to a glass ceiling where cold rays of light filter in weakly. The vision shifts to a dark corridor, then stops in front of a closed door, heavy and imposing.
When Maya comes back to herself, disoriented, she forces herself to regain composure. She sees Camille's body tense once more, returning to that strange state of stillness. She casts a quick glance at Jenks, his expression serious and determined.
"We need to move," she says firmly, urgency lacing her words. "I'm not sure exactly where it is… but I saw a greenhouse."
"The conservatory. Alright. Let's not waste time. I can't stand this place any longer."
Maya and Jenks support Camille as best they can, quickening their pace to leave the oppressive room. They shut the metal door behind them in haste, almost as if trying to trap the horrors they had just uncovered. But a part of that horror seems to cling to them, invisible and persistent, sticking to their skin like a second shadow. The air feels heavier, thick with a bitter taste neither of them can shake, a sensation that lingers, invasive, in their throats.
They walk in silence, their footsteps echoing faintly in the dark corridors. Finally, Jenks breaks the quiet, his voice low and rough, as if afraid his words might awaken something.
"I think you're right, Maya… Maybe this is just something… deeply wicked."
Maya doesn't answer. Her thoughts spiral in a whirlwind of anxiety. Ever since she saw those photographs, a silent monstrosity has been pressing against her chest, suffocating her little by little. She bites the inside of her cheek to suppress the nausea rising in her stomach, but the questions keep pounding in her head.
Is this what Hugo wanted to do to her too? Is this what he was searching for? To see her soul?
She shivers violently, as though an icy hand had just brushed the back of her neck. She feels filthy, as if a layer of impurity has seeped into her skin. All she wants is to scrub her body raw with a rough cloth, to wash herself again and again until she feels nothing. But the very thought of touching her own skin disgusts her.
Jenks glances at her briefly but says nothing, respecting her silence. They keep moving carefully, mindful of their steps, retracing their path. Forced to pass through the small room once again, they hold their breath as they approach. Thankfully, the sigils seem to have held their promise. The space appears strangely calm, the oppressive energy Hugo exuded now absent. Jenks slows his pace, his features etched with exhaustion and something deeper—an emotional weariness he no longer tries to conceal.
"We should take a break…"
Maya, still alert despite the growing weight of fatigue, shakes her head slightly.
"I'm fine, Inspector."
"I'm not… And I need to think."
Maya studies him for a moment and sees through his professional mask—shaken, perhaps more than he has been in a long time. Eventually, she nods, respecting his need for a moment's respite.
She looks for a spot far from where Hugo disappeared and gently helps Camille down, resting her limp body against the cold wall. Then she settles beside her, releasing a trembling sigh. Camille's skin feels terribly cold, as if life itself has abandoned her. Possession, the freezing temperature of the place, or both? Especially since the girl is wearing only a thin shirt, her bare feet pressing against the icy floor.
Maya wraps an arm around the Frenchwoman's shoulders and begins to rub her arms gently, trying to warm her. The mechanical, almost instinctive motion triggers a flood of memories she would rather have left buried. For a fraction of a second, it is not Camille she holds against her, but Annie. The pain resurfaces, sharp and suffocating. She sees her friend's face again, her fragility.
Had Annie been possessed, too? Was it Sara who haunted her? These questions torment Maya, coiling around a core of guilt she has never managed to dissolve.
She remembers her friend just before the end—that strange resolve in her eyes, as if she had found a terrible answer to a question she had never asked. Was it depression? Madness? What had Phoenix done to her here?
Maya swallows down a wave of bile and clenches her teeth. She catches herself wishing Hugo would cross paths with Ashford, the only other monster she has ever hated with such intensity.
Meanwhile, Jenks paces back and forth, his heavy footsteps disturbing the silence. He holds his notebook in one hand, but his eyes, locked onto the pages, betray his absence. He reads without reading, his thoughts elsewhere, lost in a mental labyrinth.
"You must have seen things as horrible as this…" Maya murmurs, gently breaking the silence.
Jenks stops and looks at her, his features lined with the wear of too many years.
"Yes… and I think I can endure it a little less each time."
She nods, understanding.
"Does it help you see the motive? Why… this spirit or demon would do all this?"
He thinks for a moment, his brow furrowing in painful concentration.
"Not really… but I know it didn't satisfy him. So I deduce that the pursuit of pleasure, the thrill of violence or domination, is not his goal. It's only the means."
"What makes you say that?"
"Because he stopped." Jenks' voice is cold, cutting. "If torturing her, doing all of this to her, was truly what he wanted, then why stop?"
Maya presses her lips together, thinking over his words.
"Sara said he seemed to be looking for something… She said he wanted to see her soul."
"And whatever he saw convinced him to stop," Jenks concludes. "So…"
"He's searching for something specific," Maya murmurs. "Or someone."
Their gazes meet, a long silence stretching between them, heavy with tension and unspoken fears. Each word spoken echoes Maya's own anxieties, fueling her darkest worries.
Jenks finally breaks the silence, his voice firm but carrying a protective tenderness.
"I'm never leaving you alone with him again, Maya."
She offers a faint smile before pulling Camille closer.
"She's freezing…"
"Come on. Let's keep moving. Your lips are turning blue too…"
This time, Maya feels it—that invasive sensation, like a shadow seeping into every fiber of her being, leaving her stained, tainted, marked with an indelible imprint. But the mark isn't on her skin. No, it's buried deep inside, where no soap, no rough sponge, no amount of tears will ever reach it. She knows it: nothing will erase this stain.
Did Hugo see anything in my eyes? The memory flashes back—the moment she and Jimmy met in the Sea View Hotel lobby. Is that where it all started?
The spiral of her thoughts quickens, every regret morphing into another weight threatening to crush her. Vague but painful memories rise to the surface, fragments of decisions she could have made differently. And yet, she knows she cannot afford to break down—not now, not here, not while she's still holding Camille, not while Jenks is counting on her to stay strong.
She takes a deep breath, her exhale trembling but resolute, mentally pushing back the ghosts that haunt her. No. Not now. And never again. She promises herself that this time, she won't fail. Not her. Not this time.
Her gaze hardens and, despite the nausea clawing at her, she clenches her jaw and rises to her feet. There's still work to do.
The small group moves cautiously, reaching the room they had left in a hurry. Maya glances inside, but the room appears empty. The hallway door stands wide open, revealing the shifting shadows of the manor beyond.
Jenks turns to her, his expression serious, and whispers,
"The easiest way to reach the conservatory would be to take the main staircase, but it's also the riskiest. If Hugo is waiting for us anywhere, it's probably there. We'd be better off going around and taking the service stairs near your room. They lead right to the conservatory door—it would be safer."
Maya nods and adjusts her arm around Camille's body to better guide her.
The group moves carefully down the hallway, their steps quick but measured, their senses on high alert. The occasional creak of the floorboards punctuates the silence as all three of them stay vigilant for any sign of danger, whether from Hugo, or Jeffrey and Robert, just as unpredictable.
They pass the main staircase but don't linger, continuing past Camille's and Maya's rooms, then Ashford's at the end of the hall. Just as they near the base of the staircase leading to the second floor, a door suddenly bursts open with a crash. Before they have time to react, a figure lunges out in front of them.
"Don't move!" Harriet screams, holding up a can of pepper spray.
Maya startles, instinctively stepping back, shielding Camille with her body. Jenks reacts quickly, grabbing the journalist's wrist before she can press down.
"Harriet! Harriet! It's us! Calm down!"
Jenks' soothing voice seems to cut through Harriet's panic. Her eyes widen as she recognizes him, then she nearly collapses, trembling with relief. Her disheveled hair and smeared makeup reveal the tears she must have shed earlier.
"Oh my God!" she breathes, on the verge of breaking down. "Fred… Maya… I thought I was the only one left! And why did you leave that horror on poor Camille's face?!"
"It's okay, Harriet…"
"I am not okay!" she cries, gesturing wildly as she speaks, her hands visibly shaking. "Fred… I think I'm losing my mind! I trusted Ashford, I really believed in her therapy, in her promises. But… but she did something to me! With those so-called ritual exercises! It wasn't normal!"
She steps closer to Jenks, almost pleading, clutching the lapels of his coat as if trying to anchor herself in the midst of her spiraling fear.
"Fred… I think I saw a ghost," she whispers, as though saying the words aloud might make them more real.
Jenks and Maya exchange a look filled with surprise. Until now, the journalist had seemed far removed from any belief in the supernatural, and yet… Her words unsettle Maya. She had considered the possibility that she wasn't the only one with her strange ability, but she had never met anyone who could truly understand what she was going through.
For a brief moment, the thought almost makes her feel… less alone.
"You're okay, Harriet…" Jenks murmurs, gently prying the journalist's trembling hands from his jacket.
He pats them lightly, trying to calm her and lower the volume of her voice.
"Very strange things are happening here."
"But… but you believe me?" Harriet searches his eyes desperately for validation.
"Yes, I believe you," Jenks assures her. "And so does Maya. We know you're telling the truth."
Harriet hiccups, visibly relieved not to be alone in this madness. Jenks takes a sharp breath and continues, determined.
"But listen, Harriet. We need to get to the conservatory immediately. There might be a way to put an end to all of this. Come with us."
She hesitates for a second, casting a nervous glance around her, but eventually nods, clutching the pepper spray like a talisman.
Suddenly, the door to Ashford's room, at the very end of the hall, slams open with a violent crash, hitting the wall. At the same time, another door behind them swings back, its impact against the wood reverberating like a dull thunderclap.
Jeffrey emerges from the darkness on one side, his face twisted into an expression both feral and unhinged, while Robert steps forward from the other, his unsettling calm made all the more chilling by the weapon he holds firmly in his grip.
The cold, black barrel of a gun gleams in the dim light, aimed directly at them.
"Alright, everyone…" Robert says in an icy tone, his words laced with venomous irony.
He takes a slow, deliberate step forward, his gaze sweeping over each of them like a predator assessing its prey.
"Playtime's over."