Crimson Reckoning
Chapter 7
By: Mikolai
Elsewhere, deep within the mansion’s decaying bones, Zara (hyena) crawled. Her palms scraped raw against rough, damp stone. The tunnel was a suffocating throat, swallowing the faint light from her phone’s dying screen. She’d lost all sense of direction minutes ago, maybe hours. The air hung thick with the smell of wet earth, old rot, and something else… metallic, like rusting blood. Every shuffle forward echoed unnaturally, swallowed by the oppressive darkness ahead and behind. Kael’s screams still rang in her ears, sharp and final, followed by that sickening crunch. She choked back a sob, forcing herself onward. ‘Just keep moving. Away from him. Away from… that monster.’

Her phone screen flickered, casting frantic shadows. The battery icon glowed a desperate red: 8%. She thumbed the flashlight app again, the beam weak and yellow, barely piercing the gloom. It caught the glistening trail of her own blood smearing on the stones beneath her knees. Her costume was torn, her shins scraped raw from the frantic escape. She paused, trembling, and swiped frantically at her phone. No signal. Just the mocking, empty bars. She tried anyway, fingers shaking as she punched 911. The call failed instantly. A choked gasp escaped her. “No. No, no, no.” She tried again. Failed. The screen dimmed further, threatening to plunge her into absolute blackness. 5%. Panic clawed its way up her throat, cold and sharp. She was utterly alone. Trapped. Hunted.

Zara slammed the phone face down on the wet stone, the sound echoing sharply. Tears blurred her vision. Why? Why were we dying? Kael’s scream. Silas, Rex, and the others were probably dead too.  It wasn't a dare anymore. It was a slaughterhouse. She choked back another sob, pressing her forehead against the cold, damp wall. The metallic smell was stronger here. Like old pennies and wet iron. She pushed herself up, ignoring the sting in her palms, and crawled forward. The tunnel seemed endless. The air grew colder.

Her dying phone cast a feeble beam. It caught something ahead – a faint outline interrupting the rough stone wall. A door. Small, wooden, warped with age and damp. It looked like it hadn't been opened in decades. Hope, desperate and brittle, surged through her. She scrambled the last few feet, ignoring the sharp pain in her knees. Her trembling fingers found a simple iron latch, stiff with rust. She pulled, straining. It groaned in protest but finally gave way with a gritty scrape. She shoved. The door resisted, swollen in its frame, then yielded suddenly with a splintering crack. Cold, stale air washed over her.

When she opened it, the door led to a hallway. Not another tunnel, but a proper hallway. Wide floorboards, dusty plaster walls, a high ceiling lost in shadow. Weak moonlight filtered through grimy, tall windows at the far end. It felt vast and silent after the claustrophobic crawlspace. Directly in front of her, maybe twenty feet away, stood a big door. It was slightly open, a sliver of deeper darkness visible beyond its heavy oak frame. The other doors lining this long hallway were firmly closed – imposing panels of dark wood, their knobs tarnished brass in the dim light. The hyena girl could see them clearly now, stretching down the corridor like sentinels guarding secrets.

Zara scrambled through the small door, her torn costume catching on the splintered wood. She barely cleared the threshold before she slammed it shut behind her, pressing her back against it. The wood was thick and solid. She fumbled for a latch, a lock, anything – nothing. Just smooth, cold wood. Panic flared anew. Trapped. Then she heard it – not behind her, not from the tunnel she’d just fled. From down the hallway, she had entered. A low, rhythmic scraping. Slow. Deliberate. Like heavy boots dragging deliberately across rough wood. It echoed softly in the cavernous space, impossible to pinpoint, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere. It was getting closer. The sound crawled up her spine, icy fingers of dread closing around her throat. The rhino. It had to be him. Hunting her.

She didn't think. Instinct screamed louder than reason. Her eyes darted wildly down the long, moonlit corridor. Doors lined both walls, dark and forbidding, knobs gleaming dully. All closed. All potential tombs. Except one. At the far end, maybe twenty feet away, a single door stood slightly ajar. A sliver of deeper blackness beckoned – a promise, however terrifying, of somewhere *else*. Away from the scraping sound, steadily closing the distance. Zara pushed off the door at her back and ran. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her scraped knees protesting, her feet slapping against the dusty floorboards. The scraping sound paused. Then resumed. Faster now. Matching her pace. *Chasing.*

She reached the open door. Without hesitation, she threw herself through the gap. The heavy oak swung shut behind her with a soft, final *thump*. The sound echoed in the sudden silence. She whirled, grabbing the ornate brass knob. It wouldn't turn. She twisted, pulled, and shoved with all her weight. Nothing. Solid. Immovable. Trapped. Panting, she pressed her ear against the cold wood. Silence from the hallway. Utter, profound silence. Had he stopped? Was he waiting? Or had he simply… vanished? The uncertainty coiled tighter than the fear.

Zara turned, her back pressed against the unyielding door. She was in another hallway, narrower than the grand corridor outside. Moonlight streamed weakly through a single, tall window far down its length, casting long, distorted shadows. The air was thick with dust motes dancing in the pale beam. The walls were lined with faded floral wallpaper, peeling at the seams. Only one other door broke the expanse – a plain, dark wooden door at the very end of the hall, maybe thirty feet away. It stood closed. The only exit. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a frantic bird. ‘Need to get out. Call for help. Before he finds me.’

She pushed off the door and ran. Her footsteps echoed too loudly in the confined space, each slap of her soles against the worn floorboards sounding like a beacon. The scraping sound outside had vanished, but the silence was worse – pregnant with menace. She reached the door at the end. No lock. Just a simple brass knob, cold beneath her trembling fingers. ‘Please be unlocked. Please lead outside.’ She twisted. It turned smoothly. Hope surged, sharp and painful. She yanked the door open.

The scent hit her first – damp earth, rotting vegetation, and something sickly sweet, like overripe fruit left in the sun. Instead of freedom, Zara stumbled into a cavernous ruin. Moonlight poured through shattered glass panels high above, illuminating a jungle gone feral. A greenhouse. Enormous. Vines thick as her wrist snaked across rusted iron frames, choking the remains of exotic plants into monstrous shapes. Shattered terra cotta pots littered the cracked tile floor amidst drifts of dead leaves and shards of glass. The air hung thick and humid, buzzing faintly with unseen insects. Directly before her, just inside the arched entrance, stood a small wrought-iron table. It was tilted, one leg sinking into the mossy tiles, but its surface held something incongruous: a sleek, modern smartphone, its screen dark and lifeless. She slowly walks over to inspect the cellphone.

Zara froze, her breath catching. The frantic hope of escape curdled into icy dread. She knew that phone. Silas. He never went anywhere without it, always checking messages, showing off pictures. Seeing it here, abandoned amidst this decay, was worse than finding a body. Images flooded her mind, unstoppable: Silas cornered like Kael, Rex torn apart beside him, Bartholomew’s crushing grip… the wolf-boy’s skull splintering under the rhino ghost’s fist. Had Silas screamed? Had he fought? Or had he been taken, dragged away for some unspeakable purpose? The phone was a silent scream, confirming that Silas hadn’t escaped. He was somewhere in this nightmare mansion. Or had he been here? Before whatever happened next.

A slow, deliberate clapping echoed through the humid ruin. Sharp. Mocking. Each percussive slap cut through the buzzing silence like a knife. Zara’s blood turned to slush. She knew that sound wasn't human. It held a chilling precision, a predator's amusement. She forced herself to turn, limbs locking with the paralysis of pure terror.

Lysandra stood, framed in the greenhouse doorway, Zara having just fled through it. Moonlight bled through the shattered glass roof, catching the vulpine ghost’s fur in an ethereal silver glow. Her elegant gown, pristine despite the surrounding decay, flowed around her like liquid shadow. She continued her slow, rhythmic applause. Her vulpine muzzle was curved into a smile – wide, vulpine, and utterly devoid of warmth. Amber eyes, luminous and ancient, pinned Zara with hypnotic intensity. They held no rage, no frenzy. Only cold, calculating delight. The kind a cat shows a cornered mouse.

Zara screamed. A raw, ragged sound torn from her throat. But her legs refused to obey. Terror rooted her to the moss-slicked tiles beside Silas’s abandoned phone. Her body trembled violently, tears blurring her vision. "Why?" she choked out, the word thick with snot and despair. "Why are you doing this to us? We didn't do anything!"

Lysandra’s applause ceased abruptly. Her vulpine smile vanished, replaced by a chilling stillness. The air crackled. "Why?" Her voice sliced through the humid greenhouse, sharp as broken glass. It wasn't a shout, but a venomous whisper that carried impossible weight. "Because your grandmother, Lisa Sweeney, and her pious friends on the town council murdered us." She took a single, deliberate step forward. Moonlight caught the fury igniting in her amber eyes. "Lisa Sweeney personally saw to it that vile lies poisoned the town against my family. She whispered of corruption, of perversion... especially about my beloved brother, Theron." Lysandra’s muzzle curled into a snarl. "His only crime was loving another boy. Your grandmother made sure that love was twisted into something monstrous in the minds of fearful fools."

Zara stumbled back, her heel catching on a cracked tile. The damp scent choked her. "N-no! That was ages ago! We didn’t—"

Lysandra’s snarl cut her off, a guttural sound echoing through the ruined greenhouse. "Didn’t?" Her voice dropped to a glacial whisper. "You live in the town built on our graves. You dance on Halloween while our bones rot." Her amber eyes glowed brighter, pinning Zara like a specimen. "Let me show you why."

The humid air thickened, shimmering. Zara gasped as the greenhouse dissolved, replaced by the suffocating cold late at night in December evening decades past. She stood paralyzed in the Holloway mansion’s grand foyer, but it was alive – polished wood, gleaming chandeliers, the scent of lemon oil and roses. Laughter echoed from the dining room. Lysandra, vibrant in a silk gown, peeked through the doorway. Her vulpine face was alight with affection. Inside, Lord Holloway sat at the head of a long table. Beside him, a boy of fourteen, Dax, fidgeting with his fork. Across from him, Theron, fourteen, exchanged a secret, tender smile with the cat boy. Corvus stood sentinel by the sideboard, stern but calm. The scene radiated warmth and safety.

Then the front doors exploded inward. Torchlight flooded the hall, blinding. Men poured in – burly, faces twisted with righteous fury. Councilman Sweeney – Zara’s grandmother – stood among them, her face a mask of pious hatred. "Unnatural filth!" she shrieked, pointing a trembling finger. "Cleanse this blight from our town!" Chaos erupted. Furniture shattered. Screams tore through the air. Lysandra watched, frozen in horror, as her father was dragged from his chair. Councilman Becker drove a fireplace poker into his chest. Lord Holloway choked, crimson blooming across his white shirt, collapsing onto the Turkey rug.

The children were next. Dax whimpered, trying to hide under the table. Two men hauled him out, kicking his slender legs. "Demon spawn!" one spat. They dragged him towards the grand staircase. Theron screamed Dax’s name, lunging forward, only to be clubbed down by Sweeney’s husband. The cat boy was already dangling from the banister, his neck snapped at a sickening angle, tongue protruding, eyes wide and vacant. Theron fought like a wildcat, scratching, biting. They overpowered him. A rope snaked around his neck. Lysandra saw his eyes lock onto Dax’s lifeless form dangling nearby. Theron’s scream wasn’t fear; it was soul-shattering grief. The rope went taut. His body jerked, legs kicking futilely against empty air beside his lover.

Lysandra couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Her little sister, Elara, only nine, bolted from the dining room, tears streaming. "Lyssa!" she shrieked. Councilman Becker caught her by the hair. "Filth breeds filth," he growled. He slammed the child’s head against the newel post. Once. Twice. A wet crunch silenced Elara’s cries. Her small body crumpled like a broken doll at the foot of the stairs where Theron still twitched.

Corvus roared, charging the mob. He took three men down, fists like hammers. A shotgun blast tore through his chest from behind—Sweeney herself, face twisted in holy fervor. The loyal servant crashed onto the Turkey rug beside his master, his blood mingling with Lord Holloway’s. Lysandra finally screamed, lunging toward Elara’s body. Hands seized her—rough, calloused, reeking of sweat and hatred. They dragged her back. She saw it all: Dax’s limp form swaying, Theron’s final shudder beside him, Elara’s unblinking eyes staring at the ceiling. Her father’s vacant gaze fixed on her. "For the corruption of innocence!" Sweeney spat. The rope scraped Lysandra’s throat. The world tilted. Her last sight: the mob’s triumphant faces, lit by torchlight, as the noose snapped her neck.

The humid stench of the greenhouse slammed back into Zara’s lungs. She collapsed to her knees, retching bile onto the mossy tiles beside Silas’s phone. The vision—so vivid, so brutal—left her trembling violently. The laughter, the screams, the wet cracks… they echoed in her skull. Her grandmother’s face, contorted with hate, superimposed itself over her own reflection in a shard of glass.

Lysandra stood over her, untouched by the decay surrounding them. The vulpine ghost’s amber eyes burned with centuries-old fury. "That," Lysandra hissed, her voice a venomous whisper that scraped Zara’s nerves raw, "is why. Our pain. Our humiliation. Our stolen lives." She gestured sharply, encompassing the ruined mansion beyond the greenhouse walls. "Tonight, we end our misery. We end the bloodlines that cheered as we took our last breathe."

Zara scrambled backward on hands and knees, moss squelching beneath her palms. Her fingers brushed Silas’s cold phone. "I—I didn’t know," she choked out, tears blurring the ghost’s elegant silhouette. "My grandmother... she never told me!"

Lysandra’s vulpine smile returned, sharp as a scalpel. "Ignorance is no shield, child." She drifted closer, her gown whispering over broken tiles. "The Sweeney blood runs thick in your veins. It carries the stain of betrayal." Her amber gaze flicked to the abandoned phone. "Just as your friends carry their own taint. A delicious symmetry, don’t you agree?" She raised a clawed hand, moonlight glinting off the razor tips.

Zara braced for agony. Instead, Lysandra’s gesture swept wide, encompassing the ruined greenhouse. "But I," she declared, her voice softening into something terrifyingly deliberate, "am not a monster like your grandmother. I will grant you what she denied my family." The clawed finger pointed toward the shattered glass panes high above. "Mercy. A chance."

Zara froze, breath catching. Hope flared, treacherous and sharp. “Mercy?”

Lysandra’s vulpine muzzle curved into a smile colder than the greenhouse air. "A chance," she reiterated, her clawed hand gesturing toward the towering, shattered glass walls. "Escape this place. Reach the boundary of Holloway land before dawn breaks." Her amber eyes glinted, ancient and pitiless. "Do that, and your blood debt is void. You walk free." The ghost leaned closer, her whisper slicing through the humid silence. "But know this, child: your grandmother’s cruelty will never be erased. My own mother walks these grounds tonight. Hungry. Vengeful."

Zara stared, trembling. The words barely registered. Shock froze her limbs, her mind reeling from the brutal vision of slaughter. Lysandra’s offer felt like a trap wrapped in silk. *Mercy?* From the ghost who orchestrated this horror? Her gaze darted to Silas’s abandoned phone, a stark reminder of the carnage unfolding elsewhere. Before she could form a plea, Lysandra turned abruptly. Her elegant gown swirled like smoke as she drifted back toward the greenhouse doorway Zara had entered. She paused at the threshold, silhouetted against the decaying hallway beyond.

The vulpine ghost glanced back over her shoulder. Amber eyes glowed with chilling finality. "Run," Lysandra commanded, her voice a whip-crack in the humid air. "Run now, little Sweeney, or I will tear your throat out myself." Her clawed hand flexed, moonlight catching the razor-sharp points. "My patience wears thin."

Zara didn't hesitate. Terror overrode disbelief. She scrambled to her feet, slipping on moss-slicked tiles, put her cellphone away in her costume, and bolted deeper into the ruined greenhouse. Thick vines snagged at her torn costume, scratching her arms. She plunged blindly into the jungle of decay, heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Behind her, Lysandra’s low, chilling laughter echoed through the cavernous space, bouncing off shattered glass and rusted iron. "Run all you wish," the ghost’s voice drifted, disembodied and cruel. "You are dead already, child. You simply lack the wit to know it."

The laughter faded abruptly. Silence descended, thick and suffocating, broken only by Zara’s ragged gasps and the faint buzz of insects. She stumbled to a halt, chest heaving, and whirled around. The greenhouse entrance was empty. Lysandra was gone. Only the oppressive gloom remained.

Ahead, the greenhouse stretched into deeper shadow. Massive, withered fronds hung like skeletal hands. Vines coiled around crumbling statues, their stone faces eroded into grotesque masks. The air grew colder, dampness clinging to her skin. Zara forced her trembling legs forward, pushing through a curtain of ropy vines. Her sneaker crunched on something brittle—a desiccated frog skeleton. She stifled a gag.

Ahead, a rusted iron archway framed an exit choked with thorny brambles. Beyond it lay an overgrown lawn and the looming silhouette of the forest. Escape. Zara lunged for the archway, ripping at the thorny barrier. Sharp spines tore her palms. She ignored the sting, wrenching vines aside. One thick tendril snapped back, lashing her cheek. Blood welled, hot and metallic. She squeezed through the gap, stumbling onto dew-slicked grass.

The mansion loomed behind her, its broken windows like watching eyes. Before her stretched the Holloway estate grounds – a nightmare landscape swallowed by decades of neglect. Moonlight bleached the skeletal remains of topiary hedges into monstrous shapes. Crumbling statues peered from weed-choked flowerbeds, their features eroded into leering gargoyles. The forest marked the boundary Lysandra mentioned, a dark wall of pines perhaps a quarter-mile distant across open, treacherous ground.

Zara ran. Dew soaked through her ruined sneakers instantly. Brambles snagged her costume, ripping fresh tears. Her lungs burned. Every shadow seemed to be writhing. She kept low, weaving between the skeletal hedges, using their scant cover. The silence pressed in, broken only by her frantic gasps and the crunch of frost-killed weeds underfoot. ‘Just get to the trees. Just get to the trees.’ The mantra pounded in time with her heart. She risked a glance back. The greenhouse was a decaying hulk behind her, the mansion a jagged silhouette against the starless sky. No pursuit. Yet.

Then she saw it. Movement near a crumbling marble fountain choked with dead ivy. A figure drifted across the moonlit lawn. Another fox ghost lady, but profoundly different. Where Lysandra radiated cruel elegance, this one was shrouded in utter desolation. She wore a flowing gown of deepest black mourning velvet, tattered and stained. A spectral lantern, casting a sickly greenish glow, swung limply from one clawed hand. In the other, clutched tight against her chest like a talisman, was a long, wicked kitchen knife, its blade catching the moonlight with a dull gleam. Her vulpine muzzle was lifted, not in menace, but in profound agony. Heart-wrenching sobs tore from her throat – raw, guttural sounds of inconsolable grief that echoed across the silent grounds. "My children!" she wailed, the words thick with centuries of tears. "My Theron! My Elara! My babies?" Her amber eyes, luminous with anguish, scanned the ruined landscape as if expecting her murdered family to emerge from the shadows. She drifted aimlessly, a wraith of pure maternal sorrow, the knife trembling in her grip, the lantern casting shifting pools of eerie light on the frosty grass.

Zara froze mid-stride, crouched behind the skeletal remains of a rose bush. Terror warred with a sudden, horrifying realization. ‘Lysandra’s mother.’ The ghost Lysandra warned her about. The one consumed by vengeance. The raw, animalistic grief radiating from the figure was palpable, a physical weight pressing down on Zara’s chest. It wasn't calculated fury like Lysandra’s; it was the blind, desperate agony of a mother who had seen her entire world slaughtered. And she carried a knife. Zara knew instantly: mercy didn't exist for this ghost. Only blood. She couldn't go forward. The grieving mother blocked the direct path to the forest. Zara needed to loop back, find cover behind the greenhouse, circle wide, and maybe find a way out from the entrance. Slowly, silently, she began to ease backward, keeping the spectral mourner in her peripheral vision.

Her foot landed on a brittle branch hidden beneath weeds. The *CRACK* shattered the oppressive silence like gunfire.

The ghost mother’s mournful wail cut off instantly. Her head snapped toward the sound, vulpine muzzle lifting from her grieving posture. Amber eyes, moments ago, swimming in inconsolable sorrow, locked onto Zara’s hiding place. The raw anguish vanished, replaced by a feral, predatory intensity colder than the grave. Recognition flared—a Sweeney face, echoing the pious hatred that slaughtered her family. A guttural snarl ripped from her throat, a sound of pure, distilled vengeance.

Zara didn’t think. She bolted. Thorns ripped at her costume as she scrambled away from the rose bush skeleton. Behind her, the air crackled with unnatural cold. The ghost mother didn’t drift; she *surged*. Her tattered mourning gown billowed like a storm cloud, the spectral lantern swinging wildly, casting jagged green shadows. The kitchen knife gleamed in her clawed fist, raised high. The distance vanished impossibly fast. Zara felt the icy aura clawing at her back, and smelled the ghost's decayed-roses-and-grave-dirt scent. She screamed, a raw sound of pure terror, and veered sharply left toward the crumbling greenhouse wall.

Too slow. The ghost was upon her. Zara felt the frigid air solidify behind her, a wall of malice. She twisted, throwing herself sideways, but the knife was already descending. It wasn’t a ghostly illusion. The blade, cold as forgotten steel, bit deep. Pain exploded across Zara’s shoulder blade—a searing, tearing agony that stole her breath. She stumbled, crying out, warm blood instantly soaking the torn fabric of her Halloween costume. The scent of copper flooded her nostrils, sharp and metallic against the damp earth.

The ghost mother loomed; her vulpine face contorted into a mask of primal fury. Gone was the grieving wraith; this was pure predator. Amber eyes burned with centuries of pent-up rage. "Sweeney filth!" she shrieked, her voice scraping like nails on slate. She raised the dripping knife again, its edge glinting wetly in the moonlight. "Blood for blood! Scream for me!"

Zara scrambled backward on her elbows, kicking at the grass. Agony tore through her shoulder with every movement, hot blood soaking her costume and plastering it to her fur. The ghost surged forward, impossibly fast, her tattered mourning gown billowing like storm clouds. Zara rolled desperately as the knife whistled down, embedding itself in the earth where her neck had been a heartbeat before. Clods of dirt sprayed her face.

"Please!" Zara choked out, scrambling sideways. "My grandmother—she was wrong! I didn't know!"

The ghost mother wrenched the knife free, dirt clinging to the blade. Her vulpine muzzle twisted. "Lies breed lies," she hissed. "Sweeney blood always knows." She lunged again, knife aimed at Zara's throat.

Zara kicked wildly, catching the ghost's spectral gown. It offered no resistance, but the sudden movement threw off the ghost's aim. The knife sliced downward instead, catching Zara's left thigh just above the knee. It wasn't a ghostly whisper—it was cold, sharp steel biting deep. Pain exploded, white-hot and immediate, tearing a ragged scream from Zara’s throat. Blood welled instantly, soaking her torn leggings, hot and thick against her skin. The metallic tang filled her nostrils, sharp against the decaying roses scent clinging to the ghost.

The ghost mother hissed, wrenching the blade free with a sickening scrape against bone. Zara scrambled backward on her elbows and heels, dragging her wounded leg. Every movement sent fresh agony ripping through her shoulder and thigh. The ghost advanced, knife dripping crimson onto grass. Her vulpine face was a mask of feral triumph, amber eyes burning with centuries-old hatred. "Scream louder, little Sweeney!" she spat. "Let the trees hear your cowardice!"

Zara's hand slammed into something cold and solid—the moss-slick base of a crumbling marble statue. Desperation lent her strength. She seized a broken chunk of stone, jagged as a shiv, and hurled it at the ghost's face. It passed harmlessly through her spectral head, clattering uselessly behind her. The ghost mother laughed—a grating, hollow sound. "Foolish child!" She raised the knife again, poised to plunge.

Seeing that blade drip with her own blood—real blood, hot and dark on cold steel—ignited something primal in Zara. Terror wasn't enough anymore. Survival screamed louder. The searing agony in her shoulder and thigh fused into a white-hot fuel. Adrenaline surged, drowning the pain in a wave of raw, animal urgency. Run or die. Now.

She didn't hesitate. Scrambling sideways like a crab, Zara ignored the fiery protest from her wounds. Her good leg pistoned against the damp earth, propelling her upright in a lurching, desperate sprint. She didn't look back. The ghost mother's enraged shriek—"YOU WILL NOT ESCAPE!"—echoed behind her, chilling the air, but Zara was already moving, fueled by pure, blinding panic. She veered away from the forest boundary, away from the ghost blocking her path, and bolted toward the looming, decaying bulk of Holloway Mansion itself. The entrance. Where they came in.

Her breath tore ragged gasps from her throat. Blood streamed down her thigh, slick and hot, soaking her ruined costume and making her sneaker squelch with every pounding step. The shoulder wound screamed with each jarring movement, a constant, throbbing counterpoint to the agony in her leg. She ran blindly, weaving through skeletal hedges and crumbling statues, using the mansion's jagged silhouette as her guide. The lawn gave way to the weed-choked gravel drive. Ahead, illuminated by the cold moonlight, she saw it: the gaping maw of the mansion's front entrance, the heavy oak doors hanging askew on broken hinges, just as they’d left them. And beyond it, the wrought-iron front gate, twisted and rusted, hanging open.

Hope, sharp and desperate, pierced the fog of terror. ‘The gate.’ The boundary Lysandra mentioned. If she could just get past it… Zara poured every ounce of screaming agony into her legs, forcing herself into a limping, lopsided sprint. She dared a glance over her shoulder.

The ghost mother surged across the lawn, a vortex of fury and grief. Her tattered mourning gown billowed like storm clouds, spectral lantern swinging wildly, casting jagged green shadows that danced across the grass. The kitchen knife gleamed wetly in her clawed fist, raised high. Her vulpine muzzle was twisted into a snarl of pure hatred, amber eyes fixed unblinkingly on Zara’s fleeing form. The distance between them was closing with terrifying speed, fueled by spectral rage.

Zara stumbled on the gravel driveway, her wounded leg buckling. Agony ripped through her thigh, hot blood soaking her torn leggings. She scrambled forward on hands and knees, gravel biting into her palms. Ahead, the mansion’s gaping entrance offered no sanctuary—only the promise of deeper horrors. Beyond it, the rusted iron gate hung open, a skeletal silhouette against the moonlit road. The boundary. Lysandra’s words echoed: ‘Reach it before dawn.’ She forced herself upright, limping desperately toward the gate. As she lurched forward, her gaze flickered beyond the iron bars—and froze.

Headlights. Twin beams sliced through the pre-dawn gloom, bouncing wildly as a car hurtled up the overgrown driveway toward the mansion. Zara’s heart surged. Someone was coming. Help. Real help. She screamed, raw and ragged, waving her uninjured arm frantically. "HELP ME! PLEASE! SHE'S GOING TO KILL ME!" The words tore from her throat, hoarse with terror and hope. The car—a battered, dented sedan—accelerated, engine roaring like a wounded beast. It didn't slow. It didn't stop. It aimed straight for the open gate.

Behind her, the ghost mother’s chilling shriek rose above the engine’s roar—a sound of pure, thwarted fury. "NO! SHE IS MINE!" The spectral lantern flared violently, casting jagged green light across the gravel. Zara didn't look back. She stumbled sideways, putting herself directly in the path of the oncoming car, desperate for rescue. The headlights blinded her. The engine screamed. The car tore through the twisted iron gate with a screech of tortured metal, shattering the rusted hinges completely. It was speeding impossibly fast, a missile of desperation aimed at the mansion’s heart.

Then came the sharp, deafening *BANG*. The sedan’s front right tire exploded violently as it hit a deep, jagged pothole hidden by weeds just inside the boundary. The steering wheel wrenched sideways in the driver’s hands. The car lurched violently to the left, tires skidding on loose gravel, fishtailing out of control. Its trajectory shifted instantly, violently—aiming straight at Zara. She froze, eyes wide, the blinding headlights filling her vision. Her scream tore through the night—a raw, primal sound of utter disbelief. "NO!" But her wounded leg gave out beneath her. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t dodge.

The car’s crumpled front bumper slammed into her with brutal force. The impact threw Zara upward like a broken doll, her body twisting in mid-air. For one horrifying instant, she hung suspended against the moonlit sky, limbs splayed, blood spraying in a dark arc. Then gravity seized her. She crashed down headfirst onto the unforgiving gravel driveway with a sickening, wet *CRACK*. Her neck snapped backward at an impossible angle. Her body crumpled, limp and still, landing in a twisted heap beside the shattered remains of the iron gate. Blood pooled rapidly beneath her shattered skull, dark and glistening.

Silence descended, thick and suffocating. Only the car’s engine idled roughly, a low, mechanical growl punctuated by the frantic, tinny beat of heavy metal music still blasting from its stereo – a jarring soundtrack to the carnage. The ghost mother hovered a few yards away, her spectral form flickering violently. A guttural shriek ripped from her vulpine muzzle, a sound of pure, thwarted rage that echoed across the silent grounds. "NO! MINE! SHE WAS MINE!" Her amber eyes burned with incandescent fury, fixed on Zara's motionless form.

Then, abruptly, the fury flickered and died. Her shoulders slumped. The spectral lantern’s sickly green glow softened. She drifted closer, not with predatory speed, but with the slow, heavy gait of profound exhaustion. She stopped beside Zara’s broken body, gazing down at the shattered skull, the spreading pool of dark blood soaking into the gravel. A low, mournful keen escaped her lips, softer than the wails before, tinged with a terrible, hollow satisfaction. "Taken… but taken here," she whispered, her voice rasping like dry leaves. "On Holloway ground. By Holloway fate. Blood spilled… paid." Her clawed hand, still clutching the dripping kitchen knife, relaxed slightly. A faint, chilling smile touched her vulpine muzzle. "Rest now, little Sweeney. Your debt… settled." With a sigh that seemed to drain centuries of grief and rage, her form shimmered, dissolved into wisps of cold mist, and vanished. Only the lingering scent of decayed roses remained.