Chapter 8 - The Boy Who Found His Voice
The winter storm raged for three days, cutting Blackwood Ridge off from the rest of the world.
The power lines went down on the second night. The manor was illuminated only by the golden flicker of candles and the massive fireplaces burning in every wing.
It was during the peak of the storm, around two in the morning, that Claire woke to the sound of tiny, muffled sobs.
She slipped out of the master bed—where she and Vincent had maintained an unspoken, tension-filled boundary down the middle of the mattress—and followed the sound down the cold hallway.
The door to the younger boys’ room was cracked open.
Beneath a heavy pile of blankets, seven-year-old Ben was shaking uncontrollably, his hands clamped over his ears as the howling wind rattled the window frames like a monstrous hand trying to get in.
May you like
Ben hadn’t spoken a single full sentence since his mother died. He nodded, pointed, or remained silent.
Claire didn’t hesitate. She climbed right
