Chapter 6 - THE ASCENT INTO THE SHADOWS
Each step up the staircase felt heavy, the thick plush carpet deadening the sound of Daniel’s boots. The temperature dropped noticeably as he climbed, the warm, laundry-scented air of the main floor giving way to a cool, dry draft that smelled faintly of old wood, dust, and metallic oil.
The body camera on Daniel’s chest captured every inch of the wall as he moved: framed photographs of Emily as a toddler, smiling on a beach; a portrait of Thomas and a woman whose face had been carefully cut out of the frame; a small wooden cross hanging near the top of the landing.
Reaching the top stair, Daniel pivoted slowly, sweeping his flashlight beam across the second-floor hallway.
The second floor consisted of four doors. To his left, an open bathroom door revealed a tidy sink and a pink towel hanging from a hook. To his right, an open children's bedroom showed a pink canopy bed, a dollhouse, and scattered picture books on the floor—Emily’s room.
At the far end of the narrow corridor stood the fourth door.
It was a heavy, solid wood door, painted dark gray, unlike the white doors throughout the rest of the house. It was pulled entirely shut, the brass knob gleaming brightly in the center of Daniel’s flashlight beam.
The metallic sound had stopped completely.
The silence on the second floor was thick, oppressive, and absolute. Downstairs, the muffled noise of the blaring television seemed miles away, swallowed up by the narrow walls of the hallway.
Daniel took two quiet steps toward the gray door. "Police department," he announced, keeping his voice steady, his light fixed on the brass knob. "If anyone is in the upper room, announce yourself now."
No answer came.
Downstairs, María kept her body turned toward the foyer, her arm wrapped securely around Emily. She could hear Daniel’s deliberate footsteps above them.
"Is there someone else in the house, Emily?" María asked softly, her eyes scanning the little girl’s tear-stained face. "Does your dad have someone staying up there?"
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Emily shook her head rapidly, her soft blonde hair flying around her cheeks. "No," she whispered, her fingers digging into the torn fabric of her stuffed rabbit. "It’s just Daddy’s snake. It lives in the wall. It comes out when he turns the TV up real loud."
María felt a chill ripple down her spine. The detail—turning the television volume up to mask whatever happened upstairs—was a classic, horrifying indicator.
