Leaving the hidden room was easier than I expected. I kept close behind Dolores as we stepped back into the library, the door seamlessly blending into the wall of books.
A faint sense of relief crept in— this wasn't some locked dungeon under a steel grate, but something else: calculated. Familiar. Lived-in.
The smell of paper still hung faintly in the air. The bookshelves towered around us, unevenly filled—some packed tight, others left half-empty, like they'd been picked through for something.
It wasn't like this earlier.
I glanced around quickly. "Where's my stuff?"
Dolores didn't look at me. "Mother disposed of it. Same with your shoes."
He paused in the hallway, hardwood floor squeaking against the still night, then said flatly,
"Also... my parents are behind the missing persons cases."
Of course they were.
"... They're racist?" I asked, before wincing. "Sorry. Dumb question."
"The majority of the missing victims are from marginalized groups, aren't they?" His voice was tired. "So, yes. But it's not out of hate. My mom has a PhD in sociology. She's written policy papers. Advocated for women of colour in academia. My dad used to give speeches at human rights panels. They taught me what right and wrong was, then treated it like an old costume they could take off. Or, maybe they were lying from the start..."
He looked away, jaw clenched. The shadows along the house seemed to deepen with each word, the silence pressing in like cotton stuffed between the walls. A small framed photo near the wall was crooked— of Dolores' mother standing next to the father in a suit, eyes too bright, smiles too wide. Had it always been there?
He looked past me, at the picture frames on the other side: his mother smiling beside other women, his father holding certificates. The edges of the photos had gathered dust.
"My parents," I said, trying to laugh. "Mine don't even try to hide it. Walking stereotypes. Fox News, White Jesus, the works."
Dolores let out a small cough. "Condolences. If it helps, I'd like to remind you you're adopted."
I laughed— a weird, shaky sound that shouldn't have existed in that house. My ribs hurt, but it felt like the first normal thing I'd done in hours.
I saw him smile faintly at the sound before it disappeared like fog under sunlight.
"They moved us here on purpose," he continued. "From New York. Said this town's history made it the 'perfect testing ground'. My dad's a pretty renowned scientist. Specializes in gene modification. His lab's downstairs— various people come and go often. That's where the missing go. They knew targeting marginalized groups would have the police brushing disappearances under the rug."
Dolores' expression barely moved, but there was a tightness around his eyes now. "I'm sorry. I know this is a lot to take in." Not anger, exactly. Something colder.
"That explains the money," I muttered.
"He gets a lot of funding. Private donors, mostly. Some government. And... there are people higher up— networks."
My stomach turned.
"... What does he make?"
Dolores hesitated. "The kind of things you see in hero movies. Modified humans. And most of them work, I think."
I felt disconnected, like my thoughts were running ahead of me. I wanted to go back in time a few hours. Networks?! Could there still be a possibility this is some messed-up prank?
Even if I get away from this house, I could be very easily 'silenced'.
... There's a growing feeling in my gut that this is genuine.
I just woke up from being drugged a few minutes ago, and now I'm getting an information dump. God, I'm nauseous.
Dolores didn't say anything further. Maybe he didn't know what to say.
I wanted to ask more. About the experiments. About whether Dolores hated him, feared him, or both. But before I could—
CRASH!
A thunderous noise echoed from the floor below. The house shook. Something splintered in the walls.
Instinctively, Dolores pulled me close and pressed a hand over my mouth. We froze, listening.
Slow. Deliberate. Footsteps on the stairs— heavy, dragging, echoing. The sound travelled in a way it shouldn't have, like it didn't belong in this world.
We crept to the top of the staircase and positioned ourselves at an angle where we could see without being seen.
The hallway seemed longer now— distorted, as if stretched slightly. The shadows curved unnaturally around the railing.
I risked a glance. My heart flipped.
What I saw was not human.
A thing— gaunt and skeletal, mouth stretched into a grotesque grin— moved slowly across the floor. Its teeth looked filed down, exposed in a glassy smile that split nearly to its ears. Skin clung to bone like plastic wrap dried under heat.
Its limbs twitched at odd intervals, like strings were being pulled out of sync. A faint halo shimmered above its head like light refracted through dirty glass.
It left footprints. But the floor behind it was wet— slick with something that wasn't blood, but close.
"What the f—?" I choked out, barely above a whisper, "One of your dad's?"
"No," Dolores said, eyes locked forward. "They don't look like that."
Then he grabbed my wrist and pulled me away, fast and silent. We ducked into a room just off the library.
It was a bedroom— massive, luxurious. A velvet chaise lounge. Ornate dressers. A vanity with lights around the mirror, dimmed to a soft glow. The perfume in the air was faint, but floral and cloying, like lilies left too long in a vase.
"My parents' room," he said simply.
He approached a tall bookshelf, hands moving fast now, and scanned it.
"Another hidden passage?" I asked.
"Yeah." He pulled a book from the second-farthest row and pressed something behind it.
With a low mechanical sound, the entire shelf shifted sideways, revealing a steel-plated elevator.
I stared. "Just how much money does your dad get?"
"At least a few million yearly," he said, stepping inside.
Few and million shouldn't be in the same sentence.
He motioned for me to enter first, then shut the door behind us. As the bookshelf reset, the elevator began its slow descent. The hum of the machine was dull and constant. The air felt colder here— refrigerated, almost.
"Wait... why the basement?"
"It's safer. There's no way to leave the house without passing the main floor during the day, and that thing is in the way. So for now, the basement's our only option. I was going to sneak you out since my mom is currently asleep."
"Oh. Okay." I exhaled. "You sure you know what you're doing—?"
"I've been down there a few times," he interrupted. His voice had went up half an octave.
He blinked. Once. Twice. Then looked anywhere but at me.
"... You're a bad liar," I said. "Like. Impressively bad."
He flinched. "... I've only been to the outer sections."
"... Wow. Zero pressure and you folded in under five seconds."
"I didn't want to worry you," he mumbled, ears red with shame and eyebrows furrowed.
"You didn't not worry me," I shot back— but smiled a little.
Silence follows, and underneath lies the pressure of the monster's existence. What exactly was that?
Hah, It's one thing after another...! My brain is tired and despite the adrenaline rushing through my veins, I wish to rest and return to a normal state of mind.
The elevator doors opened to a dim corridor lined with LED lights embedded in the floor. Pale and sterile. Ahead of us was a heavy, vault-like door with a control panel beside it. To the right, a plain wooden door.
Dolores walked to the latter.
"We'll stay here for now."
"What's in there?"
"Backup office, designed for overnight work. It's stocked— water, snacks. Emergency supplies. Everything we need."
"... What if that thing finds us?"
He shook his head. "The lower levels past the lab are different. Meant to restrict outsiders. But if we need to... I can get us into the deeper sections."
"You do know how to open that big vault door, right?"
"Yes." He hesitated. "But I don't want to unless necessary."
I followed him into the office. It was cold and quiet. The floor was polished concrete, and the ceiling hummed with high fluorescent lights.
Not a lab. Just an office. Unremarkable— but quiet. A kind of eerie calm, like we were sealed inside a waiting room at the end of the world.
Dolores handed me a blanket, "Try to lie down."
.
.
.
.
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