The house loomed large and cold against the dying light of a November evening. In this place, the light always seemed to fail a little earlier than anywhere else.

Nestled deep in the woods, Ashbourne Manor felt like a relic from another time, forgotten by the world, clinging to its secrets like ivy crawling up the cracked stone walls.

Inside, the air was heavy. Silent. The kind of silence that made the floor creak under the weight of anticipation rather than footsteps.

Seven of us were there---seven people with blood on our hands, or so we believed. But none of us could be sure. The truth was buried under layers of fear, and none of us wanted to unearth it.

The body lay upstairs, in a bedroom cloaked in shadows, the door locked now from the outside. It was the kind of thing you read about in novels or watch unfold in movies. But none of us were actors. None of us had practiced our lines for this.

There was no script to follow.

Just silence.

And dread.

It had been Harriet who found her. Poor Amelia, still dressed in her evening gown, her blonde curls matted to her scalp with blood. Her eyes wide open, as though she had never seen it coming. None of us knew how long she'd been lying there before Harriet screamed and we all ran upstairs.

Harriet had screamed first, but each of us had felt it at the same time. That pang of guilt, that gnawing sense that somehow, in some way, we were responsible. And then came the whispers. No one voiced them, but we all heard them---those insidious thoughts that crept in like fog through the cracks.

It was me.

I did it.

Not consciously, no. But maybe, somehow, each of us had played a part. Each of us had secrets, things we wanted to hide, things that could make us killers in the right light.

We hadn't called the police. That was our first mistake. We agreed to keep it quiet until we could figure out what to do. Or at least, that's what we told each other.

In truth, none of us wanted to risk being blamed for something we weren't entirely sure we didn't do.

***

It is night now, and the seven of us sat around the long dining table, staring at the plates of untouched food in front of us. The fire in the hearth crackled and spat, casting long shadows on the walls. Every crack in the fire felt like it could snap someone’s resolve, and none of us dared to speak first.

Gareth finally broke the silence. His voice was tight, strained. "We need to talk about this."

The rest of us exchanged glances. No one wanted to meet his eyes. The heavy weight of unspoken guilt hung over the room like a shroud.

"We can't keep her up there," Harriet whispered, her voice trembling. "We have to do something."

Samantha, ever calm, folded her hands on the table, but her knuckles were white. "We can't just rush into things. We need to figure out what happened first."

"What happened is, she's dead," Ethan snapped. His voice had a sharp edge, the kind that hid fear behind anger. "And one of us did it."

I shifted in my chair, the wood groaning beneath me. My mind kept replaying the evening, the dim lighting, the conversations, the laughter. Hadn't we all been there, just enjoying the night like any other gathering?

But something must've gone wrong.

Amelia had been arguing with someone. I couldn't remember who.

"We can't accuse each other," I said, trying to keep my voice steady, though I could feel the suspicion twisting inside me. I could see it in their eyes too. "Not until we know."

Harriet's gaze darted to mine, wide and frightened. "But what if we already know?"

I wanted to tell her she was wrong, but the truth was, I didn't know what I knew anymore.

***

Hours dragged by, and the fire had burned low, casting flickering light that barely reached the corners of the room. We'd spread out across the house, avoiding each other, trying to pretend that we weren't trapped here with the weight of Amelia's death pressing down on us.

I found myself standing by the window, staring out into the black woods that surrounded the manor. I wondered if we could just leave. Pretend none of this had happened. But then I thought about Amelia's body upstairs, cold and still, and my stomach twisted. We couldn’t run from this.

Footsteps approached behind me, and I tensed. I didn't turn around.

"You think it's me, don't you?"

It was Harriet's voice, quiet but accusing. I could hear the tremor in it, the doubt.

"I don't know what to think," I said, keeping my eyes on the dark forest. "None of us do."

She let out a shaky breath. "But you feel it, don't you? Like ... like you could've done it without even knowing."

I turned to look at her, and the fear in her eyes mirrored my own. "Yeah," I admitted. "I feel it."

She hugged herself, shivering though the room wasn't cold. "I didn't mean to find her. I just … I just went upstairs to grab my scarf, and there she was."

A part of me wanted to comfort her, to tell her that none of this was her fault.

But I couldn't.

Not when I felt the same weight of guilt settling in my chest.

"I don't think it was you," I said instead. It wasn't entirely true, but it wasn't entirely false either.

Harriet swallowed hard, nodding slowly. "I don't think it was you either."

But neither of us sounded convinced.

***

As the night wore on, the house seemed to grow darker, colder, as though it were closing in on us. The others had retreated to their rooms, and I couldn't help but wonder what they were thinking. Each of us carried our own burden, our own suspicion, and none of us trusted the other.

I wandered the halls, restless, trying to piece together the fragments of the night. I replayed every conversation, every glance, every movement in my head, but it was all a blur. At some point, I found myself standing outside Amelia's room. The door was still locked, but that didn't stop the cold dread from seeping under the wood and into my bones.

I stared at the door for what felt like hours, my heart pounding in my chest. And then, for reasons I couldn't quite explain, I reached for the key in my pocket.

We'd locked the room after we found her, but I'd kept the key. I wasn't sure why. Maybe because I didn't trust anyone else to have it. Or maybe because, deep down, I don't trust myself.

I slid the key into the lock, my hand shaking. The door creaked open, and the darkness inside seemed to swallow me whole.

Amelia's body lay just as we'd left it, pale and still on the bed. Her blonde curls, once so bright and full of life, were matted with dried blood, her eyes half-open, staring blankly at the ceiling. I couldn't look away, even though everything in me screamed to run.

And then, I heard it.

A creak behind me.

Someone else was there.

I spun around, my heart in my throat, but there was no one.

Just the empty hallway stretching into darkness.

***

The next morning, we gathered in the parlor again. The tension was thicker than the day before, like a fog settling over us. No one had slept. The bags under our eyes told that much. We were all haunted by the same thing.

Samantha was the first to speak. "We need to call someone," she said, her voice hoarse. "This can't go on."

Ethan glared at her. "And tell them what? That we all think we did it? That we're covering up something we can't explain?"

Harriet shuddered. "We have to ... we have to figure it out. Before they get here. Before they start asking questions."

I looked around the room, at the faces of the people I had known for years, and I realized that none of us were who we thought we were anymore. We were strangers now, bound together by fear and guilt, each of us carrying the weight of a crime we weren’t sure we committed.

But one of us had. One of us had killed Amelia. And the rest of us were too scared to face the truth.

***

The hours dragged on, and we kept ourselves busy in futile ways. Gareth and Ethan paced the house, checking the windows and doors as though trying to make sure no one else could come in---or leave.

Samantha sat by the fire, her hands clenched tight in her lap, staring into the flames. Harriet stayed close to me, as if somehow being together would protect us from what we couldn’t admit.

It was Samantha who broke first.

"I can't do this anymore," she said suddenly, her voice shaking. "I can't ... I can't keep pretending I don't know."

We all turned to look at her, but she wasn't meeting anyone's gaze. She was staring at her hands, her face pale and drawn.

"I was upstairs last night," she whispered. "With Amelia. We argued. I didn't mean for it to go so far."

A chill ran through the room, and for a moment, none of us moved. The fire crackled softly, its warmth doing little to ease the growing tension in the air. We all stared at Samantha, waiting for her to continue, but she just sat there, her lips trembling as she pressed her hands together.

"What do you mean, go so far?" Gareth finally asked, his voice taut with apprehension. He took a step toward her, his eyes wide, searching for something---an explanation, perhaps, or maybe a way to relieve his own gnawing guilt.

Samantha inhaled sharply, her eyes still fixed on her hands, fingers white from how tightly they gripped each other.

"I---" She faltered, and her voice cracked. "We argued about something stupid. I don't even remember what it was. It got heated, and I … I pushed her." She finally looked up, tears brimming in her eyes. "I didn't mean to. It just happened so fast."

Harriet gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "You … killed her?"

Samantha shook her head violently, tears spilling over now. "No! She didn't fall, she didn't even stumble. She just … laughed. She laughed at me. Like I was pathetic." Her voice broke, the memory clearly tearing at her. "I stormed out. I left her alive, I swear. I didn't kill her."

The room fell silent again. For a moment, it seemed like Samantha might have confessed to the whole thing, but her words left more questions than answers.

If she had left Amelia alive, then what had happened after?

Who had finished what might have started with a push?

Ethan spoke next, his voice low, almost too calm. "Maybe you didn't kill her, but you started it. Maybe the next person who went up there found her in a state you didn't see. Maybe you were the last person to push her over the edge."

Samantha sobbed softly, but her words, her conviction---it felt real. She didn’t seem capable of finishing what she had started.

Harriet let out a shaky breath. "Then … who? Who went up after her?"

We all looked at each other, the firelight flickering in the background, and that same thought crept in, the thought that had been plaguing us from the beginning.

What if it was me?

I tried to think back to the night again, forcing my mind to sort through the jumble of memories. Amelia's laughter, soft conversations, the clink of wine glasses. But there was something else, something I had been ignoring, pushing to the back of my mind because I didn’t want to confront it.

I had gone upstairs.

It had been after the argument between Amelia and Samantha. I had followed Amelia, wanting to check on her, to make sure she was okay. But when I reached her room, I'd hesitated. Her door had been slightly ajar, and I could hear her on the phone, her voice sharp, angry.

She had been talking to someone, but I couldn't make out the words. The next thing I remembered, I was back downstairs, sitting at the table, pretending like nothing had happened.

I looked around the room again, meeting each of their eyes. Gareth's face was pale, drawn tight with anxiety. Ethan was pacing again, running a hand through his hair. Harriet sat frozen in her chair, wide-eyed. And Samantha was still sobbing quietly by the fire.

"I went upstairs," I blurted, the words leaving my mouth before I could stop them.

Every eye turned to me.

Harriet's voice was barely a whisper. "What … what do you mean?"

"I heard her on the phone. I didn't see her, but I heard her. She was talking to someone, arguing again. I … I didn't stay long. I left."

Gareth narrowed his eyes. "Who was she arguing with? Someone else was here?"

"I don't know," I said, shaking my head. "I couldn't make out the conversation."

Samantha wiped at her eyes, her voice hoarse. "So you didn't see anything? You don't know what happened after?"

"No." I paused, feeling the knot of uncertainty tighten in my chest. "But what if she was talking to one of you?"

Harriet shook her head frantically. "No, I swear, I didn't talk to her after you all went upstairs. I didn't---"

"None of us talked to her," Ethan interrupted, his voice hard. "No one else was up there after that."

But we all knew that couldn't be true.

The sound of footsteps above us broke the tense silence. We all froze, our eyes darting to the ceiling. The footsteps were slow, deliberate, and unmistakably real. Someone was still here.

Harriet clutched the arm of her chair, her eyes wide with terror. "Amelia?"

"No, it's not …." Gareth's voice faltered, but he couldn't finish the thought. He didn't need to.

Ethan was the first to move, rushing toward the stairs. "We need to see," he muttered, more to himself than to us.

The rest of us followed, hesitant but unable to resist the pull of whatever---or whoever---was upstairs. The air was thick with tension as we ascended the staircase, the old wood creaking beneath our feet.

At the top of the stairs, the hallway stretched out before us, dark and silent. Amelia's door was still closed. No one dared to move.

"I'll go in," Gareth said quietly, his voice shaking. He stepped forward, hand reaching for the door. The key was still in the lock. With a deep breath, he turned it, and the door swung open.

The room was exactly as we had left it.

Amelia's body still lay on the bed, cold and unmoving. But now, standing at the foot of the bed, was a figure. Tall, shadowed, and unmistakably familiar.

"Dirk," Gareth whispered, his voice trembling.

Dirk---Amelia's estranged brother, who hadn't been invited, hadn't been seen. We had forgotten all about him, but there he was, standing over her body.

He turned to face us, his expression unreadable, eyes dark and wild. "You think I wouldn't come back for her?" he said, his voice low, dangerous.

Ethan stepped forward, fists clenched. "You killed her."

Dirk didn't answer right away. He just looked down at Amelia's body, a strange sadness crossing his features.

"No," he finally said. "But I'm here to make sure you all pay for what happened."

The weight of his words hung in the air, heavy with accusation. It was as if the truth we had been searching for all night was slipping through our fingers, dissolving in the cold, suffocating silence.

We had all felt guilty. We had all believed, on some level, that we were to blame. And maybe, in some twisted way, we all were. Our secrets, our lies, our fears---they had all led us here, to this moment.

But Dirk was the one who had been hiding in the shadows, waiting for his chance to strike.

The truth, like everything else in this house, was never going to be simple. None of us had committed the act with our own hands, but we had all played a part. And now, we would have to live with that.

As the morning light began to seep through the windows, dim and cold, I realized that the real punishment wasn't going to come from the outside. It was going to come from within.

We would never be able to leave Ashbourne Manor, not really. Not with the truth buried so deep in its walls.

And perhaps that was exactly what it wanted.

***

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