Eric's Memento

The air in the grand foyer of Blackwood Manor had turned frigid, a biting cold that had nothing to do with the autumn chill outside. It seeped into their bones, raising gooseflesh on their arms despite the layers of clothing they wore. Thomas, usually the first to crack a joke or charge ahead, found himself rooted to the spot, his bravado faltering. Joe, ever the skeptic, was scanning the ornate, dust-laden ceiling with a frown, his usual sarcastic quips replaced by a tense silence. Al was practically vibrating with fear, his eyes darting wildly from one shadowed corner to another, a soft whimper escaping his lips. Gabe, despite the palpable dread, still held his phone aloft, his face illuminated by the screen in a desperate attempt to capture something, anything, that would validate his belief.

But it was Eric, the quiet pragmatist, who seemed to be the most affected. He stood a little apart from the others, his usual calm demeanor replaced by a grim determination. His gaze was fixed on something unseen, his knuckles white as he clenched his fists. The oppressive silence was suddenly broken by a guttural moan that seemed to emanate from the very walls of the house, a sound so filled with anguish it made Al yelp and stumble back into Joe.

"What was that?" Al stammered, his voice barely a whisper.