Chapter 3

The figure was gone. The broken window above the altar stood empty, the night sky beyond it a patch of black.

'Did you see who it was?' I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

Harding shook his head, his eyes fixed on the window. 'Too dark. But they knew we'd be here. They left the note, the key—they wanted us to meet.' He turned to me, his gaze hard. 'And you have a basement full of bodies, Mr. Bethany. That's a detail you neglected to mention when I arrived.'

'I was going to tell you.' The lie tasted bitter on my tongue.

'When? After the bodies started walking?' He pocketed the matchbook and moved toward the altar. 'We need to search this place. Whoever that was, they might have left something behind.'

I followed him, my lantern casting long shadows across the stone floor. The chapel was small, with a single aisle leading to a raised dais. Pews lay overturned, their wood rotting. Dust motes danced in the light. The altar itself was a slab of marble, cracked and stained. A single brass candlestick stood where the candle had been—now cold.

Harding knelt, running his fingers over the stone. 'There's a draft here.' He pressed on a section of the floor, and a low grating sound echoed. A section of the floor slid open, revealing a narrow staircase descending into darkness.

My breath caught. 'The subterranean passage. My grandfather's notes mentioned it.'

'Your grandfather?' Harding looked up at me, suspicion in his eyes. 'What else did his notes say?'

'That it connected the old wing to this chapel. But he never explained why it was built, or what it was used for.' I hesitated. 'I only found the reference tonight.'

Harding stood, brushing dust from his knees. 'Then let's see where it leads.' He took a small torch from his coat and lit it, the flame casting a fierce glow. 'Stay behind me.'

We descended into the passage. The stairs were steep and slick with moisture. The air grew cold, carrying the smell of earth and something metallic—blood, perhaps. The passage was narrow, forcing us to walk single file. Harding's torch illuminated rough stone walls, carved with symbols I didn't recognize.

'These marks,' I said, pointing. 'They look like old property boundaries. But I've never seen them on any map.'

'Maybe they're not meant to be seen.' Harding's voice echoed. 'Someone went to great lengths to hide this place.'

We walked for what felt like ten minutes, the passage curving slightly. Then it opened into a small chamber. In the center stood a wooden table, and on it lay a leather-bound journal. A single oil lamp sat beside it, unlit.

Harding approached cautiously, shining his torch around the room. There were no other exits. 'This is where they wanted us to come.' He picked up the journal and opened it. The pages were yellowed, the handwriting cramped and spidery.

I leaned in. 'That's my grandfather's hand. I recognize it from the estate records.'

Harding read aloud, his voice low: '"I have documented the passage and its purpose. The bodies are not the first to lie beneath this house. They will not be the last. The cartographer's secret is not a treasure—it is a curse. Beware the one who holds the map, for they hold the key to the abyss."'

He looked at me, his expression unreadable. 'Your grandfather knew about the bodies. He may have even been involved.'

'No.' I shook my head, but doubt gnawed at me. 'He was a good man. He wouldn't—'

'People are capable of many things, Mr. Bethany.' Harding closed the journal. 'This changes things. I need to see that basement. Now.'

I nodded, my mouth dry. We retraced our steps, climbing back into the chapel. The night air was a relief after the oppressive passage. But as we emerged, we found that the chapel door was now closed—and locked from the outside.

Harding tried the handle, then slammed his fist against the wood. 'We're trapped.'

'There must be another way out.' I looked around, my heart racing. The windows were too high, the walls too thick.

Then I heard a familiar voice from outside. 'Jisoo? Are you in there?'

Seraphina. I called out, 'Yes! The door's locked. Can you open it?'

A moment of silence, then the sound of a key turning. The door swung open, revealing Seraphina holding a lantern, her face pale. 'I woke up and you were gone. I followed your tracks.' She looked past me at Harding, her eyes widening. 'Detective? What's going on?'

'That's what I'd like to know.' Harding stepped out, his gaze sweeping the grounds. 'Who else knows about this chapel?'

'No one,' I said. 'Except whoever left the note.'

Seraphina's expression hardened. 'Arthur Pendelton. He was lurking around earlier. I saw him heading this way just before I found you.'

Harding's jaw tightened. 'Then we need to find him. But first, show me that basement.'

I led them back to the old wing, my mind churning. The journal, the passage, the figure—everything was connected. But how? And why had my grandfather written such ominous words?

When we reached the floorboard, I pried it up again. The smell was stronger now, or perhaps I had grown more sensitive to it. Harding descended without hesitation, his torch illuminating the pile of bodies. He moved among them with a practiced calm, examining faces, checking for any identifying marks.

'These people have been dead for weeks, maybe months,' he said. 'But they're not all from the same time. Some are older, their decomposition more advanced.' He pointed to a woman in a tattered dress. 'This one—I recognize her. She went missing three months ago. Her family reported it.'

'So these are the missing persons,' Seraphina said, her voice tight. 'All of them.'

Harding nodded. 'I've been tracking a pattern. People vanishing from towns within a fifty-mile radius. No leads, no suspects. Until now.' He looked at me. 'Your estate is at the center of it. And you found the bodies. That makes you a person of interest, Mr. Bethany.'

'I didn't kill them,' I said, my voice cracking. 'I only found them.'

'That's what they all say.' Harding's tone was flat. 'But I'm willing to give you the benefit of the doubt—for now. We have a common enemy: whoever left that note, whoever's been using this chapel and this passage. We work together, or I arrest you for obstruction.'

I had no choice. 'Agreed.'

Seraphina stepped forward. 'I'm coming too. I have contacts in the city, resources. And I don't trust you two to share information.'

Harding sighed, but nodded. 'Fine. But if either of you step out of line, I'll lock you both up.'

We climbed out of the basement, and I covered the floorboard again. As I straightened, I noticed a piece of paper pinned to the wall near the door. I pulled it free.

It read: 'You have one week to leave the estate and never speak of what you saw. If you stay, you will join them. – A Friend.'

The handwriting was the same as the first note.

I showed it to Harding and Seraphina. Harding's face darkened. 'They're watching us. They know we've found the bodies.'

'Then we need to move fast,' Seraphina said. 'Before they destroy the evidence.'

Harding pocketed the note. 'First, we find Arthur Pendelton. He's the only lead we have.'

We left the old wing and stepped into the garden. Dawn was breaking, painting the sky in shades of gray. The estate looked peaceful, but I knew better now. Beneath its tranquil surface lay a secret that stretched back generations.

And somewhere in the shadows, a friend—or an enemy—was waiting to see if I would keep silent.

I would not. I had maps to read, a journal to decipher, and a mystery to solve. The cartographer's secret would be mine to uncover, no matter the cost.