The mansion in Savannah Georgia loomed like a monument to misplaced wealth, all white columns and iron balconies that caught the moonlight like polished bone. Night after night it sat in regal silence, a silence so deep that it felt like a presence of its own, a cold sentry guarding secrets that no one living there seemed willing to face. Antique lamps glowed in the corridors, struggling to chase away the chill that slithered along the baseboards. Their light flickered as if nervous.

In the servants wing, Janessa Bloom was polishing a set of silver trays when a sound cut through the stillness, a sound that felt like it pierced her ribs. It was the cry of a child. Not the startled squeak of a nightmare or the loud call of a tantrum. It was a raw wail, soaked in sorrow, echoing through the echoing hallways like a lament, as if the mansion itself were mourning through him.
Janessa dropped the cloth without thinking and hurried toward the south corridor, her shoes clacking against the marble. She passed towering mirrors framed in gold that distorted her reflection as she rushed, making her look fragmented. Like a ghost fleeing from her own fear. Her shadow trembled ahead of her, stretched by the tall columns and trembling chandeliers that lined the ceiling.

The cry came again. Louder. Closer. It made her skin crawl.
At the end of the hallway, near the door that led to the east drawing room, she found him. A little boy about seven years old sat curled on the cold floor, knees pulled to his chest. His name was Cody Bram, and he was the only child of the mansion’s owner.