THE SILENT TRUTH
CHAPTER 1
“Mom? Dad?” I called out, my voice feeling too small for the silence that wrapped around me. My heart thudded in my chest. “This isn’t funny.”
The silence didn’t respond, but it felt... wrong. It wasn’t the usual quiet that settled around the house after dark. This one was thick, pressing down on me like the air had just changed.
I hesitated, my bare feet dragging against the cold hardwood floor. My eyes traced the dark streaks on the ground, the smear of it trailing down the hallway, leading to the room I was never supposed to enter.
It couldn’t be blood.I blinked rapidly, hoping it was something else, some terrible mess, some accident, maybe ink, paint. But my mind knew what it was, even if I refused to admit it.
“Guys?” I called again, trying to keep my voice steady, but my throat was tight. “This is definitely not halloween. If this is some stupid prank, I swear–”
But the blood trail just kept going, leading me toward my parents’ bedroom. The door was ajar, just a crack. Almost like it was waiting for me. The knot in my stomach twisted even tighter.
I reached for the door, hand trembling, and pushed it open.
Everything inside me froze.
There they were. My parents. Lying on the floor like broken dolls, their faces pale, too still, eyes closed in a way that didn’t look right. The carpet was soaked, dark stains creeping across the room, curling around the furniture like some twisted artwork.
And the marks. Deep, jagged gashes, like something had torn through them, claws shredding through skin.
I could barely breathe. The room felt suffocating, too small, like it was closing in on me. My knees gave way, and I hit the floor, the cold wood sharp under me. But I couldn’t feel it. My mind was too busy replaying what I was seeing. It didn’t make sense.
Who had done this? Why?
I looked around, still frozen in shock. No broken windows, no signs of forced entry. Nothing had been taken. But the blood… the blood was everywhere.
They weren’t looking for money. They weren’t looking for anything. Whoever–or whatever–did this was aiming at something else.
I should’ve screamed. Should’ve called someone. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t even move. Time felt like it was crawling, maybe hours passing, or maybe just minutes.
Then I heard it. The sirens. The distant wail of a police car – I didn't even know when or how I was finally able to make the call. But it sounded so far away, like it wasn’t meant for me.
When the officers finally arrived, everything blurred. They spoke to me, asked me questions I couldn’t answer. I barely heard them. A blanket was draped over my shoulders, and the cold of it snapped me out of the numbness long enough to stand. Long enough to walk away.
****
The rest of the week felt like a haze. I went through the motions of funeral arrangements, neighbors offering empty words, detectives who kept asking the same questions, getting nowhere.
There were no leads. No answers. Just questions, swirling in my head.
The worst part? They said it was like my parents had been murdered by a ghost. No prints, no clues, nothing.
But there was something more. Something in the way my parents had always acted. They were always so secretive, locking doors, whispering in corners, telling me to stay out of places that should’ve have been a problem. They called it “protecting” me. I called it “secrets.”
I didn’t cry. Not in front of anyone. Not really. But the grief–quiet, gnawing–kept eating at me, feeding on everything I didn’t understand.
Days stretched on. And I stayed. The house, empty without them, felt even more suffocating. It wasn’t just the silence. It was something else. The way the walls seemed to watch me. How the floors creaked, even when no one was there. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong, that I was being watched.
Sometimes, when I walked through the halls, I could almost hear footsteps behind me, just out of sync with my own. And every now and then, I’d catch a shadow in the corner of my vision, only to turn and find nothing.
It was madness, right? Grief messing with my head. That’s what I told myself. But it didn’t feel like that.
The finding of the journal came days later, after I finally worked up the nerve to go through their things. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular, just some explanation, some scrap of an answer to the questions gnawing at me. My hands were shaking when I found it–tucked away in a drawer, wrapped in a faded scarf, as though it was meant to be hidden.
I didn’t know what I expected when I opened it. A letter, maybe. A clue. Something to explain why everything had been so off, why they’d kept so many secrets.
What I found instead was a name: Raven’s Peak.
I stared at the words, feeling an unsettling chill crawl up my spine. Raven’s Peak. It meant nothing to me. I didn’t know why, but it felt like a sign, like the first real clue I had. The journal was filled with strange notes and cryptic references, but the name stood out. It was the only thing that made sense.
And I knew I had to go there. I had to. I felt it was the only way I could figure out what had happened. Why they had died. What had happened to me.
I couldn't tell anyone. The police, the neighbors, they all thought I was still in shock. They didn’t understand why I kept looking for answers when everyone else had moved on. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t just let it go.
I had a feeling Raven’s Peak was my only chance.
