Silas Ward hadn't slept in three nights. His eyes were bloodshot, hands trembling as he sat on the basement steps, staring at the floorboards like they were breathing. Every creak echoed in his skull. Every groan carried voices.
He muttered to himself, rocking back and forth. "It's not buried… it's not buried… they know… they all know…"
Naomi came down quietly, her silhouette framed in the dim light. "Kid, you're burning yourself out. Nobody knows. Not yet."
Silas's head snapped up, eyes wild. "You don't hear it? The scratching? Like something's clawing from underneath?"
Naomi exhaled smoke, shaking her head. "That's guilt, Silas. Guilt's louder than ghosts."
But Silas wasn't listening. He grabbed the crowbar again, slamming it against the wood, prying at the boards with frantic strength. "I have to check! If it's still there, if it's—"
Ezra stormed down, ripping the bar from his hands, slamming him against the wall with a snarl. "You open that floor one more time, and I'll put you under it!"
Silas screamed, shoving him back, his voice breaking. "We're already under it! All of us! Don't you see? We're not burying money—we're burying ourselves!"
The house seemed to groan in agreement, a long, low moan through the beams.
Hollow appeared at the top of the stairs, cigarette ember glowing, his eyes empty. He didn't yell. He didn't even raise his voice. "Then maybe it's time we bury the weak link before he buries us."
Silas froze, his chest heaving, sweat pouring down his face. He realized in that moment it wasn't the house that was going to kill him.
It was them.