BLOOD DOESN'T LIE

CHAPTER FOUR : BLOOD DOESN'T LIE

I waited until 2 AM.

The house was asleep.

My nerves were not.

I grabbed my laptop, my phone, and the small flashlight from under the sink.

Then I slipped into the hallway quiet, light on my toes, avoiding the floorboards that complained when stepped on.

The storage room door waited at the end of the west wing.

Dad had locked it.

He always locked it.

My hand trembled as I reached for the knob.

It shouldn’t turn. It couldn’t turn.

But it did.

Slowly. Smoothly.

And the door creaked open on its own.

My breath stilled in my chest.

The room beyond was pitch-black darker than any room should ever be.

Every instinct screamed: Don’t go in.

But something stronger… pulled.

So I stepped inside.

The room felt bigger than it was in daylight like the dark stretched it. Dust floated in the beam of my flashlight. Furniture piled along the walls like silhouettes hiding secrets.

Then my light landed on a stack of boxes in the corner.

ASHWOOD FAMILY RECORDS

My stomach dropped.

I knelt, ripped one open, and papers spilled out like a flood photos, letters, clipped articles, records.

The first picture I picked up nearly knocked the breath from me.

A young man. Dark hair. Sharp features. Standing in front of this house. Smiling like someone who expected life to be kind.

I flipped it over.

Gabriel Ashwood, 1924

My pulse tripped.

This was him before death, before the curse, before everything that burned him into a nightmare.

I kept digging.

Photos of Gabriel at business meetings. At charity events. Shaking hands with important men. Laughing.

Newspapers:

ASHWOOD HEIR EXPANDS BUSINESS – 1922

GABRIEL ASHWOOD DONATES TO ORPHANAGE – 1923

ASHWOOD FAMILY THRIVES – 1924

He had been successful. Loved. Respected.

Alive.

My chest tightened painfully.

What did they do to you?

I set the photos aside and searched another box.

This one was heavier.

I opened it and felt my stomach twist into a cold knot.

Newspaper clippings.

Dozens.

Different decades.

Different families.

All with one thing in common:

They died in this house.

1967 – Family of three, found deceased without explanation.

1985 – Couple and infant daughter dead; no signs of violence.

1998 – Family of four dead; medical examiner baffled.

2011 – Elderly couple dies within days of moving in.

Photo after photo.

Smiling families.

Bodies that would later be carried out of this house.

I pressed a hand to my mouth.

He’d done this for almost a century.

I opened one more box this time filled with religious items.

Old crosses.

Worn rosaries.

Small bottles labeled “Holy Water.”

Tattered vestments.

A thin prayer book fell open in my hand.

A page marked with frantic handwriting.

Day 1: Something watches me. Always.

Day 2: Whispers. Cold. This house is wrong.

Day 3: I must leave. My faith is not enough. Whoever finds this run.

The words shook. Broken. Desperate.

Just like the old woman’s warnings.

Tears blurred my vision.

We shouldn’t be here.

A soft sound behind me snapped my head up.

Nothing.

But the air had grown colder so cold my breath clouded.

“Hello…?”

Silence.

Then footsteps. Slow. Heavy.

Coming from deeper in the house.

My legs wanted to run.

My curiosity pulled me forward.

I followed the sound down the hall the burned hallway each step colder than the last.

The hallway stretched unnaturally long.

Like the house was changing around me.

At the end I reached it.

The burned spot.

A perfect black circle scorched into the wooden floor the place he died. The place his suffering started.

I knelt. Reached out. Touched it.

Cold seeped into my fingers not normal cold.

A wrong cold.

A cold full of memory.

The hallway groaned then a sudden blast of wind whipped through the space. Impossible wind, from nowhere.

“Gabriel!” I shouted over it. “I know what happened to you!”

Everything went still.

“I know they killed you. I’m sorry.”

Silence. Then—

Frost crawled across the walls.

My flashlight flickered.

“No—come on—”

It died.

Darkness swallowed me.

A breath not mine brushed the back of my neck.

I spun, heart slamming

Nothing.

But he was here. I could feel him.

“Gabriel, please—”

Suddenly objects ripped off the walls frames, books crashing around me.

Shadows twisted into shapes, faces screaming silently.

Then something cold clamped around my wrist real, solid. I yanked back, screamed, stumbled, hit the floor

And everything stopped.

Silence pressed against my ears.

Then the footsteps.

Heavy. Final.

Each one vibrating through the floor.

A shadow formed at the end of the hall.

Tall. Broad. Human.

But not.

It stepped closer, gaining shape a man but with his back to me.

He refused to face me.

“Please…” My voice cracked. “Don’t hurt us. We’re innocent.”

“Innocent?”

His voice was low. Rough. Filled with years of buried fire.

“Tell me, Amelia. What is your family name?”

“Miller.”

“Liar.”

The word shattered the air.

“I’m not lying! My name is Amelia Miller—”

“You are Ashwood.”

My heart stopped.

“What?”

“Your blood is Ashwood. Not Miller. You carry the name of the men who murdered me.”

“No my whole life our documents everything says Miller—”

“Names change. Blood does not.”

“I don’t understand—”

He turned.

Slowly.

And when he faced me, the breath left my lungs.

His face… some of it untouched, still holding the beauty he once had.

But the other side… scorched. Marked by fire. Not gory but enough to show the agony he’d endured.

Pain lived in every shadow of him.

He stepped closer.

“Your great-great-grandmother was Catherine Ashwood. Daughter of Thomas Ashwood the man who held me down while his brother drove the blade.”

I shook my head violently, tears spilling.

“No—no, that can’t be true—”

“It is.”

His voice softened not with kindness, but with exhaustion.

“You walk in the blood of my killers.”

“I didn’t know—”

“Ignorance is not innocence.”

“What do you want from us?!”

He stared at me his one dark eye burning like a storm.

“I want what I was denied. Peace. Life. Love.”

A broken breath escaped him.

“But since I cannot have them, I take what remains: fear. Pain. Blood.”

“Gabriel please let me help you. Let me get you justice—”

“They’re dead.”

A hollow ache lived in his tone.

“All of them.”

“Then what do you want?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he looked at me like he was searching for something in my face.

Finally he said quietly:

“Ask your father about Catherine. About Thomas. About the inheritance stolen with my blood.”

“My father doesn’t—”

“He knows.”

He stepped back. The shadows swallowed him.

“And when he lies to you… then we will see how long he lasts.”

His presence vanished.

The hallway exhaled.

The cold dissolved.

I lay there shaking, tears streaming, breathing like the air hurt.

We’re Ashwoods.

Everything is a lie.

I forced my legs to move, stumbled upstairs, locked myself in my room, and sat on my bed until dawn broke.

I didn’t sleep.

Couldn’t.

And the worst part?

I was falling for him.

The ghost who wanted my family dead.

The next morning..

Footsteps downstairs pulled me from my thoughts.

Dad in the kitchen.

I went down, heart pounding.

He turned when he saw me.

His face softened with worry.

“Amelia you look exhausted. Did you sleep?”

“No. I need to ask you something.”

“Okay…” He put his mug down, coming closer. “What’s wrong?”

I swallowed hard.

“Who was Catherine Ashwood?”

He blinked. Confused.

“Who?”

“Catherine Ashwood. Do you know her?”

“No. I’ve never heard that name.”

He frowned deeper. “Where is this coming from?”

“I found documents. In the storage room.”

“You were in there?” His voice tightened. “I locked that door.”

“It wasn’t locked.”

“That’s—” He stopped himself. “We’ll check it later. But Amelia, I don’t know anything about Ashwoods. Maybe a distant relative way back. I really don’t know.”

He cupped my face gently.

“Baby… something happened last night. I can see it.”

Tears burned my eyes.

But he couldn’t understand. He couldn’t see Gabriel. Couldn’t fight him.

“I’m okay,” I whispered.

He didn’t believe me.

But he didn’t push.

“I’m going to the hardware store,” he said softly. “Fix that porch step.”

“Be careful.”

Please.

He smiled, grabbed his keys, and left.

The door closed.

And the moment it did…

…the house seemed to breathe.

Slow. Cold.

Hungry.

Gabriel had heard everything.

Dad had denied the truth.

And now…

He was next.