CHAPTER 8: THE FINAL WARNING
1180 Words
Three days had passed since the ruthless and cold-blooded murder of Gustavo Delos Santos. Inside their grand and luxurious mansion, an overwhelming silence loomed, suffocating every corner of the house. The once-vibrant home, filled with warmth, laughter, and love, now felt empty and lifeless. It was as if the very walls grieved alongside the family, mourning the loss of its patriarch. The air that passed through the tall, arched windows carried with it an eerie stillness, as though whispering the sorrow of those left behind.
The servants moved cautiously, their voices hushed, their footsteps deliberately quiet, as though any loud noise might shatter the fragile illusion of normalcy. The house, which had once been a place of solace and security, now felt more like a mausoleum—cold, unwelcoming, and filled with unspoken fears.
Inside her dimly lit bedroom, Freya remained seated by the window, staring blankly outside. The world beyond continued to move—cars passed by, people walked on the streets, birds flew freely across the sky—but for her, time had seemingly stopped.
Clutched in her trembling hands was an old pocket watch, a cherished gift from her father. It was the last thing he had given her, a relic of the past that now felt heavier than ever. She traced her fingers along its intricate design, memorizing every ridge, every scratch, as if imprinting it deeper into her memory. The rhythmic ticking of the watch echoed in the quiet of the room, but with every passing second, she was transported back to that fateful night—the night that had mercilessly altered her life forever.
She could still hear the gunshot ringing in her ears. She could still see the blood pooling on the floor. She could still remember the look in her father's eyes—the shock, the pain, the silent goodbye.
She could not accept it.
She refused to believe that her father was truly gone.
But more than anything, she could not accept that Lysandra Suarez—a woman she had once regarded as a mere acquaintance, someone distant and unimportant—was the one responsible for this nightmare.
The very thought of it made her stomach churn, rage and grief intertwining so tightly that it left her breathless.
Meanwhile, in the farthest corner of the house, Carmen sat motionless in the living room, staring at nothing. Her normally poised and elegant demeanor had crumbled, replaced by a hollow shell of the woman she once was. She did not acknowledge the time of day, nor did she care to distinguish between morning and night. If the housekeepers had not insisted on bringing her food or checking on her well-being, she would have likely remained in the same spot indefinitely, lost in the abyss of her sorrow.
She barely ate, barely spoke, barely moved. It was as though life had abandoned her entirely.
Freya tried her best to care for her mother, but the burden was heavy—too heavy. Despite the overwhelming grief consuming her, her mind refused to rest.
They had to do something.
But what?
They had no solid evidence against Lysandra. There were no documents, no witnesses, nothing to definitively prove that she had coerced Gustavo into signing those papers. Justice felt impossibly out of reach, dangling just beyond their grasp.
And so, Freya remained trapped in her own thoughts, desperately searching for answers—until her phone suddenly rang.
The sharp sound startled her, pulling her from the depths of her despair.
Unknown number.
A shiver ran down her spine.
She hesitated, her finger hovering over the screen. Every instinct screamed at her to ignore the call, to let it go unanswered. But something—a gut feeling, a force beyond logic—urged her to pick up.
With a deep breath, she pressed the green button and raised the phone to her ear.
"Hello?"
For a moment, silence greeted her.
Then, a voice—low, chilling, and disturbingly familiar—spoke.
"Freya..."
Her breath caught in her throat.
Her body went rigid, the fine hairs on her arms standing on end.
"I know who you are," the voice continued, slow and deliberate. "I know what you’re thinking. I know you won’t stop until you uncover the truth."
A lump formed in her throat. "W-who are you?" she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper.
A sinister chuckle drifted through the line, sending an icy dread through her veins.
"I am someone who wants you to understand… that everything that happened to your father was planned long before it happened."
Her grip tightened around the phone. Her heart pounded painfully against her ribs.
"What?!"
"Gustavo is dead. But you… you’re next."
A sharp gasp escaped her lips. Her stomach lurched violently, as if the air had been knocked out of her lungs.
The walls of her room seemed to close in around her, suffocating her, drowning her in invisible hands of fear.
"If you value your life, walk away from this case."
Before she could respond, the call was cut off.
A hollow click was the only sound that remained.
The phone slipped from her fingers, crashing onto the floor with a dull thud.
Freya sat frozen, her mind racing.
There were no words to describe the sheer terror that clawed at her chest. Someone was watching them. Someone was lurking in the shadows, monitoring their every move.
And worse… the danger was far from over.
The Desperate Decision
That night, as the clock neared midnight, Freya could no longer ignore the overwhelming sense of dread creeping up her spine.
She had to act. She could not sit idly by and wait for whatever horror lay ahead.
Without wasting another second, she shot up from her bed and rushed toward her mother’s room.
The door creaked open softly as she stepped inside.
Carmen was still there, sitting on the edge of her bed, her back to the door. She had barely moved. Her posture was slouched, her shoulders heavy with invisible weight.
Freya swallowed, gathering the courage to speak.
"Ma, we need to leave this place," she said, her voice shaking but firm.
Slowly, Carmen turned her head. Under the dim glow of the bedside lamp, the deep exhaustion on her face was unmistakable. Her once vibrant eyes were dull, lifeless.
"What are you saying, my child?" she murmured weakly.
Freya clenched her fists. "Someone called me. They told me… we’re in danger. They said Lysandra isn’t done with us yet."
At the mention of that name, Carmen’s expression flickered with something—recognition, perhaps even a faint spark of fear.
She exhaled shakily, pressing a trembling hand to her chest. "Freya… what are we supposed to do?"
Freya inhaled deeply, steadying herself. Her own fear was a living, breathing entity inside her, but she could not afford to be paralyzed by it.
She had made up her mind.
They could not stay here.
They could not wait for Lysandra to make her next move.
Because if they did nothing, they would be the next ones to disappear.
- Writer
