THE ABANDONED HOUSE

Episode 6

Fractures

The town of Ashwood was small enough that news traveled faster than the morning paper. By sunrise, everyone knew Danielle Olivia was dead. Whispers followed Andrew and Jayson through the halls at school, eyes lingered on them with a mix of pity and morbid curiosity.

“She fell, they said.”

“From the stairs.”

“In the old house.”

Some voices lowered to a hush. Cursed place. Shouldn’t have gone there. Should’ve known better.

Andrew sat through his classes without hearing a word. Every scribble of chalk, every scrape of chairs, was drowned out by the sound of Danny’s scream in his head. The teachers offered their condolences, but their words slid past him, meaningless.

At lunch, Jayson slumped across the table, his tray untouched. “I can’t eat,” he muttered, staring at the tabletop. “Every time I close my eyes, I see her. The way she…” He stopped, swallowing hard.

Andrew nodded faintly. He didn’t need the words. The image lived in him too, burned into the inside of his skull.

Across the cafeteria, students glanced at them. Some with pity, some with the cruel spark of gossip. Andrew clenched his fists under the table. Danny had hated pity. She would have hated being talked about like a ghost story.

“She didn’t deserve this,” he whispered.

“No one does,” Jayson said, his voice raw.

Andrew hesitated, then lowered his voice further. “What if it wasn’t just… an accident?”

Jayson’s eyes flicked up, sharp with fear. “Don’t. Don’t start that.”

“You saw how she fell.”

“I saw rotten wood,” Jayson snapped. “You heard the cops. Place is falling apart.”

Andrew leaned closer. “Then why did it feel… wrong?”

Jayson stared at him for a long moment, then pushed back from the table, shaking his head. “I can’t do this. Not now.”

Andrew watched him walk away, the distance between them suddenly heavier than the whole room.

That evening, Andrew walked to the Olivia estate. The gates stood open, but the air felt heavier than ever. A black wreath hung on the door.

Inside, the house was hushed, as though grief itself had settled into the walls. Mr. Olivia sat in the study, slumped in a leather chair, his hands covering his face. His glass of whiskey sat untouched on the desk.

Andrew lingered in the doorway. “Mr. Olivia?”

The man looked up, his eyes bloodshot, his face gray. “Andrew,” he rasped. “I’m sorry you had to see her… like that.” His voice broke, and he pressed his hands to his face again.

Andrew stepped inside, unsure what to say. He had never seen the man look so small, so fragile.

Behind him, the sound of heels clicked against the marble floor. Mrs. Olivia entered, dressed in black silk, her expression composed, her movements precise.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said gently, but the edge in her tone was unmistakable. “The family needs space.”

Andrew’s throat tightened. He wanted to shout at her, to demand why her eyes were dry, why her voice sounded more polished than pained. But Mr. Olivia’s broken figure kept him silent.

“I just… wanted to say goodbye,” Andrew murmured.

Mrs. Olivia’s lips curved, but it wasn’t a smile. “Then say it quietly.”

That night, Andrew stood outside the abandoned house again. The police tape fluttered across the doorway, stark yellow in the moonlight.

He knew he shouldn’t be there. He knew he should be home, asleep, trying to forget. But his feet had brought him back, as though the house itself pulled at him.

He stared at the broken staircase inside, its shadowed frame looming through the cracked doorway.

It had killed her, they said. The rotten wood, the years of decay. But standing there, Andrew couldn’t shake the feeling that the house had only been the stage.

Someone else had written the script.

And he swore he would find out who.