
24/03/2025
THE SERPENT'S SHADOW: WHERE TRUTH HIDES IN THE DARK
CHAPTER 4: THE WEB OF LIES
The phone tumbled from Elizabeth's grip, its screen fracturing like the carefully constructed illusion of her marriage. That mechanized warning still coiled around her thoughts: You've put yourself in danger. She pressed her nails into her palms until crescent moons bloomed on her skin—the only pain she could trust. The grandfather clock's chime vibrated through the floorboards. 2 AM. Charles should have been asleep.
Then—the deliberate cadence of his oxfords on hardwood. "...not a problem... handled." His muffled voice slithered up the stairs. "The subject is contained."
Elizabeth counted thirty strained breaths before making a move. Her bare feet met icy hardwood, each step sending jolts up her calves. The study door stood ajar, moonlight carving a blade of silver across the floor. Swirling dust motes danced like ghosts of disturbed secrets.
Bourbon and the tang of aged paper choked the air—Charles's signature scent now laced with something medicinal beneath. Her pendant swung forward as she bent over the desk, the gold snake's emerald eyes glinting mockingly. Charles's anniversary gift. Had it always looked so much like the serpent emblem now staring up from the keycard?
The metal was corpse-cold. When she wiped her suddenly damp upper lip, her fingers came away scarlet. A nosebleed? The last one happened when she... no, the memory dissolved like smoke. But not before she caught flashes: white coats, the bite of rubber straps, a scream that might have been hers.
The intake form's clinical language curdled her stomach:
- PATIENT NAME: Lena T.
- ADMISSION DATE: Three weeks ago (the weekend Charles "visited his mother")
- TREATMENT CODE: SP-SERIES (Serpent Protocol)
- NOTES: "Subject exhibits resistance to memory-modification procedures. Recommend Stage 3 intervention."
In the margin, Charles's handwriting: "See what happened to 041 when she resisted. L.T. will comply."
A floorboard shrieked behind her. The air shifted, thick now with sandalwood and something beneath it—formaldehyde? Antiseptic? The scent of Blackwood.
"Looking for something, darling?"
Charles leaned against the doorframe, swirling his bourbon clockwise—always clockwise—the ice clinking like bones in a jar. Moonlight transformed his cufflinks into living serpents poised to strike. The amber liquid matched exactly the vials in Lena T.'s photograph.
He took a slow sip. "Or should I call you Subject 043?"
Somewhere in the house, water dripped. A steady plink... plink... plink from the ensuite bathroom. Except when she'd passed it, the sink had been bone dry.
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