The fever took the walls first.

They peeled. They curled. They smelled of wet chalk and old bone.

Elias stood in the center of the hall. He held a silver key. The key was cold. It bit into his palm. He did not let go.

The house breathed.

It was a large house. Stone. Dark. It sat on a hill in the Yorkshire moors. The rain hit the glass. The wind screamed. The house did not care. The house waited.

Elias looked at the door. The Great Door. It was black oak. It was twelve feet high. It was sealed.

He had come for his brother.

Thomas was inside.

Thomas was dead.

Or so the village said. Or so the letters said. The letters had stopped coming six months ago. The last one was a scrawl. *The walls are closing in. Do not come. I am safe. I am alone.*

Elias was not safe. Elias was not alone.

He was a sinner.

He had left. He had left Thomas in this house. He had left Thomas to the sickness. He had left him to the ghosts. He had run to London. He had run to the noise. He had run to the cheap wine and the cheaper women. He had told himself it was mercy. He had told himself Thomas would be better off alone with his madness.

That was the lie.

That was the sin.

The house shifted. The floorboards groaned. A sound like a knuckle cracking.

Elias moved.

He stepped over a pile of rubble. It was marble. It was from the staircase. It was gone now. The stairs were dust. The air was thick. It tasted of copper.

He walked fast.

His boots were wet. The water ran down his legs. It was ice. It was blood. He could not tell.

The hallway stretched. It was too long. It was too dark. The chandeliers hung broken. The crystals swung. They clicked. They ticked.

*Tick. Tick. Tick.*

The house kept time.

The house counted his steps.

He reached the second door. The library.

He pushed it.

It opened.

The room was full of books. They were piled on the floor. They were wet. The ink was running. The words were swimming.

*Thomas.*

He called out.

The name echoed. It bounced off the shelves. It came back to him changed. It was a hiss. It was a growl.

No answer.

Only the wind.

Only the rain.

He moved on.

The third door. The kitchen.

It was empty.

The pots hung from the hooks. They rang softly. The knives were on the rack. They were dull. They were rusted.

A chair sat in the corner.

It was tipped over.

Elias looked at it.

He remembered Thomas sitting there. Thomas eating soup. Thomas laughing. Thomas looking at him with eyes that were clear. Then, slowly, the clarity drained. The eyes went dark. The laughter stopped. The silence grew.

Elias had thought it was a curse.

He had thought it was a ghost.

He had been afraid.

Fear is a coward’s shield.

He kicked the chair. It skidded. It hit the wall.

He moved on.

The fourth door. The dining room.

The table was long. It was set for two.

There were plates.

There were glasses.

There was wine.

The wine was black. It had gone bad.

Elias sat down.

He did not know why.

His legs gave out.

He sat at the head of the table. The seat was cold. The wood was hard.

He looked at the other chair.

It was empty.

He looked at the glass in front of him.

It was full.

He drank.

It tasted of ash. It tasted of iron. It tasted of guilt.

He drank it all.

He wiped his mouth.

He stood up.

He had to find the room.

The room where Thomas was.

The room at the end of the corridor.

The room with the red door.

He walked.

The house resisted.

The floor tilted. The ceiling lowered. The air grew thin. He had to bend. He had to crawl.

He crawled on hands and knees.

The floor was slick. It was wet. It was warm.

He reached the red door.

It was small. It was narrow. It was barred.

The bar was iron. It was rusted. It was strong.

Elias looked at the key in his hand.

The silver key.

The key from his mother’s pocket.

The key he had stolen.

The key he had kept for ten years.

He put the key in the lock.

It did not fit.

He tried again.

It did not fit.

The lock was empty.

The lock was open.

The door was not locked.

It had never been locked.

Elias pulled the door.

It swung open.

The room was white.

It was blindingly white.

There were no walls. There was no floor. There was only light.

And in the light, there was a figure.

It was small.

It was hunched.

It was wearing a gray coat.

Elias stepped into the light.

The light burned.

It burned his eyes.

It burned his skin.

He did not stop.

He walked to the figure.

He knelt.

He put his hands on the shoulders.

The shoulders were hard. They were cold. They were stone.

"Thomas," Elias said.

The figure did not move.

The figure did not breathe.

The figure was a statue.

It was a statue of Thomas.

It was a statue of the boy Elias had abandoned.

The boy who had looked into his eyes and asked for help.

The boy who had been told to be strong.

The boy who had broken.

Elias touched the face.

The face was smooth. It was featureless. It had no eyes. It had no mouth. It had no nose.

It was a blank mask.

Elias wept.

The tears fell on the stone. They hissed. They evaporated.

"I am sorry," Elias said.

The word hung in the air.

It did not dissolve.

It stayed.

It hung between them.

It was heavy.

It was real.

The statue did not change.

The statue did not forgive.

The statue did not remember.

It was just stone.

It was just memory.

It was just the thing Elias had made of Thomas by leaving him.

The house groaned.

The light flickered.

The white began to fade.

The walls returned.

The floor returned.

The darkness returned.

The statue was gone.

The room was empty.

There was only a pile of ash in the center.

It was a small pile.

It was cold.

Elias stood up.

He looked at the key.

It was silver.

It was clean.

It was useless.

He put the key in his pocket.

He turned.

He walked back into the dark.

The house was silent.

The rain had stopped.

The wind was gone.

The house was still.

Elias walked to the Great Door.

He pushed it.

It opened.

The morning light hit him.

It was weak. It was pale. It was gray.

But it was real.

He stepped out.

The grass was wet.

The air was cold.

He breathed.

He breathed deep.

The pain was in his chest.

It was sharp.

It was there.

It would always be there.

He did not try to take it away.

He did not try to fix it.

He carried it.

He walked down the hill.

The village was in the distance.

The smoke rose from the chimneys.

The people were waking.

The day was starting.

Elias walked.

He did not look back.

The house stood on the hill.

It was dark.

It was empty.

It was waiting.

It would wait forever.

For the next sinner.

For the next ghost.

For the next lie.

Elias walked on.

The sun came up.

It was a small sun.

It was a cold sun.

It was a real sun.

He felt it on his face.

It was warm.

It was painful.

It was life.

He walked.

He did not stop.

He did not look back.

The house was behind him.

The past was behind him.

The guilt was with him.

It was a weight.

It was a stone.

It was a truth.

He carried it.

He would carry it forever.

But he walked.

He walked.

He walked.