The Rat King

Chapter 1

The Blackwood mansion stood like a titan of stone and shadow in the midst of the vast English countryside, its gray walls devoured by the passage of time and its tall windows reflecting the overcast sky like opaque glass eyes. The rain, constant and stealthy, slid down the panes, and the wind pushed forcefully against the trees in the extensive garden, making them creak in the night as if the earth itself protested under their weight. Isabela Suárez had never been impressed by big houses. She had worked in mansions before, in immaculate homes of wealthy people who barely noticed her presence, where everything was neat to the point of seeming unreal. But the Blackwood mansion was different. It had an ancient solemnity, one of those presences that cling to the walls of buildings that have seen too much and have stood for too long. It wasn’t the opulence of the furniture or the perfection of the ceiling moldings that made it special. It was the feeling of emptiness. Because in that house, despite its luxury, there was an absence. Something invisible, imperceptible, like a void in the air that grew denser as night fell. Isabela had been working for the family for three months. Mr. Richard Blackwood was a businessman with a deep voice and a hard gaze, someone who never raised his voice but whose disdain was palpable in every order he gave. His wife, Margaret, of Cuban origin but educated in England, had a cold elegance, a barely hinted smile, and a gaze that seemed to see through people without stopping on them. Then there was Henry, the couple’s son, a twenty-five-year-old young man with the indifferent attitude of someone who has grown up in a bubble of privilege and for whom maids are nothing more than part of the furniture. Isabela didn’t mind that. She didn’t expect more. She did her job, received her salary, and spent her nights in her small room on the ground floor, far enough from the main part of the house that, when she closed the door, she could feel detached from the family. But then the noises began. It was an October night when she first heard it. The rain was hitting her bedroom window, and the wind was howling fiercely, moaning through the cracks in the old wood, when a subtler, more intimate sound made her open her eyes in the dark. A scratch. A dry, brief scrape, as if something small was clawing at the inside of the wall right at the height of her head. Isabela held her breath. Her room was modest but comfortable: a bed with white linen sheets, a dark oak wardrobe, and a small table with a reading lamp. Everything was in order, silent. Only the sound of the rain and the wind… and that scratch. She tried to convince herself it was her imagination, that in an old house like that, with its thick walls and wooden floors, it was normal to hear creaks. Maybe it was the wind, maybe the wood expanding with the cold. But then the sound came again. More persistent. The scratch prolonged, as if tiny nails were tearing at the wood from the other side of the wall. A shiver ran down her back. She sat up slowly in bed, her heart pounding in her chest. She waited. Silence. For a long moment, the only sound was her own held breath. But just as she began to relax, the scratch returned, louder, more insistent, slowly moving along the wall, as if whatever was on the other side was following her. Isabela swallowed and turned on the bedside lamp. The yellowish light illuminated the room, casting long shadows on the walls, but nothing was out of place. —Don’t be silly… —she murmured to herself in Spanish, with a hint of annoyance in her voice. She got up, approached the wall, and placed her hand on the cold surface. Nothing. Just the smooth texture of the cream-colored wallpaper. She pressed her lips together and forced herself to ignore it. It was nothing. Just an old house making old house noises. She lay down again and, with some effort, managed to fall asleep. But the next morning, while cleaning the mansion’s library, something made her stop dead in her tracks. In the corner of the room, right where the baseboard met the polished wooden floor, there was a small pile of fine dust and plaster. And next to it, a tiny black pellet. Rat droppings. Isabela’s stomach turned. It wasn’t the first time she had seen rats in a big house, but in a mansion like that, where cleanliness was almost obsessive, there shouldn’t be any. And yet, there was the proof. She looked toward the shelves, the fireplace, the antique furniture. The place looked impeccable, but something was moving in its bowels. Pursing her lips, she picked up the small dropping with a handkerchief and went to find Margaret Blackwood. She found her in the house’s greenhouse, inspecting some orchids with a distracted air. The light filtered through the windows gave her pale face an almost ghostly tone. —Ma’am, I think there’s a problem in the house —Isabela said firmly, handing her the handkerchief with the small evidence. Margaret narrowed her eyes and observed the object on the white cloth without any expression. —And what is this? —Rat droppings. I found several in the library and heard noises last night. I think there’s an infestation. A slight frown on Margaret’s lips was the only visible reaction. —That’s impossible. —Ma’am, with all due respect… this isn’t normal. I— —Richard will take care of it. There’s nothing to worry about. Margaret’s tone was sharp. Without further explanation, she set the handkerchief aside and returned to her orchids as if the conversation had ended. But Isabela knew what she had heard the night before. And that night, when the scratching returned, louder, more insistent, she knew something was there. Something the Blackwood family didn’t want to see.

Chapter 2

The wind howled among the trees, dragging dead leaves and making the bare branches hit the mansion’s windows with an irregular cadence. The night had arrived with a penetrating cold, the kind that seeps through the cracks and clings to the bones. In the great hall’s fireplace, a lazy fire burned, barely enough to warm the air inside. Isabela finished cleaning the kitchen and turned off the last light before heading to her room. She didn’t want to. Since that first night when she heard the scratching in the wall, every evening had become an exercise in tension. She tried to ignore it, repeating to herself that it was nothing, that her mind was playing tricks on her. But what she had seen that morning in the library—the small rat dropping next to the pile of dust and plaster—was real. And if the rats were real, the noises were too. She walked down the hallway with firm steps, passing by the tall windows that looked out onto the backyard. In the darkness outside, the trees swayed like spectral figures under the dim light of the moon. Her own silhouette was faintly reflected in the glass, and for a moment, she felt the unsettling sensation that something else was there. A reflection that didn’t belong to her. She shook her head and quickened her pace. When she reached her room, she closed the door harder than necessary and leaned her back against it, letting out a long sigh. The room was small and simple, with plaster walls painted a dull ivory color. The bed was against the right wall, covered with a thick gray wool blanket. In front of it, a nightstand with a beige lampshade, and on one side, a dark wood wardrobe with an oval mirror embedded in one of its doors. Everything was in its place. Nothing had changed. And yet, the air felt different. Heavier. She walked to the bed and sat on the edge. She rubbed her hands, trying to warm up. Maybe she was tired. Maybe the work was affecting her more than she thought. But then she heard it. A viscous sound. A faint scratch tearing at the wood inside the wall, right at the height of her ear. Her heart skipped a beat. She remained still, her gaze fixed on the wooden floor. The noise continued. Something small—or maybe not so small—was moving behind the plaster, crawling with a sickening insistence. It slowly slid along the wall, pausing only to scratch the surface again. This time, there was no doubt. There was something there. Isabela swallowed and clenched her fists on her lap. She thought about hitting the wall, scaring away whatever was on the other side. But a part of her, a primitive part buried deep within her being, told her not to. Because if she hit the wall… maybe something would answer. The noise stopped abruptly. The silence that followed was absolute. Oppressive. A shiver ran down her back. She remained seated, unmoving, holding her breath. She looked at the wall. Then the floor. Then the door. Nothing. A full minute passed… two… three… She forced herself to breathe normally. Maybe the rat had moved on. Yes. That made sense. And yet, when she turned off the lamp and settled under the blankets, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching her in the dark. She woke up suddenly in the middle of the night. Something was on her chest. The weight was light, but enough to make her feel trapped. She opened her eyes, but the room was shrouded in shadows. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe. And then, she felt the touch of tiny paws on the fabric of her nightgown. Panic shot through her like an electric shock. She sat up abruptly and felt it move. Something escaped from her body and ran across the bed. Isabela screamed and turned on the lamp with a jerk. The light illuminated her room with a warm, trembling glow. Panting, she ran her hands over her chest and neck, shaking the fabric of her nightgown as if she could still feel it there. She looked around, her heart racing. Nothing. The sheets were wrinkled, disheveled from her agitation, but there was no trace of what had woken her. She got up, barefoot, and looked under the bed. Nothing. She ran to the wardrobe, opened the door with a sharp blow. Nothing. But when she turned toward the wall… …she saw it. Right in the corner of the room, near the baseboard, two tiny black eyes were watching her. A rat. Big. With rough, dark fur. A wet snout and whiskers twitching nervously. Isabela’s body tensed. A cold chill ran from the nape of her neck to the base of her spine. The rat didn’t move. It just stared at her. It wasn’t normal. Rodents usually fled when they noticed human presence, disappearing in a blink. But this one didn’t. It stayed there, motionless, its bony little body pressed against the wall, its tiny claws gripping the wood with an almost human grip. And the worst part wasn’t that… The worst part was the feeling emanating from the creature. There was something in its posture, in the fixity of its gaze, in the way the shine of its eyes seemed deep, intelligent. As if it were evaluating her. Isabela felt a tightness in her chest. She didn’t move. She didn’t breathe. She just watched it, with that unnatural intensity. And then, slowly, too slowly, the rat turned its tiny head, looking away from her. It showed her its left ear… and something made her hold her breath. Its ear wasn’t whole. It had been bitten. A piece of flesh was missing from its edge, as if another creature had attacked it, as if at some point the rat had been a victim of its own kind. Isabela felt a dull nausea. And just as she was about to take a step back, the rat slid along the corner of the floor and disappeared into a small hole between the baseboard and the wall. Isabela froze. She didn’t know how long she stood there, shivering from cold and fear. But in her mind, something was etched with fire. The rat wasn’t afraid of her. It was as if, instead of fleeing… it was waiting for something.

Chapter 3

Dawn arrived with a dull gray sky, covered by dense clouds that seemed to swallow the sunlight. Outside, the persistent drizzle slid down the tree leaves, soaking the grass and forming small puddles on the stone path leading to the main entrance of the Blackwood mansion. Inside the house, a tense silence reigned, barely interrupted by the occasional creak of aged wood or the distant sound of pendulum clocks marking the hours with a monotonous and solemn cadence. Isabela woke up with a numb body and the unpleasant sensation of not having slept at all. Her skin still bore the mark of the shiver that had run through her the night before when the rat stared at her from the corner of the room. That rat… with its mutilated ear and its almost human gaze. She sat up slowly, her muscles tense and her mind wrapped in a dense fog of exhaustion. The images from the previous night were still too fresh in her memory: the weight on her chest, the touch of tiny paws on her skin, the small animal watching her in the dark with unsettling calm. It wasn’t normal. None of it was. She rubbed her eyes and forced herself to stand. She couldn’t afford to show weakness. If Margaret saw her like that, with her pale face and dark circles under her eyes, she would probably assume she was sick and send her to rest. But Isabela didn’t want to rest. Not in that house. Not in that room. She dressed quickly and stepped into the hallway. The house was dim, with the morning light barely seeping through the thick velvet curtains covering the windows. The air had that characteristic scent of old houses: a mix of aged wood, varnish, subtle dampness, and the faint perfume of fresh flowers brought weekly from the greenhouse. She walked down the hallway with calculated steps, feeling the echo of her own movements on the polished wooden floor. Something about the Blackwood mansion made even the silence feel too dense, too aware. When she reached the kitchen, she found Margaret sitting at the breakfast table, distractedly stirring her tea with a silver spoon. The light from the lamp above the table cast soft shadows on her face, making her look even paler than usual. —Good morning, ma’am —Isabela said, forcing herself to keep her tone neutral. Margaret looked up and observed her for a moment before nodding slightly. —Good morning, Isabela. Did you sleep well? It was a polite question, without real interest. Isabela hesitated for a moment. On one hand, she knew Margaret wasn’t a particularly empathetic woman; talking to her about what had happened the night before probably wouldn’t do any good. But on the other hand… she couldn’t just ignore it. She took a breath. —Ma’am… last night I heard the noises in the walls again. And this time… I saw a rat in my room. Margaret set the spoon on the saucer with a small metallic clink and raised an eyebrow with an unperturbed expression. —A rat? —Yes, ma’am. It wasn’t a mouse. It was big. It stayed there, in the corner of the room, staring at me… it didn’t move until I did. Margaret blinked but didn’t say anything immediately. She simply took the teacup and sipped before sighing with resignation. —Isabela, dear… you’re tired. Isabela felt frustration rising in her throat. —I didn’t imagine it, ma’am. I saw it. —I’m sure you think you saw it. But this house has been inspected many times. Richard makes sure everything is in order. There are no rats here. But there are, damn it. Isabela pressed her lips together, trying to control her urge to argue. It was useless. In Margaret’s eyes, there was no fear or concern. Only condescension. —Ma’am, please, listen to me. Something is wrong in this house. —Don’t start with that nonsense. Margaret’s tone hardened. A subtle but definite change. Isabela felt a shiver run through her skin. It wasn’t just disbelief. It was denial. Margaret Blackwood didn’t want to listen to her. And the worst part wasn’t that. The worst part was the way she had lowered her gaze, how she had narrowed her eyes for a brief second before drinking her tea again. As if, deep down, she did know something. That night, Isabela couldn’t help but stay awake longer than necessary. She sat on the bed with the lamp on, the book she was trying to read open on her lap but completely ignored. Her breathing was slow. Her fingers drummed on the book cover with impatience. She waited. She waited because she knew she would hear the sound again. And she didn’t have to wait long. The scratching came, as always. First soft, then more insistent. Isabela felt her heart quicken. The same sensation from the night before returned: that invisible presence lurking behind the walls of the house. She closed the book with a sharp snap. —Enough —she murmured, standing up with determination. She walked to the wall and pressed her palm against the surface. The sound stopped immediately. The silence was so sudden that the skin on her arms prickled. But then, she felt something. Under her hand… A faint tremor. A subtle movement within the wall. As if something on the other side had felt her touch. Isabela pulled her hand away sharply and took a step back. Her breathing was ragged, but she forced herself to calm down. She wasn’t going to let herself be defeated by a damn rat. She decided that very night she would find proof. And then… she saw it. Not in her room. Not on the floor. But in the wardrobe mirror. In her reflection, the door to her room was open. But when she turned to the real door… it was closed. A shiver ran down her spine. The air in the room felt colder, denser. And in the mirror, just in the corner, something moved. A dark shape. A flash of small, bright eyes. A low, guttural squeak echoed in the room. Isabela closed her eyes tightly. When she opened them again… There was nothing. Only her own reflection… and the overwhelming sensation that something was watching her from a place she couldn’t see.

Chapter 4

Night fell early at the Blackwood mansion. The shadows slid through the hallways and gathered in the corners as if the house breathed them, exhaling them slowly from its ancient structure. The rain had stopped, leaving a heavier silence than usual, an almost unreal muteness that made every sound, no matter how small, seem amplified. Isabela hadn’t spoken a word all day. After what she had seen the night before—after that dark silhouette reflected in the mirror, after the door open in her reflection and closed in reality—something inside her had changed. She no longer had doubts. She wasn’t imagining things. There was something in the house. Something that didn’t belong to the normal world, something that moved in the shadows, that spied on her from the walls, that watched her with its tiny black eyes from impossible corners. The worst part was that Margaret knew it. She had seen it in her face that morning, in the way she avoided looking her in the eye, in the slight tremor of her hands as she held the teacup. She knew what was happening. And yet, she did nothing. That night, Isabela was determined. She waited until the pendulum clock in the foyer struck midnight and, with the stealth of a shadow, left her room with a flashlight in hand. She couldn’t keep ignoring this. She couldn’t sit around waiting for something worse to happen. The house was in darkness, and the air felt different, as if the walls were breathing. She forced herself to ignore the sensation. She walked barefoot on the wooden floor, each step measured and silent, feeling the cold seep from the tiles into her bones. She headed to the library. There was something about that place that had given her a bad feeling from the very first day. The dust that always accumulated on the baseboards, the faint smell of dampness, the small piles of plaster she sometimes found near the shelves. When she crossed the threshold, the air felt colder. The flashlight swept over the ancient shelves, revealing the dull shine of the leather-bound books. Everything was in order. But the smell was stronger than ever. Isabela wrinkled her nose. It was a thick, organic stench. Something like the smell of a dead animal left too long in the sun. She moved cautiously, inspecting the corners. It was then that she saw it. Next to one of the shelves, the wooden baseboard had a hole. It wasn’t large, barely the size of a fist, but it was irregular, as if it had been gnawed frantically. She knelt and brought the flashlight closer. What she saw made her hold her breath. The wood was bitten, torn with a violence that wasn’t normal. The edges of the hole were covered in a dark, sticky substance. Blood. And inside the hole… something moved. A whisper of tiny paws. The sound of something wet and viscous dragging itself. Isabela felt a knot of terror in her stomach. But before she could react, a rat emerged from the darkness. No. Not a rat. Something more. The animal twisted as it came out, its bony body covered in irregular, dirty fur. Its eyes were too large, too dark. But the worst… the worst was its tail. Or, rather… its tails. Because it didn’t have just one. It had several. Isabela felt vertigo rise in her head. The tails were intertwined, joined by a mix of dried blood and something sticky that seemed to have fused them into a grotesque mass. And then, she saw the movement in the darkness behind the hole. There were more. A tangle of small, bony bodies, squeaking in the gloom. A mess of tails tied in an organic and repulsive knot, moving as if with a single purpose. Isabela stepped back, feeling her insides churn. The animal looked at her. It didn’t flee. Its paws moved slowly forward. As if it wasn’t afraid. And then, it squeaked. A high-pitched, inhuman sound, a call. Isabela felt something behind the shelves stir. A new sound emerged from within the wall. Louder. Deeper. As if something bigger… something that shouldn’t be there… had awakened. Terror exploded in her chest. She jumped to her feet and ran. She ran as if her life depended on it, with the sound of squeaks and paws hitting the wood chasing her in the darkness. She crossed the hallway with her pulse racing, not daring to look back, not wanting to see what had emerged from the wall. When she reached the main staircase, she stopped dead in her tracks. Margaret was there. Standing in the darkness, in her white silk nightgown, her hair loose over her shoulders. But the worst part was her face. Her skin was pale as wax. Her lips trembled. And in her eyes… In her eyes there was terror. Not the kind of fear of someone who doesn’t know what’s happening. No. It was the fear of someone who knew exactly what was going on. Isabela panted, unable to speak. Margaret opened her mouth, as if she wanted to say something. But at that moment, a new sound echoed through the house. A dry, viscous sound. A sound that shouldn’t exist in the real world. A sound of intertwined bodies dragging themselves in unison. Margaret trembled. —God help us… —she whispered with a broken voice. Isabela felt an icy shiver run down her spine. Because for the first time… For the first time since it all began… Margaret Blackwood was afraid.

Chapter 5

The air in the Blackwood mansion had become unbreathable. Isabela could feel it on her skin, in her throat, in the sticky stench that floated in every corner of the house. The smell. A sharp, sweetish stench, a mix of rotten wood, damp flesh, and something else… something deeper, more rancid. Something dead. But there were no corpses. She didn’t see them, didn’t find them. Only the smell. A smell that grew. And the sounds. Dear God, the sounds. They were no longer simple scratches on the wall, no longer occasional squeaks in the night. Now it was a constant murmur. A movement within the house. Sometimes she heard it under the floor. Other times, behind the walls. Sometimes she felt vibrations in the floorboards, as if something else was down there, breathing in the darkness. The sounds followed her. Always. If she walked down the hallway… she heard them. If she stood still… she felt them. And if she tried to sleep… …she dreamed them. Because she could no longer close her eyes without seeing them. The rats. There were too many. Every corner, every crack, every shadow seemed to contain tiny, bright eyes watching her, following her with twisted intelligence. It had started with one… and now… now there were hundreds. Maybe more. Isabela couldn’t count them. She didn’t want to. That night, the stench became unbearable. She woke up with a dry mouth and a burning throat, her skin covered in cold sweat. The air was thick, suffocating. She couldn’t breathe. She sat up in bed and felt the floorboards creak under her weight. Something moved inside the mattress. A tiny squeak. Isabela jumped out of bed, a muffled scream trapped in her throat. Something came out of the sheets. Small, dark shapes, moving fast, too fast. She couldn’t see them clearly. Only fragments. Bare, pink skin, skeletal paws, open mouths with tiny teeth that gleamed in the gloom. The mattress bulged as if something under the fabric was growing, writhing, and then it tore. Isabela didn’t have time to react. The fabric opened with a wet, disgusting sound, and from inside emerged dozens of writhing bodies. No… not dozens. Hundreds! Rats! Small and large, deformed, with feverish eyes, pulsating snouts, and tails tangled together. They emerged like a wave, a torrent of living flesh that fell to the floor with frantic squeaks. Some ran around the room. Others stayed there, staring at her as if they knew her name. Isabela felt her legs tremble. Her stomach turned. The infestation had reached its peak. The house was no longer a house. It was a nest. A nest for something bigger. With her pulse racing, Isabela ran. She crossed the dark hallways, her skin burning with terror, feeling the rats moving in the shadows, slipping through the cracks in the house, following her. When she reached Margaret’s room, she found her standing in the darkness. Isabela stopped, panting, her chest rising and falling violently. Margaret’s face was pale, her gaze lost. Her hands trembled. The white nightgown she wore was stained with blood. But it wasn’t hers. The bite marks on her arm confirmed it. —Margaret… —Isabela whispered, her voice broken. The woman looked up, and in her face Isabela saw defeat. She knew. She had always known. But now… it was too late. —God has abandoned us… —Margaret whispered, her voice a thread. And at that moment, something moved behind her. A dense shadow. Too big. A cluster of dark bodies, intertwined tails. Something more than an infestation. Something alive. Isabela felt her soul freeze. And then the entire house seemed to breathe. The floor sank under her feet. The walls creaked. The sound of thousands of paws running at once filled the air. And in the gloom, Isabela saw the final horror. It emerged from the darkness like a twisted specter. A living mass, a tangle of rat bodies intertwined unnaturally. Twenty. Thirty. Fifty. Joined by their tails tangled with dried blood and filth, forming an impossible creature, a grotesque knot of pulsating flesh moving with a single, cruel purpose. And at the center of that horror… There were the eyes. Not rat eyes… but human eyes. Deep. Black, lifeless eyes. Intelligent and predatory. The eyes of the King. The stench became unbearable. Isabela felt nausea rise in her throat. Her legs gave way. The rats moved as one, writhing, advancing toward them. Margaret didn’t scream. She didn’t run. She knew it was her end. Isabela saw her close her eyes. A murmur. A prayer. And then the rats pounced on her. Margaret’s scream was drowned in the darkness. Isabela ran. She didn’t look back. She couldn’t. The sound of bones breaking, of flesh tearing, followed her through the hallways. The King wanted her. But Isabela wouldn’t allow it. She ran to the main door, tears in her eyes and her heart about to burst. The rats squealed behind her. The King approached. And at the last moment… She jumped out of the house. She felt the damp grass under her feet. The cold air on her face. And when she looked back… The Blackwood mansion fell silent. As if it had never existed.

Chapter 6

The grass was damp under her bare feet. The rain, which had stopped moments before, left an earthy, cold, and penetrating scent in the air. The sky above the Blackwood mansion was black, an infinite dome of shadows closed in on itself, without moon or stars. Isabela couldn’t breathe. She stood there, in front of the house, her chest rising and falling violently, her skin covered in mud, blood, and cold sweat. The rats. Dear God, the rats. Inside the mansion, the darkness was total. The horror had ceased. Or at least it seemed so. The squeaks had disappeared. The sound of bodies writhing, bones breaking, and flesh tearing had completely faded. But the house… the house still breathed. She felt it in her skin. In the pressure of the air, in the imperceptible vibration that seemed to emanate from the stone walls, like a slow, deep heartbeat that couldn’t be heard, only felt. Isabela wanted to run. God knew she should, but her legs wouldn’t respond. Her gaze remained fixed on the house, on its empty, opaque windows. On its half-open door, like a mouth open in a hungry silence. And then, she saw her. Margaret was standing in the doorway. Isabela felt her blood freeze in her veins. No… it couldn’t be. She had seen what they did to her. She had heard her screams drown under the wave of flesh and teeth. But there she was. Motionless. In her white nightgown covered in something dark and thick, her hair tangled over her face, her skin pale and her eyes black as night. Black… without irises… without a soul. Margaret didn’t blink. She didn’t breathe… she just stared. And in that moment, Isabela understood the truth. It wasn’t Margaret. It was the house. The house was watching her through that broken, empty body. And then, Margaret smiled. An unnatural smile, too wide, too tense, as if someone were pulling the muscles of her face from the inside. Isabela felt a visceral terror, something primitive, beyond logic or reason. It was the fear of a mouse caught in the mouth of a snake. And when Margaret’s lips parted, she heard it. A squeak. Something not human… something not natural or of this world… A squeak that didn’t come from her throat, but from inside her body, from her entrails. Isabela screamed, and then, she ran. She ran without looking back, as if there were no tomorrow… She ran through the garden, branches scratching her skin, the cold wind hitting her face. It didn’t matter where. She just had to get out of there… They found her three days later barefoot, covered in mud and with her clothes in tatters, wandering along a secondary road more than fifteen kilometers from the mansion. She didn’t remember getting there or how she survived. But the house was behind her. Or at least, that’s what she thought. When the police questioned her, no one believed her. There were no bodies. There were no rats. The Blackwood mansion was intact. No blood. No trace of Richard, Margaret, or Henry. Simply… empty. As if they had never existed. The officers told her the family had disappeared, that they had likely gone on a trip and left her behind. A “misunderstanding.” An unsolved case. But Isabela knew the truth. She knew what she saw. She knew what took them. She tried to explain it. She tried to tell her story… her truth… But they laughed at her. Until she tried to escape the hospital. Until they found her screaming in the middle of the night, banging on the walls, saying she heard them moving. And then… they locked her up. A psychiatric hospital. They gave her medication. They told her it was a nervous breakdown. That it had all been a dream… a bad dream??? A delirium… a critical phase in her life?? But Isabela knew the truth. Because every night, when the lights went out in her padded room… She heard them. The scratches. First soft. Then more insistent. Then Margaret’s voice, whispering to her from the walls. ”Where are you, Isabela? Why did you run away? Don’t you know this house… belongs to you?” Isabela covered her ears, but the sound didn’t go away. The walls kept scratching. And in her mind, in the deepest darkness of her mind… The King still watched her. The King still waited for her. Patiently. Without haste… expectant but calm… because sooner or later… She would return home.

Epilogue

Weeks later, a new owner bought the Blackwood mansion. It was a valuable property, a jewel of English architecture. No one spoke of the missing family. No one spoke of Isabela. No one spoke of anything. But the first night, when the new owner went to bed in his room… He woke up startled. Because something was moving inside the wall. A scratch. First soft. Then more insistent. And in the gloom of his room, he saw two small, bright eyes watching him from the corner. It wasn’t just a rat. It was the beginning.

🐀 THE END 🐀