Chapter 1 - The Tiny Ghost
"Noah," Mrs. Whitmore answered, her voice clipping the end of the word as if it were a business transaction rather than a boy's name. "Mr. Mercer's son. He resides in the East Wing. He requires a sterile, predictable environment. You are here to clean the West Wing, the kitchens, and the formal dining areas. You will not cross paths with him, and if you do, you will avert your eyes and keep moving. Is that understood?"
"Understood," I whispered.
For the first four days, the house ran with a terrifying, silent precision. The guards patrolled the perimeter, the chefs cooked in absolute quiet, and Damian Mercer remained a phantom. I only knew he was home when the heavy oak doors of his study were shut, flanked by two men in dark suits whose eyes never stopped scanning the corridor.
On my fifth night, a thunderstorm rolled off Lake Michigan, rattling the massive windows of the estate.
I was polishing the mahogany banister on the second floor when a sudden, blinding flash of lightning illuminated the hallway. The thunder cracked so hard the floorboards vibrated.
And then, I heard it.
It wasn't a scream. It was a rapid, shallow wheezing. A panic attack.
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I forgot Mrs. Whitmore's rules. I dropped my polishing cloth and followed the sound into the grand library. Sitting on the priceless Persian rug, pressed hard against the base of a massive bookshelf, was a little boy in blue pajamas. He was clutching a worn brown bear to his chest, his eyes squeezed shut, hyperventilating as another clap of thunder shook the room.
He was drowning in fear, trapped inside a mind that couldn't ask for help.
