The Son-in-law

Shadows In The Hallway

Chapter  Four: 

The mansion was never quiet, not really. Even when the lights dimmed and the family dispersed, the air seemed to hum with whispers—resentments and secrets stitched into the walls. Tonight, the silence carried a different weight. It wasn’t peace; it was pressure.

Billy felt it as he walked down the long corridor, his steps careful, steady. Every painting on the wall seemed to watch him, gilded faces of long-dead ancestors glaring down, as though mocking his place in a house that never wanted him. He straightened his shoulders, refusing to shrink.

At the far end of the hall, voices clashed. Lucas’s voice was sharp, biting. “You can’t let him walk around here like he belongs. He’s an outsider. Always was.”

Alice’s reply was low but firm. “You forget yourself, Lucas. This is my house, not yours. And Billy is my son-in-law whether you choke on that truth or not.”

Billy stopped short, hidden in the shadow of a carved column. He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but the venom in Lucas’s tone froze him in place.

Lucas scoffed. “Son-in-law? He’s nothing more than a beggar we pity. If Father were alive, he’d never have let this happen.”

There was a crack in Alice’s composure, a beat of silence before she answered. “Your father isn’t here. I am. And I’ll decide who belongs.”

The words carried a rare steel that made Billy’s chest tighten. Alice had never been openly warm, but this—this was different. A defense, even if laced with formality.

Lucas stormed out of the sitting room, footsteps heavy, muttering curses under his breath. Billy shrank deeper into the shadows as Lucas passed, his jaw tight, his eyes burning with a rage that promised retribution.

Only when Lucas’s figure disappeared down the stairwell did Billy step into the light. Alice was seated in her chair, her back regal, her face composed, but there was a flicker of fatigue in her eyes. She looked up at him.

“You shouldn’t lurk in corners, Billy,” she said, her tone unreadable.

He swallowed. “I wasn’t lurking. I just… heard.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn’t rebuke him. Instead, she studied him, her gaze almost piercing. “You carry yourself differently these days. Lucas senses it too—that’s why he spits louder than before. Be careful. Shadows have teeth in this house.”

Billy nodded, though unease gnawed at him. He wanted to tell her he didn’t fear Lucas anymore, that something within him had shifted since the night of humiliation at the dinner table. But he kept silent, the words nesting inside.

Later that night, as Billy returned to his room, he found the door ajar. His stomach dropped. Inside, his few belongings had been scattered across the floor. The drawers yanked open, his books tossed carelessly, the bed sheets wrinkled as though clawed at.

And on the table, sitting like a challenge, was a single photograph—his late parents’ portrait, cracked across the glass.

Billy froze, anger rising in waves, but also grief. Lucas. It had to be Lucas. No one else had reason to dig at his wounds like this.

He clenched his fists. The urge to march to Lucas’s room, to demand justice, burned hot. Yet another voice inside—cooler, darker—told him to wait. Timing mattered.

From the window, he caught a flicker of movement in the courtyard below. Lucas stood there, smoking, his face tilted up toward the night, as though daring the stars themselves to look down on him. The glow of the cigarette lit his features, cruel and careless.

Billy didn’t move. He simply watched. His anger didn’t spill—it coiled.

The next morning, the mansion buzzed with unease. Servants whispered in corners. A shattered vase lay at the foot of the stairs, as if someone had thrown it in a fit of temper. Lucas appeared at breakfast with a smug smirk, his knuckles bruised, but no one asked why.

Billy sat opposite him, silent, eating with calm deliberation. But his eyes never left Lucas’s. And Lucas noticed.

A clash without words, but everyone at the table felt it—the current that promised the quiet war was only beginning.

By the time breakfast ended, Alice rose first, her voice measured. “This house has survived storms before. It will survive this one too. But I will not have it torn apart by petty quarrels.”

Her eyes flicked between Lucas and Billy, landing a heartbeat longer on Billy. A warning, or perhaps an acknowledgment—he couldn’t tell.

When she left, the silence returned. Lucas leaned forward, his smirk sharpened.

“You think you’re brave now?” he murmured, too low for the servants to hear. “Wait until I really decide to break you.”

Billy’s reply was steady, almost gentle. “You’ve already tried. You failed.”

For the first time, Lucas’s smirk faltered, if only slightly. And that was enough.

The battle line had been drawn in the shadows of the hall, and though no one spoke it aloud, the house itself seemed to shudder in anticipation.