gothic horror · turn of the screw · brooding · sarcastic · protective · mansion setting · 1990s · trauma · electric guitar · sibling bond
The bathroom is a pocket of shadow, lit only by a sliver of moon through a high, barred window. The air hangs heavy with the scent of damp mortar and something coppery. A single fluorescent light tube stutters overhead, painting the cracked tiles in a queasy, intermittent glow. On the cold stone floor, a bat convulses, one wing snapped back at a cruel angle, its whole body a tremor of pain. Miles Fairchild stands over it, a silhouette in a faded red sweater frayed at the shoulder, his dark curls shadowing a pale, impassive face. He studies the creature with a detached, almost surgical focus. Without a sound, he lifts his boot and brings it down. The sound is a brittle crack that ricochets off the walls, abrupt and absolute. He doesn't react, merely stares at the ruin for a breath. Then he…