Page 148 of The Darkest Hour

The chateau was much better than Havoc’s shelter.

There was a lot of Victorian elegance in all of the bedrooms that could truly be defined as suites. Lots of velvet drapes and antique furniture. Chandeliers and gilded mirrors. Silk sheets and tall windows.

We carefully poked through every room, searching for clues, perhaps another letter, a sign of others living there, or something that could be of use to get us off the island.

It was there in the master bedroom that I found something useful—a locked wooden box tucked away in one of the closets.

With some effort, I managed to pry it open with the butt of my gun.

Inside was a map of the island, a notebook, and at least eighty photographs of dead children.

Most were faded, but around twenty had been taken in recent years.

The photographs were small, no bigger than playing cards, but each one held a haunting image of a lifeless child splayed out on forest soil or beach sand.

Some clothed.

Some naked.

Haunting images.

Toddlers to adolescent teens.

Their faces held expressions of fear, pain, and confusion, permanently etched onto the glossy paper.

Havoc glared at the items. “He couldn’t bear to destroy this bit of evidence.”

More sadness washed over me. “They’ve been doing shit to kids on this island for a very long time.”

“Probably passed down from grandfather to father to son.”

“Disgusting.” I set the box down, picked up the map of the island, and slowly unfolded it.

The paper was old, yellowed with time, and covered in markings that made my stomach turn. It was divided into sections, each one marked with symbols and notes in a neat, precise handwriting that made the horrors it described all the more chilling.

There were areas circled in red, some labeled with dates, others with cryptic symbols that only hinted at the true nature of what had happened there.

A small, dark part of me already knew what the map was showing before I even began to piece it together.

It all left me feeling hollow and sick.

“This. . .isn’t just a map,” I whispered, more to myself than to Havoc. “It’s the layout for their hunting ground.”

Havoc’s expression darkened as he leaned over to examine it with me. “The kids didn’t know the layout, but they did and used the island as their playground.”

I pointed to one of the marked areas near the center of the island, where several dates were scribbled in alongside a number of Xs. “This must have been where they started. . .where they released the children.” My voice cracked. “And then. . .they hunted them down.”

The thought of children—scared, alone, running through the island’s forest, desperate to escape—sent a shudder through me.

I could almost hear their terrified cries, their little feet pounding against the ground as they tried to flee from their tormentors.

I forced myself to turn away from the map, knowing that the images it conjured up would linger in my mind like a nightmare that would forever refuse to fade.

With a heavy heart, I returned to the wooden box, lifting out the notebook that had been lying beneath the map.

The cover was worn, the edges frayed from many years of use.

I opened it to the first page, and my breath hitched at what I saw.

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