The Stillburg mansion, cloaked in the darkness of early morning, was unnervingly silent after the doorbell echoed its ominous chime. William, still groggy from sleep, slowly stirred. His mind was foggy, disoriented, but the ringing of the bell nagged at him, pulling him from his brief respite. He glanced at Jennifer, who was fast asleep next to him. He wasn't sure if he'd dreamt it, but there was a faint, sharp noise lingering in his mind. The doorbell. He dismissed it at first, thinking it was a figment of his imagination, but then—there it was again. 

"Ding! Dong!"

William sighed deeply and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The floor felt cold beneath his feet as he made his way through the long corridor leading to the grand entrance. The mansion, once lively with the laughter and activities of the Stillburg family, now felt cold and foreboding. The shadowy halls stretched on, filled with relics of grandeur that now seemed meaningless.

As William approached the front door, he wondered who could possibly be visiting them at this unholy hour. He glanced at the grandfather clock near the entrance—3:34 a.m. His hand hesitated over the doorknob, and a creeping sense of unease clawed at the edges of his mind. But he brushed it aside. He was the patriarch of the Stillburg family, after all. No one would dare to cause him harm.

He opened the door.

Standing there was a young girl, small and unassuming, but her face was obscured by a grotesque joker mask. The mask's unsettling grin stretched unnaturally wide, and the eyes, hollow and dark, stared into his soul. William blinked, confused. Before he could utter a word, the girl moved like lightning.

The glint of a knife flashed in the dim light. 

Without a sound, the blade sliced through the air, burying itself deep into William's abdomen. He gasped, his hands flying instinctively to his stomach as the pain tore through him. Warm blood gushed through his fingers. His vision blurred, and he staggered backward, falling to his knees. The girl with the mask stood over him, silent, watching him writhe in agony.

William's last conscious thought was of the wide, toothy grin on the mask, hovering above him like a specter.

The world faded to black.

Jennifer awoke with a start to the thud of something heavy hitting the floor. She glanced over, and William was gone. Panic surged through her as she scrambled out of bed and hurried downstairs. 

"Willie?!" she called, her voice trembling. "Willie, where are you?!"

Her heart pounded as she reached the front hall, and then she saw him—lying in a pool of his own blood.

"Oh my God! William!"

She rushed to his side, kneeling beside him and grabbing his shoulders, shaking him frantically. His eyes fluttered, barely open, his skin ghostly pale. 

"Willie! Please, stay with me! I'm calling for help!" Her voice cracked as she fumbled for her phone, her hands slick with his blood. She could barely dial the number for an ambulance, her fingers trembling violently. She pressed her hand against his wound, trying to stop the flow of blood, but it was no use. It was coming too fast, too much.

Tears streamed down her face as she listened to the distant wail of the approaching sirens, but William's breathing was becoming more labored with every passing second.

"Stay with me, Willie... please..."

But by the time the paramedics arrived, it was too late.

The hospital was a blur of sterile white lights and cold metal instruments. Jennifer sat in the waiting room, her hands still stained with her husband's blood, her mind numb. The doctor came out, his face somber, and she knew before he even spoke.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Stillburg," he said gently, "but we couldn't save him. The damage to his small intestine was too severe. The knife... it was twisted in such a way that it tore through multiple areas. He... he lost too much blood."

Jennifer's heart shattered. Her chest heaved with sobs, her cries echoing through the empty hospital corridor. It wasn't supposed to end like this. William was supposed to be invincible. But now... now he was gone. 

The funeral was held in the grandest of Stillburg traditions, where the body was not buried but burned into ashes—a ritual the family had followed for generations. The flames roared high, consuming William's body, as Jennifer and the children watched in silence. Shellie stood off to the side, her expression unreadable. Johnny stood there, numb, staring at the fire, his mind somewhere far away. 

In the weeks that followed, the Stillburg mansion became a place of ghosts. 

Jennifer, overwhelmed with grief and the burden of running the business, decided to relocate. The decision was made quickly—too quickly, perhaps—but she couldn't bear to live in the place where her husband had been murdered. So, they moved to Delhi, India. A new place, a new start, she told herself. But the cracks in the family were growing deeper. 

Johnny retreated further into himself. Once a quiet, introspective boy who spent hours painting, now he didn't touch a brush. His world was closing in, and the weight of unspoken words crushed him. He had wanted so badly to show his father his art, to prove that he could be something more than what the family name demanded. But now... now there was no one left to show. 

He locked himself in his room most days, refusing to come out except for meals. Shellie, on the other hand, grew wilder. Her mischievous nature evolved into something more reckless. With William gone, there was no one left to rein her in. Jennifer tried, but her heart wasn't in it. She was too consumed by her own sorrow, and, eventually, she stopped trying altogether. 

As a result, Shellie found herself alone in her pursuit of mischief. She enrolled in a local university, but instead of focusing on her studies, she used her cunning to find ways around the system. She forged proxy attendances, skipped classes, and somehow managed to pass her exams without studying. 

Every day, after returning from university, she would come to Johnny's room and ring the doorbell—mocking him, teasing him, trying to get a rise out of him. 

"Johnny, open up!" she would shout, grinning as she rang the bell over and over.

"Go away, Shellie!" Johnny would yell back, his voice thick with frustration.

But deep down, he didn't really want her to leave. The daily torment was the only connection he had left to his sister, the only semblance of normalcy in a life that had spiraled into chaos.

Weeks passed. Shellie's visits to Johnny's door were like clockwork—every afternoon, without fail, she would come by to irritate him. And every time, Johnny would shout back, telling her to leave him alone. 

But one day, the doorbell didn't ring.

Johnny sat in his room, waiting, expecting to hear the familiar chime, but the hours ticked by, and still, nothing. At first, he was relieved. Maybe she finally got tired of messing with him. But as the silence stretched on, a nagging worry began to creep into his mind.

Where was Shellie?

The next day, the doorbell remained silent. And the next. 

Johnny's worry grew into full-blown panic. He hadn't seen or heard from Shellie in days, and no one seemed to care. His mother was barely present, absorbed in her own grief and the pressures of running the business. No one had noticed that Shellie was missing—except for Johnny.

On the fifth day of silence, Johnny made a decision. He couldn't stay locked in his room any longer. He had to find his sister.

He left the house for the first time in weeks, the bright sun almost blinding after so long in the darkness. He made his way to Shellie's university, his heart pounding in his chest. He had a sinking feeling that something was very, very wrong.

When he arrived, he sought out Shellie's professors and classmates, asking if anyone had seen her. 

"She hasn't been to class in over a week," one of her professors said with a shrug. "Probably just skipping, like usual."

But something didn't sit right with Johnny. He pressed further, asking around until finally, a classmate gave him a lead. 

"I saw her last week," the girl said, her eyes shifting nervously. "She was talking to... someone. A man. I don't know who he was, but they left together. I haven't seen her since."

Johnny's blood ran cold.

He thanked the girl and hurried away, his mind racing. Who was this man? And where had he taken Shellie?