Nobody understood why the billionaire’s son kept screaming non-stop. Then the Black maid uncovered something terrifying tangled in his hair.
The Savannah, Georgia estate was used to chaos: helicopters landing, parties that lasted all night, business calls bouncing off marble walls. But nothing rattled the staff the way the boy’s constant screaming did.
Morning, night, with no clear cause. Doctors blamed anxiety. His father said it was just imagination. One nanny after another quit, shaken and confused. Only Janessa Bloom, the maid who quietly raised generations of children in that house, dared to search for the truth.
After one scream so sharp it froze the room, she knelt beside him and whispered softly, “Honey, show me where it hurts.”
He cried harder. So she brushed through his hair gently. Something shifted under her fingers.
Her pulse spiked. Slowly, she separated his blond curls. Hidden against his scalp was something horrifying everyone had missed.
It wasn’t blood. It wasn’t bruises. It was a tiny recording device, wrapped in his hair, flickering red.
Someone was spying on him. Listening to every sob. Every nightmare. Every whisper. The child wasn’t screaming from pain. He was screaming because he felt someone with him, even when no one was there.
Janessa raised her eyes and suddenly knew who placed it there. And knew the boy’s life was in far more danger than anyone realized.
Nobody understood why the billionaire’s son kept screaming non-stop. Then the Black maid uncovered something terrifying tangled in his hair. The Savannah, Georgia estate was used to chaos
The mansion in Savannah Georgia loomed like a monument to misplaced wealth, all white columns and iron balconies that caught the moonlight like polished bone. Night after night it sat in regal silence, a silence so deep that it felt like a presence of its own, a cold sentry guarding secrets that no one living there seemed willing to face. Antique lamps glowed in the corridors, struggling to chase away the chill that slithered along the baseboards. Their light flickered as if nervous.
In the servants wing, Janessa Bloom was polishing a set of silver trays when a sound cut through the stillness, a sound that felt like it pierced her ribs. It was the cry of a child. Not the startled squeak of a nightmare or the loud call of a tantrum. It was a raw wail, soaked in sorrow, echoing through the echoing hallways like a lament, as if the mansion itself were mourning through him.
Janessa dropped the cloth without thinking and hurried toward the south corridor, her shoes clacking against the marble. She passed towering mirrors framed in gold that distorted her reflection as she rushed, making her look fragmented. Like a ghost fleeing from her own fear. Her shadow trembled ahead of her, stretched by the tall columns and trembling chandeliers that lined the ceiling.
The cry came again. Louder. Closer. It made her skin crawl.
At the end of the hallway, near the door that led to the east drawing room, she found him. A little boy about seven years old sat curled on the cold floor, knees pulled to his chest. His name was Cody Bram, and he was the only child of the mansion’s owner. His small hands shook uncontrollably, his cheeks streaked with tears. His eyes were swollen and red. Every breath he took came out broken, like his lungs could not quite remember how to work.
Janessa approached slowly. She kneeled before him with care, as if afraid the air around him might shatter if she moved too quickly.
“Cody,” she whispered, voice barely audible. “Sweetheart. What happened. What hurts.”
He lifted his head the moment she spoke. It was as if he had been waiting for someone to acknowledge his existence, to see him. He stared at her with eyes that carried far too much fear for a child. Eyes that looked like they had forgotten what safety felt like.
“Please,” he whispered. “Please do not leave me here.”
Janessa felt something seismic shift inside her. It was instinct. It was empathy. It was rage disguised as tenderness. She drew him into her arms, pulling him close. His body stiffened at first, unused to comfort, then slowly softened. He pressed his face into her uniform and inhaled like it was the first breath of his life that did not hurt.
“It is alright,” she murmured. “I am here. I am right here.”
He clung to her like she was the last thing tethering him to the world. She could feel every tremor of his small body, every heartbeat like a frightened bird trapped in a cage.
Upstairs, voices began to rise. Doors opened. Footsteps pounded…
