Chapter 2: Secrets Beneath the White House

Walter’s stare never let up. I could feel him through the wall, not just cold but sharp, the kind of gaze that makes your skin itch. He was waiting for me to mess up, just once.

Mother told me we had to put up with the ghosts for now; they were afraid of something and wouldn’t attack us openly. But if we crossed them, it would be different. Our only hope was to find a way to beat them.

Her voice was steady, but her hands shook as she poured us both tea. That’s when it hit me—being brave in the Carter family didn’t mean charging into battle. It meant living with monsters and hoping they never turned on you.

When my mother left, Walter Jenkins escorted her out, all respectful and formal. Then I turned and saw Walter’s real form—a giant eyeball with a mouth. The White House wasn’t just haunted. It was theirs now, not ours.

For a moment, it felt like the world flipped upside down. The familiar halls and old portraits were just a haunted gallery, every shadow hiding something hungry. I’d never felt so alone—or so watched.

Walter flashed a sinister grin: "Mr. President, what are your plans today? Will you be heading to the Roosevelt Room for Secretary Shearer’s briefing?" There was a pull in his voice, something that made me want to say yes without thinking.

There was a hook in his words, a tug deep in my gut. I nodded, even as every nerve screamed at me to run. I tried to steady my breathing, telling myself I was the president—even if I felt like anything but.

That night, back in my room, I caught Walter poisoning the water again through a crack in the door. He opened the kettle, stuck out his huge tongue, and let drops of pale purple mucus fall in. The stuff turned clear the moment it hit the water, looking just like the real thing.

My stomach lurched. I pressed my hand to my mouth, fighting the urge to gag. The old house seemed to groan around me, the shadows stretching longer, pressing in like the walls were closing.

It suddenly clicked—all those times I’d acted strange after drinking Walter’s water, all the times I’d gotten fuzzy-headed and agreed to things I shouldn’t have. Even my mother had chewed me out for it. Now I saw it: Walter’s main trick was bewitching the mind.

It all made sense—the memory lapses, the missed meetings, the way I lost my will. I felt a cold anger rise up, a promise to myself: I’d never be anyone’s puppet, not even a ghost’s.

I faked drinking the water, pouring it on the floor and covering the spot with my bathrobe. Sure enough, a few minutes later, Walter said, "Mr. President, you’re the leader of the free world, but the First Lady is always so tough on you. If you ask me, you should take charge early and let her enjoy her golden years."

His words oozed into my ears, slick and persuasive. I kept my face blank, praying he couldn’t see the panic simmering underneath.

Just then, the dagger my father left me flared with light. Walter screamed, as if he’d been splashed with acid, his body melting with a sizzling, popping sound.

The sound was awful—like a bug frying on a summer porch lamp. I clutched the dagger, feeling a wild surge of courage. Maybe, just maybe, I could make it through this.

I kept up the act, pretending to be out of it, waiting to see what Walter would do next. He gritted his teeth, patted my head, and muttered, "Sleep, sleep."

I lay back, forcing myself to relax, counting each breath. Every second stretched out forever. I wondered if he could hear the fear beating in my chest, so loud it felt like thunder.

I rolled over, shut my eyes, and pretended to drift off, slowing my breathing. The next thing I knew, John Shearer appeared in my room. He opened his mouth and swallowed Walter whole. Blood—black and red—oozed from his lips. A moment later, he spat Walter back out.

The scene was so grotesque, so surreal, I nearly screamed. I mashed my face into the pillow, fighting the urge to move. The air was thick with the metallic stench of blood and something older, fouler.

They didn’t do anything else—just left my room. Walter looked completely drained, not even bothering to check on me. If he had, he’d have found my sheets drenched in cold sweat.

I waited until their footsteps faded, then let out a ragged, shaky breath. I lay there in the dark, soaked and shivering, like I’d just come up for air after nearly drowning.

As soon as Walter left, an ancient voice whispered in my ear: "Descendant, come to the ancestral chamber…"

The words barely brushed the air, but they vibrated in my bones. I knew—without knowing how—that it was time to face the Carter legacy head-on.

Ever since the Carter family began, the ancestral chamber had been off-limits to outsiders. Each president could enter only once, right before taking office. They said great-grandfather Franklin Carter built it to record the family’s secrets. The only key was the dagger my father left me; nobody else could open the door.

All those stories had always sounded like family fairy tales, whispered at reunions. But now, standing at the threshold, dust swirling in the stale air, I knew they were real. The past wasn’t dead—it was waiting for me inside.

Funny thing—the key was lost during the Civil War, only found again just before my father died. He ran out of time, so he left it to me. The irony wasn’t lost on me: the key to our destiny, lost and found in America’s bloodiest chapter, now pressed into my palm. I wondered if every Carter president had felt this same mix of dread and hope.

When I stepped inside, the ancestral chamber became a sea of clouds. In the center stood a massive chair, and sitting on it was a figure in white armor and helmet, a sword hanging at his side. Huge murals covered the walls behind me, each one marked with ancient script.

The air was thick with incense, old leather, and parchment. The murals seemed to ripple, their colors shifting as if they were alive. I felt like I’d stepped into a different world—a world where history was written in blood and fire.

The first mural showed a towering cloud platform and a giant monster in the sky, soldiers in white armor locked in a bloody battle. On the platform sat a tall man and a little fox. The mural seemed to move—the platform glowed, a red beam shot skyward, the monster shrieked. Giant bronze gates appeared, sealing off the sky, trapping the void. The man on the throne turned to ash, the warriors became skeletons. At the end, only two words remained: Ascension!

The word echoed in my mind, heavy and strange. I felt a chill run down my spine, like the mural itself was warning me: every victory comes at a price.

The second mural was another high platform, cast in bronze, with two shining birds. A man sang with a sword; below, warships packed the river, thick chains locking them in place. In the distance, another platform stood on the water, a barefoot man mumbling spells. Suddenly, wind and fire swept the river, burning tens of thousands to ash. From the corpses, swarms of black worms flew out. An ancient bronze gate opened, gods sealed in the void cast their shadows on earth. The rest was missing, but two words stood out: Red Bluff!

My heart stuttered. Red Bluff—the name my father obsessed over. I stared at the mural, desperate for answers, but everything stayed just out of reach, like a word I couldn’t quite remember.

The last mural was familiar; it showed a small church. The sign said St. Mary’s Chapel, and inside was my great-grandfather Franklin Carter as a boy. In a blink, a broken bronze gate appeared, and he walked through it. He retraced the journey west, met the archangel—a ball of flesh that looked like John Ramsey’s monster form. From the sky, the Human President’s power shattered the void. Great-grandfather closed the broken gate. Only the Human President’s final words echoed: "The human race must strive for self-improvement, and so must America."

The words rang out in my head, like a blessing and a warning. I could almost feel my great-grandfather’s hand on my shoulder, urging me to stand tall, to fight for something bigger than myself.

When I turned, great-grandfather’s ghost appeared beside me, already fading. He reached out, brushed my cheek, and sighed.

His touch was cool, like the first breath of autumn, and his eyes held a thousand secrets I’d never know. For a second, I felt like a little kid again, safe in the presence of someone who’d seen it all.

"So you’re Henry’s bloodline. Well, well. Since you’re here, you have to understand the Carter family’s mission."

He told me our mission wasn’t just to keep the United States running, but to spend centuries restoring humanity’s luck. Only when humans were strong enough could the broken bronze gate be fixed, keeping the outer gods locked away. If those gods of chaos ever got loose, they’d destroy everything. Great-grandfather didn’t know exactly where the gate was—just that it lay to the north, beyond American soil…

His words settled over me like a heavy blanket. That’s when I realized: being president wasn’t just a job or a birthright—it was a promise to people I’d never meet, generations yet to come.

Two years vanished in a blink, and I still hadn’t made it north. They said it was wild country—tribes living off cattle and sheep, eating raw meat, eyeing the heartland for centuries. Great-grandfather tried to conquer it, but died on the way. My father’s letters barely mentioned it. Some words got lost after he died. Something always seemed to keep that land out of America’s hands, like it was waiting for the gods to come down there.

Sometimes, late at night, I’d stare at the maps in the Situation Room, running my finger along the northern border. It felt like touching the edge of a storm—something dark and hungry waiting just out of sight, daring us to cross the line.

I spent two years digging through reports; every advisor pushed for one thing—mutual trade. Opening the border would let the northern tribes grow fast. In a few decades, maybe less, we’d be broke. My mother fought the Three Johns at every turn, but not long ago, I found out the truth: most of the White House staff had become ghosts, poisoning my mother’s tea. She said she’d known for a while, crying herself to sleep every night. The poison was slow but deadly. They wanted her gone so they could grab power before I took over.

I watched my mother fade, her face gaunt, her eyes hollow. Knowing that the people who smiled and served her tea were plotting her death made me sick. It was a betrayal deeper than anything I’d ever seen in politics.