The storm still gnawed at the windows when Clara stirred awake. For a moment, she thought she'd dreamt it all—the library, the whispers, the music box. But the air was wrong.
It pressed on her lungs, as though the walls themselves were leaning in.
Sarid sat in the chair opposite her, hunched forward, staring at nothing. His lips moved faintly, as if in conversation, though no words reached her.
Clara: Sarid?
He jerked, blinked, forced a thin smile.
Sarid: Couldn't sleep. The rain's… too loud.
But she heard no rain. Only a low throb, deep in the walls, like a heartbeat slowed to stone.
Clara rose. Her dress brushed the dusty carpet, and when she glanced down, her footprints didn't vanish—they lingered, black stains sinking into the weave. She turned back. Sarid's chair had left no impression at all.
The house was choosing.
She swallowed.
Clara: Did you… hear the song again?
Sarid rubbed at his temples.
Sarid: There was no song. Just old wood creaking. Don't let it get to you. This place is full of tricks.
But even as he spoke, the air quivered with faint notes—too delicate for denial. A child's lullaby, drifting just beyond hearing.
Clara hugged herself.
Clara: Tricks don't leave footprints.
Sarid didn't answer. He rose and crossed to the mirror above the mantel. The glass rippled faintly, like water. His reflection leaned forward—but a moment too late, a beat out of sync. Its lips moved after his.
Clara saw it.
Clara: Sarid—step back.
He reached out. His fingertips touched the mirror, and his reflection smiled though he did not.
The smile was too wide. Too knowing.
Clara: Stop!
She seized his arm, yanking him away. The glass stilled. His face returned.
Sarid shook her off, anger flashing.
Sarid: You're seeing things. The storm, the dark—it's warping your mind.
Clara: (whispering) Or it's warping yours.
His jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
They left the parlor, wandering deeper into the mansion. The corridors stretched unnaturally—what should have led to the stairwell bent instead into another hall, lined with portraits. Faces stared down at them: lords and ladies in paint, eyes smeared black.
One canvas still dripped.
Clara: We're walking in circles.
Sarid: Then we'll keep walking until we're out. That's all.
But as they passed the last portrait, Clara saw her own face staring back. Painted pale, lips parted in a frozen scream.
Her stomach turned.
Clara: Sarid—look.
He glanced, but the canvas showed only a faceless figure in gray.
Sarid: Enough. It's your nerves.
He pressed forward, and she followed, trembling.
The hall opened into a chamber neither had seen before. A dining room, immense, lit by dozens of candles. A feast stretched across the table—roasted meats, gleaming fruits, goblets brimming with red. The smell was rich, metallic.
Clara's stomach clenched.
Clara: We can't eat that.
But Sarid stepped closer. His eyes were hungry—not for food, but for relief, something to cling to.
Sarid: Maybe… maybe someone lives here after all. Maybe we've been mistaken.
He reached for a goblet. Clara slapped it from his hand. The wine splashed across the floor—only it wasn't wine. The smell hit her first.
Blood.
Thick, dark, pooling at their feet.
The candles guttered. One by one, they went out, until only the last flame quivered beside Clara. In that dim light, she saw the truth: the feast was rot. Meat crawling with maggots. Fruit collapsing into gray pulp.
Sarid recoiled, gagging.
But Clara's gaze fixed on the far end of the table.
A place was set. Clean, empty, waiting. A silver plate gleamed like a mirror. And in its surface she saw—not her face, not Sarid's—but a red star, pulsing like a wound in the sky.
Her breath caught.
The last candle went out.
Darkness swallowed them.
And in that dark, something whispered—her own voice, yet not hers:
Whisper:It prefers the doubters.
Clara clutched Sarid's arm. His skin was cold. His pulse—if it beat at all—matched the house.
She realized then that whatever this place wanted, it wanted him more than her.
And she could not stop it.