It began with the violin.
A single note, drawn in sorrow.
Seraphine bolted upright in bed, breath caught in her throat. The clock beside her read 2:37 a.m. The air was still, too still—like it was holding its breath with her. The fire in the hearth had died hours ago. Elias was gone. She had awoken alone.
The note came again.
This time, two of them—low, melancholic, played on strings so old they sounded like bones.
Augustus…
He used to play the violin when the manor fell silent. His music had filled every cold corner of her soul. And now… that sound had returned.
Seraphine stepped out of bed, clutching her robe around her body like armor. Her legs trembled as she made her way down the long corridor. Every step echoed. The candles that lined the hall flickered violently, though there was no wind.
She descended the grand staircase barefoot, her shadow cast in long, crooked lines.
And there… in the parlor…
Was the violin.
Resting on the old chair Augustus used to sit in.
But it was moving—the bow stroking the strings without a hand, the instrument rising and falling, its music slow, methodical, and sorrowful.
Her breath hitched. "No," she whispered. "You're not here. You're not."
The bow stopped mid-draw.
The violin dropped.
And the fire roared to life in the hearth with a violent whoosh, casting the room in blood-red light.
On the mantle, the urn rattled.
Seraphine stepped back, heart hammering.
And then—on the mirror above the fireplace—words appeared, written in condensation:
YOU WEAR MY DEATH.
She screamed and ran from the room.
---
Later that morning
The East Wing Library
Elias found her curled up beneath the massive library table, sobbing.
"Seraphine?" His voice was calm, too calm.
She didn't look at him. "He played the violin last night," she whispered. "He wrote on the mirror. He knows."
Elias crouched beside her.
"He's dead," he said. "You know that."
She shook her head violently. "I saw him. He was stitched shut. His eyes were bleeding. And the violin—it was floating. Elias, I'm losing my mind."
"No," he said softly. "You're seeing what the house wants you to see."
She looked at him then. Her face was pale, lips chapped, hair tangled from nightmares.
"What do you mean?"
Elias's eyes darkened.
"This house was built on secrets. My father knew it. My mother died screaming in this house. They say she threw herself from the east tower after a month of seeing… him."
Seraphine's blood ran cold.
"Seeing who?"
Elias smiled slowly.
"The Mourner. The soul of the house. He attaches to women who grieve. He feeds on it. Twists it. Until their mourning becomes lust, and then madness. My father tried to fight him. So he poisoned himself. But his soul never left."
Her lips parted. "You're telling me the ghost is real?"
"I'm telling you," Elias said, leaning closer, "this house is no longer haunted by Augustus. It's haunted by what he became."
Seraphine began to shake. "Why didn't you tell me this before?"
"Because," Elias said, brushing her hair from her face, "you weren't ready to believe. And maybe… maybe I wanted to watch you fall a little first."
Her mouth opened, a cry caught in her throat.
He silenced her with a kiss.
It was gentle.
And then cruel.
---
That evening
The East Tower Bedroom
She shouldn't have gone there.
But something pulled her to it.
The forbidden wing, locked for years, had been quietly unlocked. She found herself standing before the cracked white door, hand trembling on the brass knob.
Come, the wind seemed to whisper. Wear me again.
The door opened with a groan.
The bedroom was untouched.
A single cradle in the corner. An empty bed with black sheets. A cracked mirror.
And in the center of the bed—
Was the mourning veil.
Freshly laundered.
Pressed.
Waiting.
She picked it up.
And suddenly—she was no longer alone.
The air behind her dropped ten degrees.
Her reflection in the mirror blinked when she didn't.
Then it opened its mouth, and blood poured out in rivers down its chest.
Seraphine dropped the veil and screamed.
But the veil wrapped around her ankles.
Tight.
Alive.
She clawed at it, falling to the floor, the fabric slithering up her legs like hands. She screamed again, tears blinding her, kicking furiously. The veil coiled around her thighs, between them, pressing against her heat with frightening precision.
Then—
A voice in her head.
Say his name.
She sobbed, "Augustus!"
The veil froze.
And dropped.
She ran, not stopping until she collapsed in her own bedroom, slamming the door behind her.
---
Midnight
Elias's room
She needed answers.
She needed him.
But when she opened the door, Elias was waiting—shirtless, blood smeared across his chest, standing before a painted symbol on the floor.
A ritual circle.
Candles surrounded it, drawn in the shape of a thorned heart.
"What are you doing?" she whispered.
He turned to her, calm as ever.
"Calling him."
Her breath hitched.
"Why?"
"Because we need to bind him. If we don't, you'll lose yourself to him. I already have once."
"You knew this whole time?"
Elias smiled darkly. "I brought you here, Seraphine. I chose you. Because only a true widow can seal him."
He stepped toward her.
"The veil must be worn during the ritual. And you must finish what we started—on the altar."
She stepped back, trembling.
"I don't understand."
"You will," he said, brushing past her, "when you scream his name again… while I'm inside you."