Elinea sat on the edge of her bed, the third brass key heavy in her hand.
The wardrobe loomed in front of her, nailed shut, its wooden frame quietly pressing against the silence like it had always wanted to be opened.
The boy's words circled in her mind.
"If you want to help me, you'll use it tonight."
"For the door that doesn't lock."
But the wardrobe was nailed shut.
It wasn't locked.
It had never been locked.
Her throat tightened. The key wasn't for the wardrobe.
It was for something else.
She rose slowly and stepped toward it.
The nails that once sealed the wardrobe had shifted again. They were loose, barely clinging to the wood, like they, too, had been waiting for this moment.
Elinea placed her hand on the door.
The air grew colder around her.
Do not open it, the first warning whispered in her memory.
Especially if it's already unlocked.
Her breath trembled as she tugged the door gently.
It opened.
Inside was not a wardrobe.
It was a narrow passage, a hidden space that led downward, carved between the walls, swallowing all light.
The house had always been hiding something.
Her fingers curled around the brass key on its chain as she stepped inside.
The passageway wound deep beneath the house, damp and cold, the air growing thinner with each step.
The whispers grew louder now—not from the walls, but from inside her.
As if something was awakening.
At the end of the narrow stairs, a door waited.
The key fit perfectly.
As the lock turned, the whispers stilled.
Beyond the door was a small room, candlelit and suffocating.
In the center—
A mirror.
But not just any mirror.
This one showed her. And the boy. Standing side by side.
And behind them—a woman. The woman from the house.
Elinea turned sharply, but no one was there.
When she looked back, the image in the mirror changed.
Now the boy stood alone.
Tears streaked his face. His reflection bled at the edges, blurring, fading.
Another note lay on the floor beneath the mirror.
"You forgot me. You promised you wouldn't."
The boy's voice returned, soft and close.
"You left me here."
Her pulse broke through her chest.
"I don't understand," she whispered, her eyes burning.
"You chose to forget me."
The images in the mirror blurred again.
Flashes.
A younger Elinea.
A boy—his hand in hers.
The house behind them.
Her voice from the memory, echoing: "I'll come back for you."
But she never did.
The truth crushed into her like ice.
This was not her first time in the house.
The house had not summoned her.
She had returned.
The boy wasn't just a stranger.
He was the one she left behind.
The house had simply… waited.
Elinea collapsed to her knees, the weight of her forgotten promise drowning her breath.
The whispers returned.
Not angry.
Not hateful.
Just lonely.
"Will you leave me again?"
The key in her hand burned hot.
The door behind her remained open.
And somewhere above, the chimes of the house echoed softly.
Let me know when you're ready to post, Faith, and when you want me to continue with Chapter 7: What She Chose to Do.
We're close to the emotional climax now.