"Some people are written in your story not as chapters… but as endings."
(~Annie Flame~)
—
CHAPTER FOUR: The Man from the Portrait
The house was no longer just pretending. The signs had become too clear to ignore.
By now, Elara had stopped trying to explain it to herself. Just how long she would've lived trying to fool herself?
This was real. The footsteps. The messages. The diary that rewrote itself.
The phone calls from voices not human.
The same portrait returning like a curse.
And the name that never stopped whispering from the walls:
Lazareth.
She sat on the staircase at 2AM, curled knees up to her chest, fingers digging into her scalp like she could claw the confusion out.
She tried everything. No, in fact the question was what hadn't she tried to escape this hell. From Burning things, to running away, calling for help but
As always, nothing worked.
The mansion didn't let her leave.
Even time felt strange here—slippery, repeating.
"Just how long….how long I'll have to live like this? This fucking house!"
Elara wasn't even sure now whether it was Tuesday, Friday? or if time had stopped altogether.
Along with Elara's mind, something else also changed that night. She could feel it like something big was going to happen.
And she was right about it. And soon that happened….
---
She first saw it fully in the mirror by the west wing.
Not a flicker, not a blurry shadow.
But a person's figure.
"It's you," she whispered, her body frozen at first.
"The man from the portrait."
Tall, dark with solid build up, looked almost human but she could tell it was more than just a mere human. Standing behind her reflection with expression like he had to collect years of debt.
She turned to look behind.
But the hallway behind her was empty.
She screamed anyway.
Not out of fear.
But out of pressure, from being toyed with for too long.
---
She smashed every mirror in the hallway.
One. Two. Three.
Each crash echoed through the hollow bones of the house like it was enjoying it.
She threw a vase at him expecting to hit him, sobbing and shouting at him.
"Why are you doing this to me!?"
"What do you want from me!?"
There was no reply.
Only the sound of wind whispering beneath the doors, murmuring her name like a hymn or a curse.
She was shaking now, pacing, crying like something inside her had snapped. Her voice grew louder, shrill, raw.
"I haven't done anything to you!"
"I don't know who you are, I've never even met you!"
And then she did it.
She screamed at the man.
"I'm not her! I'm not whoever you think I am!"
The man spoke, "My love-"
She interrupted,
"I'm Elara. Just Elara. I'm not your love, I'm just me—"
"I'm just a woman who lost everything! How can I be your love!?"
She kicked over a chair.
Threw a candlestick at the fireplace.
Slammed a book into the wall until the spine broke.
It was madness.
Yes madness, the only company, all she had left now.
---
And that's when he spoke.
From behind her.
A voice she recognized from her dreams. From the broken phone calls.
From the back of her mind where the oldest version of her was still buried alive.
"But darling… I can't be here for longer."
He stopped before speaking again, "Find what you have lost. Only then you'll find the answer you're seeking."
She froze. "Find what I've lost?" ,sherepeated.
Every muscle in her body locked in place.
Her skin chilled.
Her breath caught.
She looked into his eyes.
And his eyes—
His eyes were the color of old winters. Blue and cold and endless.
But even with those cold eyes she could see the sadness in his eyes. They looked at her like he had a lot to tell her..
Why would a creature like him…?
She didn't have the courage to ask. Because she knew even if she asked there would be no from him.
The candlelight danced across the sharp lines of his face, casting shadows into the hollows of his cheeks.
Lazareth didn't even flinch.
He stood there like a statue, carved by grief itself.
Unblinking and calm.
Like this meeting was overdue by centuries.
"Yes," he said softly, his voice sounded like silk wrapped in thorns.
Elara's hands trembled.
Her back hit the wall.
"What do you mean?," she gasped.
"Is this some kind of sick joke? I've lost nothing—"
He stepped closer.
Not walking.
Just... appearing, in front of her now.
"I wish I could tell, darling."
"You'll know what I mean."
Her throat closed up.
Her heart thrashed.
Because in the flickering candlelight—
His hand reached out.
And her body, against her will, yearned to touch him.
Warm and familiar. Like safety in a nightmare.
"What do you want from me?" she whispered.
"I want you to remember," he said.
"And I want you to stay."
She spoke, "Still going on about this rubbish? And what do you expect I'll gain out of it? Why should I trust you when all you've been doing is keeping me locked up here."
"It isn't me," the man spoke.
"What—", before Elara could say anything he interrupted.
"You'll be able to leave. No one will stop you."
Elara looked at him with surprise. "And what made you think that I would believe you?"
"Either way you've no choice, my love. I didn't tell you to trust me but it won't hurt trying right?"
Elara paused. He was right; she had tried everything to escape. It wouldn't hurt to try out this too if it means escaping from here.
Elara bit her lips in desperation, in hopes of ending this loop.
After thinking it over, Elara agreed.
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