They didn't talk much after the door closed behind them.
The silence clung tighter than the fog outside the windows, and when they walked the halls again, the same walls felt narrower. The ceiling seemed lower. The paintings along the corridor looked... newer. As if someone had touched them up overnight.
Mina led the group up the stairs, not because she wanted to, but because she had to. Someone needed to act like they had a plan.
"We don't split up anymore," she said flatly. "Agreed?"
Everyone nodded—except Tara, who only glanced at the others with uneasy eyes. Her hands gripped the crutches tighter than before.
---
Back in her room, Tara closed the door and pressed her forehead to the wood. Her heart was pounding again. Not from exhaustion.
From fear.
And something else.
The voice had spoken to her again.
Not loud, not clear. A whisper, threaded through the rustling curtains and the low hum in the walls.
It had waited until she was alone. After the garden. After the statue's mouth had gone still. When the house had gone quiet again.
She had turned off her bedside lamp.
And heard:
"You stepped, little dove... I saw you walk."
Tara had frozen.
She hadn't told the others. How could she? That she, the girl they all pitied and protected, had just... stepped?
Worse, she wanted to be pitied.
The voice had known. It had seen. It had whispered through walls that didn't echo.
And then, even softer:
"Come to me when the lights go out…"
She lay down, but didn't sleep for hours.
---
Elsewhere in the house, Aria explored.
No one was technically allowed upstairs past the second floor, but no one stopped her. There were no guards. No locked doors. Just the ever-present threat of rules and what might happen if they were broken.
She wandered toward the west wing—a hall lined with portraits.
Children.
Dozens of them.
None looked like anyone she recognized. But they were close in age. Some were smiling. Some serious. Some... looked out of place. The further she went, the older the paintings became, until the brush strokes turned rigid and surreal.
And then she noticed something odd.
The expressions on a few of the portraits—especially the children with blank faces—seemed to shift when she looked away.
It wasn't dramatic. Just enough to make her question herself.
A frown where a smile had been. A hand raised slightly that hadn't been before.
She stood in front of one—an oil painting of a pale girl with ash-blonde hair.
The girl's eyes were shut.
But when Aria turned to go...
She could feel them open.
---
Downstairs in the parlor, Lina and Reya had found something strange of their own.
They'd begun drawing a map.
Lina had always liked puzzles, and Reya's sense of direction was better than most. They used scraps of paper from a drawer in the library and sat on the floor in front of the fireplace, comparing notes.
But after ten minutes, Reya held her sketch out and frowned.
"Did you draw this curve here?" she asked.
Lina looked over. "No, I made that corner straight."
Reya tilted the page. "It curved itself."
They both laughed nervously. "Maybe we're just tired," Lina said.
But over the next hour, every time they stopped sketching for more than a minute, the ink lines moved.
Corridors curved. Doors appeared where there were none. One of the sketches now had a spiral staircase drawn in—but neither of them had touched it.
And in the margin of one paper, someone had written a word.
LISTEN.
Neither girl had written it.
---
That night, they met in Mina's room again.
The six of them sat in a rough circle on the hardwood floor. A single oil lamp flickered in the corner, its flame dim and reluctant.
They took turns talking.
About the garden.
About the fountain.
About the door slamming on its own.
Aria mentioned the paintings. Lina and Reya brought their map, though no one liked looking at it. Sofi sat with her knees pulled up to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around them, saying little but nodding often.
Finally, it was Tara who spoke.
"I heard a voice," she said softly. "Again. In my room."
Everyone turned to her.
"What did it say?" Reya asked.Tara didn't meet their eyes.
"It said... it saw me walk."
Mina blinked. "What?"
Tara looked up. Her voice barely carried. "Not actually walk. Just... step. Without the crutch. It was an accident."
A lie.
Half a truth.
She waited for them to ask more. They didn't.
Instead, Aria whispered, "It talks to you. Not us."
Tara nodded slowly. "It said something else too."
"What?"
"Come to me when the lights go out."
The room fell silent. Even the flame seemed to still.
---
That night, the house grew colder. Wind howled, but not from outside. It moved inside the walls—between the boards.
At exactly 10:00 PM, the locks clicked.
The same mechanical clack echoed through the halls.
Doors locked.
Lights dimmed.
And somewhere deep in the foundation of Grinridge House, a sound rumbled low and long.
Like something breathing.
---
Tara sat up in bed. Her lamp flickered once.
Twice.
Then went dark.
She didn't scream.
Didn't call for help.
She waited. And sure enough, the whisper came again.
"You're almost ready."
She turned towards the far wall.
The one with no windows. No furniture. Just blank wood and old wallpaper.
And from it came... a shadow.
Not big. Small. The shape of a girl. Its fingers brushed the baseboards, slow and curious.
And the voice whispered:
"We've always known."