Ethan's POV
I couldn't sleep.
The mansion had grown too quiet again—like it always did before something happened. The air was still, heavy, as though the house itself was holding its breath. Especially the west wing. That part of the estate had always held secrets I never dared to touch for too long.
But tonight, it was calling to me.
The brandy in my hand did little to settle the chill that clawed at my spine. The fireplace crackled behind me, its flames licking shadows across the walls of the study. I stared into it, remembering.
The dreams had returned. The whispers. The reflection in the mirror that blinked when I didn't.
And now… Alika was hearing them too.
She was trying so hard to pretend nothing was wrong. I could see it in the way she brushed her fingers over her collarbone when she thought I wasn't watching—the exact place the cursed mark always appeared.
She thought I didn't notice.
But I did.
Because I'd seen it before. On others. On the brides who came before her.
Brides I could no longer speak of.
I gripped the edge of the mantle and closed my eyes. The fire behind me cracked louder, as if mocking my guilt. The Blackwell legacy was supposed to be a gift. A lineage of wealth, honor, power.
But no one ever talks about the blood we buried beneath it.
I didn't love the others. I didn't even try. The house chose them, not me. Arranged marriages. Silent ceremonies. Promises made between ancestors and shadows. Some stayed for weeks. Others barely made it past their wedding night.
One slit her wrists in the bath.
One walked out into the woods and never returned.
One… simply vanished.
And every time, the house swallowed them.
The staff forgot. The records disappeared. The curse reset itself—until the next bride.
I tried to convince myself it was just coincidence. That none of it was real. That the house didn't breathe when the moon rose. That the mirror didn't whisper names in the dark.
But then Alika came.
And the house… awakened.
She wasn't like the others. She smiled like she still believed in things. She kissed me like I was a man, not a monster. And when she looked at the walls, she didn't see rot—she saw history, hope.
I hadn't realized how much I needed that.
And now I was going to lose her too.
I slammed the empty glass down on the table, the sharp clink echoing through the chamber. My feet moved before I could think. Down the hall. Past the portraits. Toward the west wing.
Toward the place I swore I would never return to.
The door at the end of the corridor stood ajar.
No one ever left it open.
My hand hovered above the brass handle. The wood beneath it was damp and cold, like skin left out in the rain. I pushed the door open.
The room beyond was dark, lit only by the dying glow of a single candle.
Dust hung in the air like breath.
And in the center of the room—on the floor—was the journal.
The one that should've been buried with her.
I stepped closer, heart thudding. The leather was cracked, soaked with time. I knelt beside it, and my fingers brushed over the name burned into the cover:
"Anindya Eleanor Blackwell – 1893"
My throat closed. I hadn't heard that name aloud in years.
She was the first.
The bride the curse began with.
The one I couldn't save.
I opened the journal with trembling fingers. The ink was faded, smeared in places, but I could still read it. Her words hit me like knives.
> "Tonight, I saw him. He wore Ethan's face, but it wasn't Ethan."
> "The mirror speaks now. It tells me things I don't want to know."
> "They said the final bride would awaken him. The Other. The blood twin."
I shivered.
The blood twin.
A name I hadn't heard since I was twelve. Since Father locked me in the mirror room for three nights and told me not to listen to the voice inside.
The mirror had whispered to me then. It whispered still.
I turned the page—and froze.
There, scrawled in blood, was the mark.
A circle of thorns around a single drop.
The exact mark on Alika's skin.
I staggered back, nearly knocking over the candle.
But something caught my eye.
A second journal. Smaller. Hidden beneath a floorboard.
I reached down and pulled it out. Inside were drawings. Sketches. Old rituals. A family tree. And near the bottom—
Alika's name.
Written in ink that looked fresh.
With today's date: July 4th, 2025.
I let out a broken breath.
And then I heard it.
The sound of a page turning.
But not by me.
I turned slowly.
The mirror stood against the far wall, tall and cracked at its corners. It hadn't been there when I entered. I knew that for certain.
But now, it stood there like it had always belonged.
And in its glass—
Alika.
Hours ago. In this same room. Reading this same book.
The mirror was showing me her memory.
Behind her—my face. But my eyes weren't mine.
Then the reflection shifted.
And suddenly, I was staring at myself.
Only… it wasn't me.
The figure in the glass smiled. Slowly. Like it knew me better than I knew myself.
> "You can't protect her, Ethan."
The voice came from inside my own head. But it was louder now.
Clearer.
Older.
> "You failed the others. You'll fail her too."
I clenched my fists.
"No," I whispered. "Not this time."
The mirror went black.
I turned back to grab the journal—
It was gone.
My heart dropped.
Then I saw them—footprints. Bare. Small. Leading out into the hallway.
Alika. She had taken it.
Panic surged through me.
If she read too far… if she knew too much…
She would leave.
Or worse—the curse would take her faster.
I ran into the corridor, but the hallway was empty.
Then—
> "Ethan…"
A whisper. Directly behind me.
I turned.
Nothing.
Just shadows stretching across the walls.
And then, the door behind me slowly began to close on its own.
Click.
I stood there frozen.
Then I heard it—
Laughter.
Soft. Cracked. From behind the wall.
Not Alika's.
Not mine.
But familiar.
And for one sickening second, I looked down…
And realized—
My shadow wasn't moving.
Then, from the far end of the dark hallway—
"Tap. Tap. Tap."
Footsteps.
Slow. Heavy. Approaching.
I couldn't breathe.
My hand gripped the wall for balance.
That sound…
wasn't mine.