Elias woke to scratching. It came from the ceiling. A deliberate scrape, not mice. It felt like the mansion spoke to him.
He lay still, eyes on the plaster. He counted between each sound. One… two… three… The rhythm was a heartbeat, chilling.
Sleep fled since Clara's journal. Its words haunted him: The mansion sees. Her entries spoke of shadows, doors opening. I am not alone.
He read more last night. The lamp flickered, shadows writhing. They seemed alive on the walls. He hadn't touched the journal since.
Dawn bled through his window. Blackthorn's cliffs loomed, gray and stark. The sea churned below. Its roar echoed the mansion's whispers.
Elias rose, feet cold on floorboards. He pulled on his dark jacket. It blended with shadows. He retrieved Clara's journal from his mattress.
The leather cover was cracked. Its pages held power. Clara's warnings were a map. They guided him to something fearful, necessary.
The mansion was quiet. The Kaels slept in distant rooms. Gideon, Caspian, Celeste, Marina, their parents. Elias didn't exist in their world.
The fight with Caspian sealed his fate. Wine spilled on Caspian's painting at the gala. Beatrice's hatred grew tenfold. Her silence cut like a blade.
Gideon, Celeste, Marina shunned him. Their warmth was for Caspian, the favorite. Reginald ignored him, lost in ships. Elias was erased.
But he watched. The Kaels' empire had flaws—slow routes, greedy deals. He could build a trading network. Faster, stronger than theirs.
The mansion's secrets could help. Clara's journal hinted at power. Elias moved silently, avoiding the creaky step. His notebook was his anchor.
It held X's for flickering lamps. Circles for cold spots. Jagged lines for noises. He mapped the mansion's strangeness, his rebellion.
The attic called to him. The family never went there. A graveyard of relics. He'd found Clara's journal there, door slamming shut.
The scratching came from the attic. It was insistent, pulling him up. Elias paused at the attic door. Its wood was warped, knob cold.
Clara's words echoed: It knows my name. The scratching grew louder. He pushed the door open. The staircase was dark.
The air was thick, dusty. Decay clung to his throat. He climbed slowly, pencil ready. Each step tested his courage.
The attic was shadows. Slatted windows let in light slivers. Motes danced like ghosts. Trunks lined walls, lids rusted.
A cracked mirror leaned against a beam. Its surface showed Elias's pale face. His eyes were wide, uneasy. The scratching was louder here.
It came from a corner. Moth-eaten curtains piled high. Elias followed, stepping over floorboards. His breath fogged in the cold.
The scratching stopped. Silence pressed his ears. A whisper came—a breath, not words. It was just behind him.
Elias spun, heart hammering. The attic was empty. The mirror showed a flicker. A shape too tall, too thin, blurring into shadow.
He blinked. It was gone, leaving his face. He knelt by the curtains. A loose floorboard wiggled, revealing a gap.
Inside was a paper bundle. Yellowed, tied with twine. He untied it, finding Clara's letters. Addressed to To the one who sees.
His stomach twisted. It chose me because I was alone, one read. The mansion feeds on the forgotten. It offered purpose, took everything.
Another was frantic. I tried to leave, doors won't let me. The last was smeared. It's in the walls. It's me, but not me.
Elias's hands shook. He tied the letters back. The air grew colder, breath lingering. The mirror creaked, as if shifting.
He didn't look. He shoved letters into his jacket. Replaced the floorboard. Backed to the stairs.
The attic felt alive. Shadows too sharp, silence too loud. Elias descended, door closing softly. His heart pounded in the dark.
In the corridor, a lamp flickered. Flame steady, light wavered. He marked it, an X circled twice. The mansion was waking, watching.
Elias returned to his room. He hid the letters with the journal. Sat by the window. The sea churned below.
The Kaels erased him. But he'd use their empire's flaws. A trading empire, faster, stronger. Clara's warnings were his start.
The scratching returned at dusk. In his room's walls, circling. He pressed his ear to the wallpaper. The sound was rhythmic, human.
"What are you?" he whispered. The scratching stopped. A low hum answered. His name, spoken underwater.