The day started as usual — as much as usual could exist in a house now rotting with secrets. The manor's halls had grown longer. Doors that once led to bedrooms now opened into brick walls, or worse, into copies of rooms already seen.
And no one had noticed.
Not yet.
Bush stood by the fireplace, admiring the artifact once more. "You all think it's cursed," he muttered. "But what if it's a key? A key to something ancient... something useful."
Behind him, the flames flared.
A whisper echoed through the chimney, soft and slithering:
"All you seek is already yours... if you offer one thing."
Bush turned sharply. "Who's there?"
No answer.
Then movement in the corner of his eye.
A reflection in the brass kettle beside the hearth — a face. Not his. Pale, eyeless, grinning.
Norman was pacing the study, tracing over a Latin phrase that had just appeared on the wall. His journal recorded each new sentence the manor revealed.
"Every house must be fed."
"Every feast begins with kin."
The moment he read the second phrase aloud, the chandelier above him groaned.
He didn't look up in time.
The iron fell, crushing him silently into the floor.
The manor swallowed the scream.
Downstairs, Bell watched as Olivia wandered toward the small wooden door again.
"No," Bell snapped, grabbing her hand. "You saw what happened yesterday. That door wasn't there. You hear me? It wasn't—"
But Olivia didn't move. Her eyes were wide, glassy — her voice hollow.
"He's in there, Bell. He's waiting for me. Schwazz. He's smiling again."
No one is there Olivia .. Bell said., as she dragged her off.
Jacob Vlas fled the kitchen.
The pots were boiling blood now.
One of the spoons whispered his name. "Vlas vlas can you hear me "…
Veronica and Kristoff had retreated to the wine cellar, seeking refuge. There, Xavier joined them, his voice low and shaking.
"It's not just the artifact," he said. "The house is alive. It's feeding on fear, greed, memories. It creates rooms we never built. It mimics people. I saw myself in the hall an hour ago — only it wasn't me. It smiled at me."
He rolled up his sleeve. Deep scratches ran along his forearm. "It tried to drag me inside the wall."
Kristoff clenched his fists. "We burn the house."
Xavier shook his head. "No. You burn the artifact. But the house… it's grown roots. It's already part of us."
Veronica sat in silence, her hand on her stomach.
"I think I'm pregnant," she whispered.
In the grand dining hall, Hemsworth the steward moved between chairs, clearing plates — even though no one had eaten for hours.
He hummed a lullaby, an old tune his mother used to sing.
Then he stopped.
The paintings on the wall — the portraits of ancestors — were crying blood.
Behind him, someone stood.
A voice, low and sharp: "Hemsworth, the house remembers your secret."
He turned.
It was a younger version of himself.
Smiling. Holding a noose.
Elsewhere, the manor gave birth.
A new hallway split the east wing.
Inside it were rooms that shouldn't exist.
One held a mirror — not a reflection, but a doorway.
Another contained a library with books written in languages no one alive had ever spoken.
And at the end... a nursery.
Inside: a crib.
Inside the crib: a doll with a heartbeat.
It opened its mouth.
It whispered: "Olivia and Bell I await. Norman is buried. Schwazz will return soon."
And then it laughed — like a child and a corpse at once.