When Elara woke, the fog was thicker.
The manor behind her loomed quiet and cold, its windows dark once more. She sat up slowly, her body aching, her hand still stained black where the mark had burned itself shut. The air smelled of rain and ash. The silence had changed. It was not the silence of stillness but of watching.
Something in the distance moved.
She squinted through the haze. Shapes emerged where there should have been none. Figures, faint at first, then clearer as they drew near. Four of them, walking side by side down the long dirt path that led to the manor gates.
Her heart tightened.
They were not villagers. Their clothes were too clean, too deliberate. One held a lantern that burned with white flame, another carried what looked like an old camera. The third walked slower than the rest, her face hidden beneath a deep hood. The fourth stopped now and then to touch the trees, as though feeling for a heartbeat in the bark.
Elara rose to her feet, brushing the dirt from her dress. Her first thought was to run. Her second was to wait. Something inside her whispered that she had seen them before, not in body but in dream.
The group reached the gates. The man with the lantern called out.
"Is someone there?"
His voice echoed strangely, bouncing off the fog like it had no place to go.
Elara hesitated before stepping forward. "Yes."
They all turned at once. The white light flickered across their faces.
The man with the lantern looked about thirty, his jaw lined with days of travel. A crucifix hung loosely around his neck. His eyes lingered on her hand longer than they should have.
The woman with the hood lifted her head. Her eyes were pale and wide. "You heard it too," she whispered. "The calling."
Elara blinked. "The calling?"
The woman nodded, her mouth trembling. "The sound beneath the sound. The whisper that never ends."
The others exchanged glances. The one with the camera shifted uncomfortably. "We followed a frequency," he said. "It came through the static three nights ago. My equipment picked it up. Same pattern every hour."
Elara stared at him. "You heard the manor?"
He swallowed. "We didn't know it was a manor."
The fourth figure, the quiet one who had been touching the trees, spoke for the first time. His voice was deep, almost tired. "We're not here by accident." He turned to Elara. "And neither are you."
The way he said it sent a tremor through her chest.
They crossed the gates without invitation. The priest-like man led the way, raising his lantern toward the manor. "The Lord's house stands cold," he murmured. "But something else dwells here."
Elara stepped back, instinctively guarding the doorway. "You shouldn't come in."
The woman in the hood smiled faintly. "You think we have a choice?"
Elara opened her mouth to reply, but a faint thud from inside the house silenced her. Everyone turned.
The sound came again rhythmic, patient, like footsteps moving across the upper floor.
The camera man raised his device. "There's someone still inside."
Elara shook her head. "No one's been here for years."
"Then who's walking?" he asked.
She couldn't answer.
The priest held up his lantern. "Stay close," he ordered. "If this place truly called us, then what waits inside will reveal why."
Elara wanted to stop them, to shout, to run, but the words wouldn't leave her throat. She followed instead, her feet heavy as they stepped through the threshold.
The manor greeted them like a living thing. The door closed behind them without a sound. The air inside was warmer than before, but it carried a strange pulse faint, like breathing. The hall stretched impossibly long, lined with mirrors that reflected no one.
"God preserve us," the priest whispered.
The camera man took a photo. The flash cut through the dark for an instant and in that instant, there were five figures in the reflection instead of four.
The woman in the hood gasped. The flash faded, and the fifth reflection was gone.
"Did you see that?" she whispered.
Elara's voice shook. "Don't look too long. It notices when you look."
The group froze. The man with the camera lowered his lens. "What does?"
Before she could answer, something above them groaned a deep, wooden creak that rippled through the ceiling like the house itself had shifted its weight.
The priest whispered a prayer. The woman muttered something about hearing names in the wind.
Elara stood still, listening. There it was again a faint hum beneath the sound of footsteps. A voice she knew too well.
Corven.
He was singing now, low and distant. The same melody she had heard in the dream.
The others didn't hear it at first. Then one by one, their heads lifted, expressions softening, eyes glassy.
The hooded woman smiled like a child remembering something. "It's beautiful," she whispered.
Elara stepped forward. "Don't listen."
But they were already moving. The priest walked toward the staircase, his lantern swaying. The light wavered, dimmed, then flared brighter as if the house had taken a breath.
Elara reached for him. "Stop!"
He turned, his face hollowed by shadow. "We are meant to follow."
The lantern went out.
Darkness.
The sound of footsteps.
And then nothing.
Elara's pulse thundered in her ears. She fumbled for the wall, for her bearings, but the air felt different now. The others had vanished.
A faint light flickered ahead not from the lantern, but from the mirrors. One by one, they began to glow, revealing faces that weren't her own.
Elara stumbled backward, her reflection shifting, bending. The glass rippled like water. From within, a hand pressed outward.
Not hers.
She stared, trembling. The face behind the glass was that of the priest, pale and wide-eyed, his mouth open in a silent scream.
Elara turned and ran, every mirror she passed showing another of them trapped within.
By the time she reached the door, it was gone. Only a wall of cold stone stood where it had once been.
Her reflection appeared again, faint in the shimmer of the marble. It smiled.
"You brought them," it said softly. "Now the house has guests again."
Elara shook her head. "I didn't mean to."
The reflection leaned closer, its voice almost tender. "Meaning doesn't matter. Blood does."
The same words Corven had used.
The floor vibrated beneath her. The pulse of the house grew stronger. She could feel it in her bones now, matching her heartbeat, syncing with it until she could no longer tell which belonged to her.
She pressed her hand against the wall, feeling it breathe.
From somewhere deep within the manor came a sound a slow, dragging noise, like someone being pulled across stone. Then a whisper that made her blood run cold.
"Elara."
It was Corven again. But this time, he wasn't alone. The other voices joined him, layer by layer, until the entire house was whispering her name.
She sank to her knees, hands over her ears. "Stop it, stop it, stop it."
The whispers paused.
Then one spoke clearly.
"You are not the last."
Elara looked up.
Her reflection was gone.
In its place stood a faint figure one of the strangers, perhaps the woman in the hood, her eyes glowing faintly white. She smiled with something that wasn't human joy.
"The hollow guest," she said softly. "That's what they called me once. You've called me back."
Elara couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.
The figure reached toward her, and as her fingers brushed the mark on Elara's hand, the world split open again into light and silence.